Take the Pause
Monday Missives #23
Currently in New England and on my way to record a conversation on the road. Good time to practice how, when and why to take the pause.
I sit on a stone wall in the shade of a big, leafy tree. Occasionally, a very warm breeze brushes against my bare shoulders. Chatter fills the air. Bird songs punctuate for extra emphasis. Next to me sits a new friend with whom I share, differently, a lot of the same experiences and passions.
Out of nowhere, someone comes up to me, reaches their arm out and asks, “Hella, are these yours?”
Instantly, a huge wave of relief runs along my slightly sweaty skin, down the full length of my body, and seeps in through the wide-open pores. “Yes! Those are my journals. Where did you find them?” Tears form in the corners of my eyes.
“Someone handed them to me. They thought they were mine but I figured they were probably yours.”
Without another word, I take the two journals (one bound in red, faux leather vinyl and the other one bound in a different kind of black vinyl and covered with drawings of large pink rose blooms), pull them in tight, and press them against my chest. Kind of like what a mom might do with a newborn.
Almost four weeks earlier, I was in the same place (but sitting in a different spot) with some of the same people. When I woke up that morning, I pulled out my journals (I always travel with a few because I have a system and write different things into different journals). The all-black journal (a sister journal to the red one) is the one into which I make notes during my daily morning meditation. In the red journal (which normally never leaves the house), I write notes during my one-on-one sessions with my therapist—phrases, and verbal hooks, to help me practice a new behaviors and identify old patterns. And in the black with pink roses journal I sporadically scribble notes here and there (the last time was three years ago. Not coincidentally I am sure, one of those notes came up right before I left my house so I pulled the journal out and brought it with me).
Anyway, every morning, the first thing I do after I wake up, is find my quiet place, read a few different things from a few different books, and take notes in my black journal. And that morning was no different. Before I got up to get ready and dressed, the one thing I wrote down was: “focus not only on the discipline of work but also on the joy of delight—allow yourself authentic pleasure.”
While I knew it was important (that’s why I wrote it down), underneath, I felt very far way from enjoying much. I carried a lot of grief—the upcoming one-year anniversary of Barbara’s passing, the end of the first of four years of my somatic practitioner training program, the workload I had in front of me, and the change emerging from within me (btw it does not matter that the change is good—change, even good change, holds grief). The sand shifted below my feet and I felt very unsettled.
Later that morning and in the early afternoon, I had a few Zoom meetings including one with my financial advisor and one with the woman who is helping me with my book proposal. By now, all revved up, I got thrown off by the long to-do list (aka more work), and the big decisions and commitments I made to myself (aka the business I started). To say that I had a lot going on and swirling around in my head would be a major understatement.
At some point in all of that, I know I pulled those two journals (the red and the black with pink roses ones) out of my computer bag. It was an odd choice because I only brought those journals with me in case I wanted to reference something in them when I was in class—the next day. In other words, I cannot think of a good reason why I took them out of the bag that morning.
Several hours later, after I finished my meetings and right before I left to go thrifting, I realized I had no idea where those two journals were. My black journal, the one I use every morning, sat on top of my other books on the dresser. But the other two…I had no idea where I had left them. Frantic, I rifled through every bag I had, retraced all my steps and locations, and checked under every pillow, sofa, and bed in a fifty mile radius. But neither one of those two journals was anywhere. They had simply disappeared.
Desperate to explain how that could happen and to calm myself down before having a full-on panic attack, I thought, “Maybe I did not bring them at all. Maybe I left them at home. Maybe I forgot to pack them and they are still on the kitchen counter.” Even though I was sure I had held them in my hands that morning, I convinced myself that I had left them at home. That was certainly much better than the idea that they (especially the red one) were somewhere, anywhere, and that someone, anyone, could find them, and, well, read them. (Just thinking about that, even now, makes me feel slightly nauseous. Talk about feeling vulnerable and exposed).
