Sometimes it feels as if Life’s answer to our pressing questions is a silence so vast the whole universe gets lost in it.

Sometimes Its answer feels more like a fire hose turned on, and we do our best to take in the lessons and data that come at us with more force than could ever be gracefully or instantly integrated.

And then there are other times. Times when answers come as slow unfoldings, and the process of unfolding becomes every bit as much of the answer as the information contained therein. Every bit as much to be noticed and listened to.

Such was the case last month when the weight of responsibility for my life felt heavy and I wondered out loud how to accept that weight…how to stand, let alone move or dance or anything at all besides try to distract myself, beneath this heavy vulnerability I feel about being grown up human. Do you feel this way, too?

Simultaneous to this question was interaction with Eric Klein about an interview we knew we wanted to do. Since both of us sketch, we decided to try something unconventional – to conduct the whole thing via illustration, passing back and forth an initial drawing, each time adding more to it.

So I led off with the question I’d already been living.

Eric is a wise and seasoned soul and one whose life and work I respect deeply. So while the drawing of my question was a quiet sort of scene, internally it felt much more like a frantic grasp and shake of his…or really of Life’s…lapels. “Tell me what to do about this feeling!! Please!!!”

But you know what happened in response? A microcosm of what I believe to the tips of my toes is Life’s best answer to that kind of question and tone.

There was silence for a few days.

And because this wasn’t a verbal conversation, what came in reply was light on words, and rich in depth and meaning.

Back and forth, back and forth we went like this. Each time the urgency of my initial question softening. Each time my trust deepening that, exactly like this conversation, Life is engaging me. Dispatches come in good time. They don’t always have quick content to upload to my heart or brain or limbic system, nor do they tie up every loose end. But they have the nourishment I need.

And they keep coming.

I invite you to read the “interview” below far more slowly than you might otherwise do. Let yourself react, inside, to each image on its own. How does each one make you feel? What questions does it raise for you?

And more importantly than that, try to get conscious of the question most pressing for YOU right now – the first panel of what could be YOUR drawn…or, rather, lived…conversation.

Just see if, sooner than you might think, Life sends along a reply.

Eric Klein is one of the few people on the planet to be both a best-selling leadership author and a lineage holder in a 5,000 year old yoga tradition. With his wife, Devi, he teaches the Wisdom Heart Way through www.wisdomheart.org. He is the author of four books – most recently 50 Ways to Leave Your Karma - which is available for free download at www.wisdomheart.org/50ways (<-----I highly, highly recommend!).

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P.S. If you want to see/hear Eric take this conversation even further, check out chapter 29 of 50 Ways to Leave Your Karma, or this recent article at his site (particularly the section titled “You don’t have to design the upgrade”).

For more on what *I* say to the topic, check out the “magic of noticing” in my free ebook, Trust Tending and the Internet.

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This is a guest post by Shara (bio below).

I hope you’ll feel free, no matter what your perspective, to join this conversation. Truly, all are welcome. We need to hear from each other.

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My body is the only real temple there is. A site so precious that once upon a time tribes from all over the globe worshiped at its altar. Their creation story was a reflection of the womb. And sex was considered sacred, for it truly is the dance of Life.

Now it took many years to come to this path I’m on now. It’s not a typical coming of age story, but like most it has its joys and its sorrows.

By 12 I had the body of a woman and mind full of curiosity. Deep down I knew that my sexuality was a gift and my greatest source of power. I wanted to experience every aspect of it. And I did, without shame, without fear, without judgement. By 17 my explorations opened me up to a level of love that I had never known before. With this partner sex and its meaning got way deeper, and for the first time my soul was enlivened. I had experienced Love. A love that put me on the path to seek the deeper meaning of life, to discover my purpose and understand my connection with the divine. But that journey took an unfortunate detour.

As an unsuspecting teen from the North East, I had no idea that “Church” was a culture down South. Religion was never a big deal growing up and I was raised in a multi-cultural home where respect for all colors, beliefs and values was the only mantra. But I was seeking God and just happened to get accepted at a university in the Bible Belt.

So instead of finding the source of the Love that awakened my search for God in the first place, I found condemnation. I was condemned for my early healthy sexual explorations and was indoctrinated into the fact that this was the very sin that was keeping me separate from the love of God. The Church’s demand for “sexual purity” got so intense that once a Pastor declared that I had the “Spirit of Lust” on me and needed Jesus! Little by little I traded my source of power for “God’s salvation”. And for the first time in my life I viewed my body which was originally a source of so much pleasure and awakened love in my heart, as something shameful, unholy, and responsible for making men lust and fall from grace. These were dark times indeed.

