This past Tuesday was my birthday, my first in my new homeland of the Northern California coast. I kept the day deliberately unscheduled. I woke up not knowing what I would do, but trusting that if I followed my emergent impulses, beauty would unfold. This is my practice these days—listening to the moment. Sometimes I’m better at it than others. Moving here, letting go of everything I had known, and shifting from leading my life from my mind to following intuition has been my greatest teacher.
I’ve been procrastinating writing this post for a while.
Some of you know this already but for some of you it will be news:
I am moving.
Or, more accurately, I am migrating to the ocean. Muir Beach, California. To return to the Mother for a while. To listen, and write, and pray, and teach, and see clients, and walk on the coast. And to let the whales dream me into the next phase of my life.
Colorado has just lived through a collective trauma. Through it we have learned what is reliable (like community) and what is not (like the roads). One of the most challenging aspects of collective trauma is that there are many people, living side by side, having the same experience from radically different perspectives.
And the gap between those perspectives is sometimes big enough for a car to fall through.
The torrential rains have stopped here in Boulder. And life, for some, is returning to normal. The sun is shining, people are going back to work, and others are ripping up carpets from their basements, or assessing their damages. Stores are open, as are many roads.
But members of our community are still unaccounted for. Lyons and Estes and Jamestown are still underwater, so to speak. And the town of Salina has been destroyed.
What a week. The Colorado floods are proof that devastation, anxiety, great love, tenderness, grief, generosity, helplessness, and grounded service all live side by side. What we think of as solid (roads, buildings, structures) is not. What we think of as ephemeral (love, care for one another, generosity), is not.