The Practice of Being
I am seated at a tall counter inside a home that is not my own, far beyond city limits—the sky outside the window is a blend of clouds, the lightest greys braided into the softest of blues. They live in intimate dialogue with a body of water so grand she has in our time together become something like a mother.
Like many of you, I imagine, I am simultaneously holding the world, beloved ones close to me, as well as doing my best to hold myself all with as much tenderness as I can muscle.
I remember every morning I spill raw words onto safe pages, unroll my body on my mat or build an altar with nature, in nature, that all of this holding is deeply connected to creativity because the truth is, creative energy informs everything we are and everything we continue to become, from the moment of our birth—through the fantastic, enormous n' complicated middle—all the way to our negotiation around our final breath.
Creative expression informs the orientation of the art on our walls, what colour to paint a old chair, unload the groceries into the fridge, arrange books on a shelf or socks in a drawer, expanding to encompass the tremendous ways we take care of the ones we love, how and why we engage with the world on our doorstep, map our meaning and purpose of the time we're gifted on earth.
Some days, writing is a way of clearing of the mind, but in true form, they're connected, aren't they, and so tending to one part is in service to the others who make up these tiny supernatural-supersonic individual orbits, who actually weave themselves together to become an entire collective.
Creativity—and writing, specifically—holds much power: we regulate our nervous system, bend our imagination, unlearn and teach anew, uplift revolution, and, well, Folk the system, as my friend Vanja says.
All kinds of art (and words, to me, especially) are also potent portals, miraculous modules of magic, infused with intention and care. If crafted properly, combining everything known and unknown into one delicious folded paper crane, art and words become an ongoing conversation with all creation: the interconnectedness with all beings, everywhere, in all dimensions, one might say.
Our creativity specifically seems charged with a whole lot of rules many of us absorb at a young age, and while we may never choose to identify as writers or creatives, we are intrinsically mystical beings who write and create.
This practice we’re coming together for in September, one week after Summer turns to Fall, is hoping to shake it all up, and so, in this space between I us, (which is something of an intersection or altar) I’ll place a few more words, for your contemplation.
Not so much for thinking but for feeling.
Not so much for anything other than the poetry of this being.
Moving quick-slow towards the cusp of thinning veils. Building altars, touching trees, remembering all the ones who have in the shedding of their earthly bodies become an essential part of everything. Constellation, flowers, oceans, rivers, lakes. These words are brief—a taste, a dash of something to tide you over—to encourage openings and the ignition of imagination: fountain crown, sparking light. How we move out from centre is by dropping in. How we soften. How we hold it all together. How we grapple gently with time. How we wrestle nightmares. How we redefine enough. How we weave a story together. How we unclench a jaw, a fist, a heart, a thought. How we calm a nervous system. How we sit with a furious planet. How we listen to a future who is heading in our direction. How we witness. How we awake awake in continuous heartbreak heartbreak. How we refuse. How we fake it. How we replenish. How we stay the course. How we shift a narrative. How we expand inside the demand to get real small. How we slow. How we rest. How we care. How we inhabit privilege. How we tend. How we fade. How we echo. How we voice a revolution. How we falter. How we break cycles. How we honor. How we see. How we forgive. How we create. How we truth. How we suffer. How we believe. How we grieve. How we patience, darling, patience. How we trust. How we make it. How we evolve. How we change. How we fall apart. How we sit with what is. How we hope. How we air out shadows. How we drink quiet. How we demand of ourselves. How we dreamwork. How we live. How we die. How we love. How we love. How we love. Both clarity and confusion are sources of wisdom. Tending our creativity helps us hold ourselves—helps us hold others.
I hope you’ll join me for a thorough exploration of this wonder-landscape: how movement and creativity meet one another, how they (and we?) live in curiosity and kindness.
Practice of Being
September 27th, 2025.
Time: 1:30-3:30PM