Luckily my quest for Truth was stronger than doctrine and I finally left the Church. But I was left picking up the pieces of my shattered self confidence, body image, and sexual expression that Church repressed and destroyed with guilt and shame for so many years. Thankfully I recovered and truly found the love of God. I understand what Jesus meant when he said your body is a temple. And I can tell you that to call the most precious gift that the gods have ever bestowed on us sinful, is the only sin there is.

Shara is a Sensual Renegade and Performing Artist who teaches women how to release the Orgasm locked deep within their hips. Sound interesting? Connect with Shara here for the latest info on classes, workshops and online courses.

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This is a guest post by Alana Sheeren (bio below).

When I was 16 years old and stepping into my sexuality, I began seeing flashes of what I thought was a dream. It was as though the film in my mind had caught, and I could see a second or two of action before it became still again. In the first I was in a dark closet with an older cousin and he was unbuckling the button on my overalls. In the second, we were in his room, lying on his bed, and he was telling me he had a surprise for me as I squeezed my eyes shut. There’s more to it but I’ll spare you the details. Writing these words now, 35 years later, I am aware of the reactions in my body, the heat, the shame, the grief. When they first came, the intensity was overwhelming and confusing. I wanted to believe they were a dream and I did, until I saw a picture of myself in the overalls – bold stripes with big brass buckles at the shoulder. I crumbled into reality.

I dismissed the effects for another twenty years. I talked about it here and there, to people who didn’t know me well. I never used the words “sexual abuse” or “molestation”. I talked about it with one therapist who thought it of little import and another who wanted to work through it, so I quit seeing her. I pretended nothing had changed when I saw my cousin. Though opportunities presented themselves, I waited to lose my virginity to a man I loved. After four years together our relationship ended and I began a decade of unhealthy behaviors. I allowed myself to feel violated time and time again. I was tall, muscular, attractive and there was never a shortage of men interested. My boundaries were unclear. I desperately wanted to be loved. I got hurt, physically and emotionally.

It wasn’t until I was married, pregnant with my daughter and finishing my graduate degree in psychology that I put it all together. In my last quarter, I signed up for a workshop on feminism and sexuality from an LGBTQ perspective (Lesbian, Gay, Bisexual, Transgendered, Queer/Questioning). As I listened to people share stories of oppression and shame, revelation and growth, the ground fell open in front of me and I saw the thread that wove my sexual story together. I finally understood that those years of allowing myself to be touched in ways that made me ache, of being tossed about in my own undertow, traced directly back to those early violations by a wounded teenager.

Eventually I told my mother, who knew something had happened, then my brother and sister-in-law and finally my father. There have been difficult moments as we’ve negotiated anger and forgiveness, boundaries and the birth of three granddaughters. Witnessing my child’s physical beauty and innocent explorations of her own body have brought tears to my eyes. I see myself through her and my heart breaks. I find myself vigilant where it might not be necessary and am acutely aware of what I could be passing along.

What my cousin did to me has ended up in the middle of my marriage too. The tapestry of this story continues to be woven. I am working to untangle the knots, smooth the bumps. Last night I cried. I mourned my innocence and freedom. I mourned an ease that my body has yet to know, to embody fully. I cried for the young woman I was, the shame that I have yet to shed, the memories of pain that still live in my cells. I cried because with my husband beside me, I am healing these old wounds, and because I am still raw, all these years later. As I turn myself toward trust, time and again, I can see freedom on the horizon. I can hear acceptance in the beat of my own heart.

Alana Sheeren believes in love, beauty and the transformative power of grief. She holds a Master’s degree in clinical and community psychology, which saved her from her former life as a dancer and actress. You can download her free guide Picking Up the Pieces: thoughts on grief and growth on her blog, Life After Benjamin. She lives and writes by the ocean in Ventura, CA with her husband and daughter, two cats and a dog.

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This is a guest post by Ev`Yan (bio below).

I was fifteen when I entered into a tumultuous relationship with a boy I thought I would marry. In that same year of life I gave my body to him.

