
Walking along a turmeric-colored trail this late afternoon, I just finished a speech to my boyfriend about how (to paraphrase) I don’t believe that anyone is ever "too far gone” to be loved back into authenticity and joy.
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Recently, I hit a point with a coaching client where I realized he needed more than I could give him.
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I knew this would happen. Or, actually, it’s been happening, in little peek-a-boo bursts since I entered the nothing. The other day I felt overwhelmed by it.
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The other day, a totally brilliant colleague likened self-care to the oxygen mask drill on airplanes – specifically, the part about always affixing our own mask before assisting others. In other words, if your own ability to take a breath is compromised, how in the world can you be of service to anyone else? “Basically, if you don’t take care of yourself,” she told a client, “the rest of us are hosed.”
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There’s this question that doesn’t so much bother me, but certainly nags me:
Why can’t I keep “life” going while simultaneously feeling into what’s next for me?
It pops up when I hear from the man who maintains a rigorous daily yoga practice, plays drums in a band and runs a school; the lady who owns her own consulting firm and happens to be an ordained Buddhist priest; the guy who meditates for an hour a day and is a grad student and works 30 hours a week. People who are making livings, making strides, and making space.
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