I have this way early childhood memory of a circular creation defining months of the year: December at 11 o’clock, April at 2, June at 5, September at 8 o’clock. No idea at all how this landed in my consciousness, but I was always uber-aware of the orbiting passage of seasons. Years later this sensibility has only deepened.

Thank the good lord ninety percent of folks coming for physical therapy in my current practice are garden variety. Because atypical requires deeper investigation and the prognosis is more dicey, less definitive. We don’t imagine our own pain might follow a predictable human pattern. We’re pretty convinced we’re weird or special. And we are. But luckily most of us are garden variety, presenting with constant or come & go discomfort in hip or low back, shoulder or neck, knee or foot. Maybe jaw, elbow, wrist, hand. Perhaps with accompanying headache or sensation that radiates into arm or leg.

I remember my father stretched out on that burnt orange 60’s couch, my well-worn algebra text in his sturdy hands. Each time I kneeled on the floor by him, he knew precisely where to embark, how to lead without giving away too much, when to halt and let me stumble around on my own. Our relationship was far from easy, but I could always count on his teaching skill. Little did I know that what I was really learning was just that. Teaching, a calling that has manifested in different forms throughout my life.

There’s something about a road trip, evocative of sweet youth, spontaneous wildness, touching what’s tucked away inside, a place that begs exposure. Something about the open road, potential around each bend, brings me alive in a way different than other experience. The way we arrived at road-tripping the southwest for ten days was so random, and grew out of spending time at our favorite Sedona locale last Fall.

Some years pass, marked by a birthday, and just to recall where I was on that day a year ago requires a deep dig. Even pulling up remarkable events that came to pass during the previous year can be baffling. Know what I mean? It’s not exactly same-old, same-old but youth bulges with sizable change: kindergarten becomes first grade, size 10 becomes size 14, marriage happens, degrees are earned, babies arrive, first jobs become second ones. And then, to a relative extent, maybe we settle in and appreciate more subtle evolution: a book leaves a mark, a trip opens new worlds, a practice opens internal doorways, a friendship goes deep. Not that the inevitable shifts in the big stuff---birth, illness, death, relationship---go away.

September 2015…travelling in Italy, overwhelmed with the beauty and having some come-to-Jesus moments with my scoliosis. In the midst of our time, so far from home and community, I learn that Harbin Hot Springs---my deepest spirit home---is consumed in wildfire. So much heartache, so many gut-wrenching tears. This loss created a distinct hole in my heart.

I don’t like to visit doctors. Not big on routine exams. Surely they’ll find something if they start looking. I generally go when I’m in need. And I’ve been in need this year. After surgery, aftermath, radiation, I was referred to Maxine Barish-Wreden, a holistic/integrative practitioner, someone I already knew from my connections with Sutter.

That was one long cold wet winter and, like many of you, I suffered through that lingering cold bug. It came on so slowly and then turned into the cough that never went away. After a month it took a definite turn for the worse: fever, chills, hacking. I had to forgo Wednesday Waves which literally never happens. It takes a lot for me to go to the doctor, but I did. She declared sinus and ear infection and prescribed the big meds. I came home and cancelled a busy two day schedule and did nothing but sleep.

Totally remember 1984. My mom had been gone one tender year and somehow I was finding my way raising two precious little ones, working three days a week in a profession I loved and doing whatever I could to keep the flame alive with the man who was doing all this beside me. What a whirlwind. It is hard for me to remember how moving through that chapter was even possible. And I have so much respect and awe for young families making it happen in this ever more challenging world.

Up top? Journal snapshot from Vancouver’s Leap with Kate Shela in January. This little being has been on my desk since then and I’ve been recognizing her early wisdom, tenacity, courage. Only now do I realize she’s been patiently informing me about destiny. Got it when a library angel landed a few weeks ago: James Hillman’s The Soul’s Code: in Search of Character and Calling. Quotes are from this book.

What is power and why would I choose this term in naming the Fluidity, Power and Release trilogy? I love the dictionary. Remember those big old well-used ones on the library lectern? Well, though Merriam Webster on-line lacks the intrigue and veracity, the definition is clear enough: the ability to do something or act in a particular way, especially as a faculty or quality. And I love this piece: the ability to act or produce an effect. It doesn’t include brawny or tough or struggle. Nope. Just clarity in action. I had a moment like that Sunday.

Our personal growth can be capricious, transformative moments that blindside us, consciousness leaps shrouded in mystique. We land in expanded zones with a thunk, not sure how we arrived, just gratefully amazed. I’ve been calling this the mystery and it has held my fascination this past year. This is one fertile state and the words I just wrote--- capricious and blindside and mystique---I’m challenging them. What is mystery exactly? And can we practice in a way that fosters it’s metamorphosing potential?

Ambushed two weeks ago while teaching. Blindsided by the jackal. The inner critic. The dude in charge of corralling me safely into my comfort zone. So I never go belly up or feel uptight or (heaven’s no!) do something fraught with risk. He’s a panicky beast and though I know he has my interest at heart, he’s also a bit mean-spirited. Surely you have your own version?

Here’s something I’ve noticed of late. When it comes to showing up for practice, we’re so willing to come with our heartache, knowing from past experience we’ll be able to feel in, be soothed or have resolution or some degree of definition. We’re grateful for a place to explore our mental confusion since sometimes a gift of insight or clarity opens for us. When our souls thirst, when our spirits flag---the mat, the dance floor---it’s where we seek sanctuary.

I woke frightened by a crazy dream last night, eyes wide, letting go, breathing. The work shift of our sub-conscious begins in earnest the moment we fall sleep.

I’ve been reflecting how ironic it is that in this last decade I’ve been so deeply called to explore all things pelvic bowl. What’s up with that? It’s like God said “Honey, you’re gonna have some big trouble in this bowl coming up so you better get in there and learn all you can.”

Tis the season of opportunity to turn outward, celebrate, connect, share the bounty. And also, ironically, tis the season to turn inward, take instruction from the darkness, hibernate, reflect. In this pause, feeling both possibilities and how this newsletter, ending fourteen years of offerings, is a weave of the two, the internal and external. Before 2005, I was an avid journal-keeper, writing for personal edification from my early twenties onward until this chapter of public writing began.

Tis the season of opportunity to turn outward, celebrate, connect, share the bounty. And also, ironically, tis the season to turn inward, take instruction from the darkness, hibernate, reflect. In this pause, feeling both possibilities and how this newsletter, ending fourteen years of offerings, is a weave of the two, the internal and external. Before 2005, I was an avid journal-keeper, writing for personal edification from my early twenties onward until this chapter of public writing began.

On Thanksgiving night I laid out fire-front, warm flames soothing this recovering belly and I thought about the nine lives mythology of cats. I reclined and re-lived six of my own mega-close calls over a lifetime and then added one more. Because on this day, of all days, the surgeon called to tell me the pathology report of the surrounding region was clear.

Surgery was Friday. On Saturday the leaves out my window called in their last throes of delight, undimmed by the smoke clouding their show. I joined them as I ached around the block four separate times, each step a victory. The couch never looked so good.