In the cramped backseat of a van, as moonlight flooded through the windshield & onto our shoulders, I first experienced the fear in sex; that raw, frightening sense of vulnerability; that vicious kind of surrender, mixed with both Yes & No.

On my back, laying on top of school workbooks & baseball gloves, I winced as I braced myself with each penetration, his mouth recklessly finding mine. So many emotions were pulsating through my body: love, anxiety, excitement, dread, satisfaction, sadness… and not one ounce of pleasure.

I was confused. Was this sex? Was this what the fuss was all about? It all seemed so… careless; so meaningless. I felt my mind leave my body & it hovered over me for the next 10 minutes as I struggled with losing my innocence.

When it was over, I put on my clothes slowly. My body felt like it was vibrating; I could barely tie my shoe laces. I was trembling.

The thoughts in my mind raced as he drove me home. I sat quietly in the passenger seat, ruminating over what had just happened. My feelings were mixed: I felt violated; I felt pain, actual physical & emotional pain; I felt joy for successfully mimicking the passion & moves of a “real” woman; I felt confused; I felt lost; I felt terrifyingly exposed.

These emotions carried on into every single sexual activity he & I found ourselves in. It waxed (very seldom waned) until the day he forced me free from his grip, nearly three years later, when our relationship ended without much warning. He left me picking up the pieces of my broken heart. Many of those pieces were never found; I believe he still has them in his possession.

I have nothing of his.

Months passed.

On the telephone one evening, a friend of mine was playfully coaxing me to get into the nitty-gritty of my sexual relationships. So I told him of my ex-lover. I told him of the tears, the anxiety, the feelings of despair every time he penetrated my body. I told him of the few times I tried (& failed) to slice open my flesh after having sex with him, making thick welts on my arms that lasted for the rest of the evening — my battle scars.

I said these things lightheartedly, almost laughing, as if it were a normal part of any relationship. I’ll never forget the horror in my friend’s voice:

“My god, Ev`Yan. That’s not normal,” he said, concerned. “That was rape.”

It took my friend’s brutal honesty for me to see the sexual unhealthiness in my previous relationship. Before that, it had never entered my mind.

From that moment on, my idea of sex shifted into a place of darkness.

I suddenly found myself in a new relationship, one that thrived naturally, without any persuasion. And within weeks after meeting him, I made the conscious decision to give him my body, & we found ourselves in a shoddy motel room, hormones racing through our veins, fueled by a paroxysm of lust, & (unbeknownst to me at the time) love.

But no sooner did we tear off our clothes than my mind immediately, automatically, went back to that night in the van & all the other nights I had endured. The agony. The uncertainty. The lack of consent.

My body began to panic; my skin began to crawl. I wanted this man off of me, now. I wanted to fight back. I wanted to scream & kick & hit my way out. But I just laid there, my body fluctuating between being stiff & limp, silent tears dripping down my cheeks.

There it was. The trauma, the fear, heaving itself up & out of no where into my present situation. My mind & body flung then itself into a fit of anxiety so severe that I couldn’t breathe.

This reaction — this post-traumatic response — proceeded to happen every time I had sex with my new lover. Explaining to him brokenness didn’t come right away, but when it came it came with a barrage of tears, screams, & kicks. It came with debilitating anxiety & panic. It came with an unconscious reaction to flee.

One night, after sex left me once again broken on the bathroom floor, I finally acknowledged my pain & my defilement. And through that acknowledgment, I gave myself permission to heal.

This is my story. It is surely different from the account of my ex-lover; my truth is not his.

I have made peace with the fact that this trauma is & always will be a part of my history.

If I could have known how detrimental those sexual acts would’ve been to my inner being, I would have fought my way from underneath him; I would have said no. But I was young & stupid then. The damaging aspect of our sexual relationship was well hidden by the deep, blind infatuation we had for each other.

If I had known all of this, truly I would have spoken up.

I am speaking up now.

My story might look similar to yours, or perhaps it is completely different.

There are a lot of things that encompass sexual trauma; many emotions, actions, inner red flags. There is no linear definition of it. It is unique to the individual. Sexual trauma comes in all shapes & sizes.

Regardless of your experience, & regardless of what you choose to call it for the rest of your life — rape, abuse, an unhealthy sexual relationship, naivete, assault — one thing’s for certain:

Sex should never be damaging. Never.

It should always be freeing, beautiful, bountiful. It should lift your spirit up. It should be drenched in implicit trust with eyes wide open, not shut.

Sex should always give you pleasure, physically & emotionally.

Ev`Yan is a female liberation artist & writer. She spins unadulterated truth over at her blog, Sex, Love & Liberation. She recently wrote & self-published a book celebrating sensuality, personal freedom, & so much more. Say hello to her on Twitter.

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This is a guest post by Tracy Todd. She writes beautifully, honestly, and insightfully about life in general and life as a quadriplegic at her blog, tracytodd.wordpress.com. Follow her on Twitter here.

*One quick note: comments on this sexuality series are getting kicked into my spam folder a lot. I’m going into that folder and approving them more than once a day, so if you post a comment and get told it’s spam, or simply don’t see it right away, that’s likely the reason. You’ll see it posted just as soon as I get to the spam folder to make corrections. Sorry for the hassle!

At 28 I had a successful teaching career, was happily married with a gorgeous ten-month-old son. A tragic car accident changed the course of all of our lives. I was left paralyzed from the neck down. A year later I was divorced. That was 13 years ago.

After being alone for more than a decade, I fell in love with a wonderful man and a poignant part of my existence was reawakened – my sensuality. It is a miracle because in my world love can be elusive. But, if it does happen, one can be assured that it is pure magic.

Most people react with jaw-dropping astonishment when hearing that a man – a sane and fully functioning one at that – is interested in me as a woman.

Everyone’s response is the same – he must be a very special man.

Bravely, I agree, with a smile. He is remarkable in that he has the unique, and rare, ability to look way beyond my wheelchair and see me for the person that I really am.

Facing any type of permanent disability, or even serious temporary injury, is too traumatic for most people to comprehend. Disabilities immediately evoke fears of abandonment, rejection, loneliness and frustration because that is just human nature. But, deep down inside I’m screaming: “Why does he have to be the only special one? Couldn’t it be me who is special enough?”

I have first-hand experience of what happens when one bases a relationship purely on the physical. It will eventually crumble because no human is guaranteed a life without encountering health issues like serious illness or injury, financial problems, family troubles, spiritual or philosophical differences, social dilemmas or disability. Any relationship without a spiritual and emotional connection – depth and meaning – will not survive any of life’s curve-balls. I hadn’t even thought that until my accident and consequent divorce – just to give you an indication of what a shallow life I was obliviously living.

Most people automatically assume that because I am paralyzed I am unable to have sex. That is because society has fallen into the classic – and all too common – trap of defining intimacy between two people who love one another deeply as “sex” which in my mind is “animal-like genital intercourse”.

It’s simply taken for granted that I would not be able to fulfill any man’s sexual needs and therefore would not make a suitable life partner. Nothing could be further from the truth. Many marriages fall apart because a fully functioning partner has the inability to connect physically with the other. Thus my abilities – or seemingly lack of – hold no relevance.

One cannot imagine the terrible derogatory remarks and comments I have had to endure as a direct result of these misconceptions. It just proves how ignorant and prejudiced our society really is. Sex for a quadriplegic is not impossible.
Also, no one can tell me what my body can and cannot feel. The feeling may not be exactly the same as before but, I’ve learned to recognize other sensations and signs, becoming more in tune with my body.

I managed to let go of what I thought sex was supposed to be and consider what it can be. Together, we learned to respond with a spirit of exploration rather than (for me) a sense of loss. Besides, discovering new and interesting ways of “doing it” could offer a brand-new spark to any relationship.

There are acceptable alternatives. Real intimacy is a way of expressing an innate part of who I am. I learned that kissing, cuddling, talking and fantasizing are not compromises. These “alternatives” have more erotic potential than most people care to explore or even acknowledge.

My sexuality is about so much more than just a stereotyped, and often overrated, physical act. Being an athlete in bed has nothing whatsoever to do with the quality of a committed relationship. My value extends far beyond my ability to use and feel my genitals. It should be a combination of my personality, my passion for life, my intelligence, my opinions, my sense of humor, shared interests, my heart and my light that is attractive. Those lasting qualities are most certainly what I look for in a soul-mate.

I believe that real intimacy is a basic human need. Just because I am paralyzed it does not mean that I do not have exactly the same needs as everyone else. I still need to feel attractive, to be loved, touched, hugged and kissed.

Isn’t it amazing how there was a sudden interest in my love life immediately after my accident by, mostly curious, people and a tremendous amount of concern for my husband’s needs – without any consideration whatsoever of what my needs were in that domain?

Importantly, my new relationship taught me that there is a whole new language out there – just like English, Spanish, German or French – called Sex Language. I’ve realized the importance of speaking Sex Language and all couples should be doing it.
Talking throughout our lovemaking helps to focus on the moment – and one’s imagination can obviously help make the experience far more pleasurable. Being intimate taught me the importance of using one’s mind as well – as opposed to only relying on the physical body – in order to benefit from the entire sensual experience. A woman’s most powerful sexual tool is her mind.

We all have different intimate needs, wants, desires and fantasies and one should be able to discuss those with your life partner no matter what – otherwise, what’s the point? I always thought that the “language of love” was a cliché but now I realize – and fully appreciate – how crucial it is to an exclusive intimate relationship.

Generally, society does not like to associate themselves – particularly not romantically – with people who do not appear physically whole. Ironically, I consider myself to be a far more whole person now than what I ever was.

After all, I’m still a woman. I’m still in touch with my sensuality. That is reason enough to celebrate.

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This is a guest post by the lovely Pamela Hunt-Cloyd. If you haven’t read her Walking on My Hands, I hope you’ll click over and add it to your reader. Despite what she might say about it, her writing epitomizes what trust tending means to me. And while you’re at it, go read this that she posted at Lindsey’s A Design So Vast yesterday. Teared me up in the very best way.

I don’t remember the day I realized I was short. Short, small, petite, diminutive, wee, miniscule, cute. All of those names sound so sweet, don’t they? Our society loves its women small. In elementary school I had a friend, Amy, who was tall. There was always a look of surprise in the other mom’s eyes when they saw her. “Wow,” they would say, “I bet you’re as tall as the boys.” When they saw me, it was different. “Oh,” they would whisper to my mom, “She’s so tiny.”

But there are other memories too. Once, when I was in first grade, I was getting a drink from the water fountain during recess, and after I stood up, there was a big kid blocking my way. He was a foot and a half taller than me, fifty pounds heavier, and wearing a brown shirt. “Hurry up Firstie,” he said, and I remember the feeling of panic that came over me. That panic that only little kids have, that great fear of bodily harm, abandonment, and loss. I quickly ran away from him shaking, and I never wanted to go back to school again.

When I told my mom about it, she asked me what Firstie even meant. “It’s what they call first-graders,” I said and my mom laughed. “Well,” she said, “You are in first grade.” My mom was five feet tall when she was nine years old, and then she only grew about an inch after that. As a tall girl in her childhood, my mom didn’t really see things from my perspective. It was clear to me that this was a battle I had to fight on my own.

The same thing happened again a few years later. “Out of my way Firstie,” a burly kid said to me in the lunchroom. Only this time, I was in fourth grade, and I had on my favorite velour shirt: Izod, with the alligator prominently placed. I was outraged.

“What grade are you in?” I asked, putting my hands on my hips.

“Second,” he said, in a voice that also said, What’s it to you?

“Well I’m in fourth grade,” I said and his face showed surprise.

“Oh,” he said, quickly backing up, his eyes wide. “Sorry.”

I watched him hustle away with his lunch tray and felt victorious. There was power in being the underdog, I realized. You had surprise on your side. I sometimes wonder how that tiny, miniscule, early experience affected me. It’s possible that it made me into a certain kind of person.

There is a way you can be when other people discount you that you can’t be any other time. Dani Shapiro and Katrina Kenison have often talked about “writing in the dark.” Creating when no one knows what you are up to. Protecting the undeveloped image until it is ready for the light. Hiding the secret, creative self as long as you can until the work is finished.

For a time, that was what being short meant to me. It was a prolonged youth, a delayed adolescence. It was a chance to hide for a while and then pounce. Now, at thirty-eight I am not sure what short means to me. I think much more often about how much I weigh than about how tall I am. But really, isn’t it the same thing? Tiny, cute, diminutive, wee. Our society loves its women small.

As I have gotten older, I have noticed that sometimes I use my size as an excuse to play small. I find that I react rather than act, that I am still learning how to take responsibility for my own life. I have always been able to sneak in after the bell and hide behind the tall people. Even as a teenager, I could get away with paying the child’s price to get in. I never had to stand tall or stare out over a crowd. I never had to say this is who I am and you’re going to have to deal with it.

As it turns out, there is a cost to shirking the full price of admission. It’s interesting, what the body teaches us, isn’t it? That the container of our soul can have such an influence on what we decide about our lives, about what we conclude about our own worth. Being small, for me, is easy. It’s convenient and it’s safe. Sometimes I take my six-foot husband’s pants out of the dryer, hold them up, and marvel at how exhausting it must be to stand so tall every day.

But there is always a danger in too much comfort. There is a tipping point at which a dog hiding under the table ceases to be considered an underdog. For me it’s a constant struggle to remember that only my body is small, to realize that even if my five-year old son is almost at my shoulder, I am still the grown-up. Being short is no excuse for living small. Nothing is.

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This is a guest post by Christa Gallopoulos of Carry It Forward. I’ve invited a couple of kindreds to post this week while my family gears up for and makes a local move. Christa is an artist, a photographer, a writer, and one who rises again and again through intense challenges. I’m in awe of the trust that she embodies. Christa recently launched a beautiful new iteration of Carry it Forward, which I hope you’ll go peruse, and is soon to launch a new venture with Belle Pirri at www.outrageousself.com. Thanks so much for being here, Christa!

I’ve been thinking a lot lately about help, so it was no surprise when Kristin asked me to write about it here! There are so many associations in my mind with that little four letter word – helpful, helpless, The Help – the book (and soon, the movie!), the help I give, the help I struggle to take, those who need help but reject it, those who seek help desperately. In the end, though, this is what I come up with: we all need it and we all give it, often without even knowing the impact we have on others.

It’s no huge secret that I didn’t have an idyllic childhood, and I’ve been encouraged strongly (pleaded with, lately) to write about my recovery from those years full of abuse and trauma. Somehow, I turned out okay, better than okay on some days, and those in the helping professions (there is that word again!) tell me over and over what a help (!) it would be to many if I could just put my experience into book form.

While I love, love, love to help others – it is so much easier to help others than to help ourselves – I hesitated for a long time. Not because I don’t want to save the world, or because I am embarrassed or ashamed of what happened all those years ago, or because I am afraid of putting bad ideas into the wrong people’s heads (although all of those reasons have come up) but because I really wanted to write the book from a positive place. For so long, I didn’t think my story was all that extraordinary, but with the assistance of a whole team of incredible folks and years of hard labor, I am finally in a place where I can see the good in it and tell my tale. Happily.

And here’s the basis of the story: there was always someone in my life who helped me get from point A to point B. As an adult, I realized that it was likely that these blessed individuals carried me forward without ever knowing what was going on.

I grew up in a small town, and even though Rule #1 was that we did not talk about anything that happened at home, I think I believed that everyone knew. That they saw what happened on the bad days and even on the good ones. So the librarian who opened the public library for me on New Year’s Day so that I could do my book report, who spent hours reading to me in the back office, who introduced me to the photographer who was the first to see and help me recognize that I had a visual eye? It seems that she didn’t know that she might as well have been a wand waving fairy godmother.

And the woman I babysat for, who had known me most of my life and showed me the way a mother could love her children, who gave me my first road map for a healthy life? It turns out that she had no clue whatsoever that things were less than safe at our house. And sadly, she felt as if she failed me when she learned what had been going on, twenty odd years later. I’m not sure, still, that she understands just how much she helped. They both, along with a larger cast of angels, helped me to thrive under less than ideal conditions. Without their guidance, support and love, I know for a fact that I would not be here now.

My point is not that I had a horrible time as a kid. It’s really not. What I am trying to say is this: we all help, all the time. It is what we do naturally. It is when we begin to worry that we can’t help enough, or the right way, or that we might screw things up, that we falter and freeze. If we let fear get involved, we get all tangled up and can’t follow through on our good intentions, on our innate knowing of what is true and right, on the love that we bring to each other.

And it works in reverse, too. If we are afraid of seeming needy, of being honest, of telling our stories and speaking our desires, we cannot be helped. We put up shields, all the time. We get in our own way. We stop the flow of love and we become helpless. And really, who wants to be that?

I believe in the innate goodness in the hearts of all people. Sure, it gets mutated and lost sometimes, but if you are reading this, it is within you. You can do it – and it doesn’t take a huge amount of effort. A simple smile, a quick “you did that so beautifully”, a little note of thanks – that’s all it takes. And that, you can do.

So get out there, run straight out into the game we call life. Help, be helped. Even when you can’t see immediate results, it’s all good.

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This is a guest post by Lindsey Mead. I’ve invited a couple of kindreds to post this week while my family gears up for and makes a local move. Lindsey’s article here is a beautiful example of what Lindsey does often at her blog, A Design So Vast: reflects honestly, eloquently, and movingly about the wonder and struggle of life. I hope you’ll go read more of what she writes!

I hate asking for help. I imagine most of us feel this way. For me it’s less about admitting weakness and more about imposing; I don’t want to put anyone in the position of feeling obligated to do something for me. This is especially true because most people, I suspect, are too nice to say no. So I feel guilty about being a burden.

For most of my life this worked. I just didn’t ask anyone for help very often. I gritted my teeth and did what needed to be done. And then my ability to cope – formerly an asset that I relied on both to get me through the day and in large part for my identity – absolutely dissolved in the wake of my first child’s birth. In a two week period that remains the darkest time of my life, I fell apart utterly.

When I was pregnant with Grace I heard lots of talk about baby nurses and overnight nannies; there seemed to be infinite permutations of help. I rejected them all. First, because they were expensive. But a second, and equally important reason, was because I did not want help. I’d always been able to do everything myself, and this was going to be no different.

Well, it was different. I collapsed into a puddle of tears and regrets, stared blankly at my healthy baby daughter, and wondered if I’d made the biggest mistake of my life. At my two week appointment with my midwives, I asked for help. This was unprecedented, but for the first time in my life, I was unable to keep up the façade of competence that was my standard face to the world. After a long day in their office (because they didn’t think I was safe alone with Grace, a fact that still gives me chills) I went home with a lot of help: two therapists, a prescription for Zoloft, and the directive to hire 24 hour help for at least a short period. With a name for my situation – severe post partum depression – I felt liberated to talk to those closest to me about how I was struggling.

What happened after this changed forever my sense of my place in the world. Finally I had reached the limit of my own ability to do things alone, and I was forced to lean into the people who loved me. I was in free fall, and I was startled by the sturdiness of the net that caught me. My husband jokes that it’s still not clear who had colic in those early weeks, Grace or me, and while he’s kidding I think the analogy hints at something insightful. I, too, felt like a newborn, skinless, terrified, and dependent. In what I now understand to be a cataclysmic breakdown, I let go of something that had always been essential to my sense of myself. My unambiguous belief that I could accomplish anything I needed to through sheer force of will shattered. The certainty that had defined me for 28 years was revealed to be artificial. In the midst of those dark, tearful, sleepless weeks I understood something basic: life was about questions, not answers.

I never expected that asking for help would teach me how to live my life. It taught me the strength of my own support system and it also demonstrated that people who care are genuinely pleased to help when you need it. But it also dismantled the scaffolding of certainty that I now realize was standing between me and the sun. Without that – the sureness that I now understand was tremendously brittle, and limiting – I grew more comfortable with questions, with doubt, with all of the immense questions that parenting, and adulthood, and midlife have brought with them. And what an extraordinary and terrifying blessing that has been.

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This is a guest post by Christine LaRocque. I’ve invited a couple of kindreds to post this week while my family gears up for and makes a local move. I hope you’ll click over to Christine’s site, Coffees & Commutes, and peruse much more of her work there. Her writing always soothes me and is wonderful, trust-nourishing stuff.

As I showered this morning, readying myself for the busy workday ahead, and then drove the long commute to the office, I thought about what I should write for this guest post. Kristin asked that I write about something in relation to help, and though I jumped at the chance to share my words here, I was feeling somewhat uninspired by the theme. 


So I asked myself why? As I come through a difficult season of change and struggle that is marked by an intense path of inward focus, but also the kindness and generosity of spirit of others who have helped me along the way, why would I find writing about help so uninspiring?

And I realized it’s because help is tremendously undervalued in our society. We think of asking for help as a weakness, admittance that we can’t do it, a reason to be judged for our perceived failures. We forget that help is about asking for what is needed, for getting support to help us along, when things may be just a little harder than usual.

Motherhood can be a difficult and lonely place. We spend so much time giving of ourselves, to our children, our partners, our employer, friends and family that we often forget that strength can come simply from asking for help. We are a generation of achievers raised to believe that if we only work hard enough; set aside our hearts for reason; push ahead, do more, we can have it all.

At the turn of the decade, I had declared that the coming decade would be all about living my life. I didn’t anticipate that my life would take over and I would find myself more lost than ever while trying to manage a full-time career, long commute, and two young boys. Before long I was completely depleted without the reserves I needed to weather another storm, let alone a normal day.

I believed it was my job to be in control. I focused all of my energies on being a good mom. I forgot to spend any energy on me. I didn’t know that it was okay to ask for help.

My life swelled into a tidal wave of fatigue and sadness. There were moments, raw and dark moments, when I wished for everyone and everything to go away. I considered running away. Strong was my desire to be alone with my struggles and to escape.

I wanted quiet. Instead I got help.

And then I shared the depths of my struggle in a very public way at Coffees & Commutes. There was surprise, both online and offline. I had locked this part of myself away, holding tightly to the illusion that all was well and I was managing. I had been deep in denial, focused on painting a pretty portrait. Until then my sadness was my own, isolated and hidden to all but my husband.

In sharing my darkest secret so publicly, I worried. I felt vulnerable. As I laid myself bare I wondered how it would unfold. I wanted to be honest. I wrote about my sadness because we don’t talk of this enough. It was my hope that my honesty could help another in some small way.

In so doing I discovered kindness – the kind that provides a lifeline to a person deeply in distress – and compassion that can come only from one mother to another to another.

I was overwhelmed and buoyed by the support, the generosity of spirit and the wise encouragement. Women I knew and women who were complete strangers applauded me for taking a difficult step, offering a listening ear, and responding with honesty of their own.

There were many who reached out in a very personal way, too – particularly Karen Maezen Miller, a Zen priest and author of the book Hand Wash Cold: Care Instructions for an Ordinary Life. She gave of her time, counseled me from miles away by phone. In her wisdom and kindness she gave me permission to struggle. She opened a window for me that had previously been sealed shut. She broke through. By giving an hour of her time, she helped.

That is the magic of compassion, the power it has to help even just one. It is also the magic of a sisterhood of mothers. We understand each other; can make a difference, not only to our children but to each other. Whether through a few kind words, or a phone call to a fellow mother facing her darkest hour, it only takes a moment, a few words of kindness, to make a world of difference.

Christine is a full-time communications professional and mother of two boys. She blogs about the madness and sweetness that is life at www.coffeesandcommutes.com.

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A new month is upon us, and one that typically holds great warmth or great dread, depending on how nestled you feel into love.

No matter where you are on the spectrum of feeling loved or not, though, and however hard it is to actually define it, I think all of us recognize love as a wonderful, beautiful thing. It’s what we yearn for, deeply, what we seek, fight for, protect, nourish, and sacrifice hugely on behalf of. And, conversely, what we mislabel, misunderstand, betray each other in search of, and grieve when it looks to be lost. Something this desired, this full of depth and breadth and weight in our collective hearts and minds, can’t help but have really large shadows.

There’s irony in that thought because love really does shrink fear, but I think the point remains: fear hangs out in love’s shadows. It breeds there. Our need and wish for and cherishing of love are all so intense that the thought of losing it or never finding it or actually being hurt by some version of it we’ve come to trust: the intensity of that fear often trumps all.

This site is all about tending trust, so I thought it fitting to walk into this month of love, so fraught with so much fear for so many of us, with an eye for growing trust in love’s shadow. This month, posts here will all orbit around love. I hope that with each one, the fears that we know in relation to love can begin to be brought into a safe and gentle light, and love’s shadow will begin to be filled with far less of them, and far more of the warmth and hospitality that love truly does contain.

In celebration of that warmth and that hospitality, everything in my Etsy store is 20% off for the month of February (to see what profits there support, click here). At check-out, use the 02LOVE coupon code to apply the discount. And if you’re looking for a Valentine’s gift, placing orders this week will ensure delivery by the 14th.

I’m also eager, at this blog’s young age, to find the people who might resonate with what’s happening here. If you like what you’re finding here, would you consider helping me spread the word about it? I’d be grateful for that warmth!

Here’s to love, in it’s purest form, and to a path of knowing and living inside of much more of it!

P.S. Lindsey Mead, of the blog A Design So Vast and our interview here last week, has graciously posted a reflection of mine in her space. I’m honored to be there and encourage you to explore the wonderful, trust-inducing work she’s doing there daily.

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