A week later (so, about three weeks ago), I drove back home to Virginia. When I pulled into the garage at 11pm, I could not wait to turn off my car, jump out and run inside to find my journals sitting on the kitchen counter. But as soon as I got through the inside door and stepped into the den, even from several feet away, I could see that the kitchen counter was empty. It was a total blank spot. The journals were not there.
For half an hour and another full hour (at least) the next morning, I searched, high and low, inside every room of the house, rifled through every bookshelf, looked under every pillow and couch within a fifty mile radius, and combed through every inch of my car. Nothing. Those two journals were nowhere to be found.
I write things down, by hand, to retain information. When I make those notes in the pages of a journal, or the margins of a textbook, my mind flips through the different pages of hand-written notes, and finds the one thing I need to reference in the moment.
With my prodigal journals pressed against my heart, I notice that they are wet. No, water-logged. I place them in my lap, open the red one and try to flip through the pages. But they are stuck together. The ones that I can separate are smudged. The words are either illegible or completely washed away.
Oh. These journals have been sitting outside for the past four weeks. That means they have been through a heatwave and several rainstorms. They have been weathered in a very short amount of time.
As that sinks in, I connect the dots. That morning almost four weeks ago, I brought these journals outside with me, set them down somewhere, and, before doing anything else, got back up, walked away and left them behind. But I have no recollection of doing any of that, which is why I did not think to look for them out here when I realized they were missing. Wow. That means that morning (at the very least) I was not present—at all. Certainly not with myself and that means I was also not present with anyone else.
All that brings me full circle to the note I made in my black journal the day I (temporarily) lost my red journal: “focus not only on the discipline of work but also on the joy of delight—allow yourself authentic pleasure.” I am sure that it is no coincidence that my journals were returned to me when they were (and that I was there, in a place I do not live and will not return to for a bit) which inspired me to look up what I had written in my black journal that day four weeks ago.
Clearly I need the reminder today that when I push too hard, run too fast or pack in too much, I forget not only where I put the things that are important to me, but I also zoom past the moments with the people I love and the experiences I want to savor. That is why I need to take the pause.
To remember that, I turned pause into an acronym (a few days ago actually so again, no coincidences) and wrote it down in my journal this morning. For good measure (and just in case), I also typed it into my Notes app.
(Of course, all of that is just a different way of saying the thing Barbara said to me just over a year ago. Here is the link to the post I wrote about—a post I started working on the day this whole “my journals are lost” situation unfolded. I am sure that is not a coincidence.
Meals Out: I spent the weekend celebrating a bestie’s beautiful, moving, and inspiring wedding so everything was a meal out.
Listening (voice): Jon Favreau talks to Harvard computer science professor Jonathan Zittrain about AI. It is totally worth a listen. Ok, I think it’s important to listen to this one, but that’s just my opinion.
Listening (song most likely on repeat): Only in Your Eyes, Meltt. Love the chill vibes. Also great driving music. (link to Apple Music, embed to Spotify)
Watching: Oh, I just realized a new season of Grantchester is out on PBS. Not sure how long it’s been out but I am catching up! (This version of the British murder mystery show features a young, wholesomely sexy and always very troubled vicar, a gruff on the outside and softie on the inside grizzled detective, a sometimes snarky with heart of gold housekeeper and many more delightful recurring characters. What’s not to love?).
Reading: Nothing. Good thing my copy of Proof of Life ships July 8th, so I will have something to read next week.
Most Hours Logged Doing: Celebrating love, family and joy while making new friends and connecting with old ones.
Monday Morning Meditation: 6.30.25
Whenever I feel anxious, judged or uncertain, I will pause long enough to let go of my regret, remember my experience and trust myself to do that next right thing.
Is there a topic you would like me to write about in a Monday Missive? Cover in a podcast episode? I am curious about what you are curious about and would love to hear from you so leave a comment below or drop me line.
Wowzers! So many lessons can be learned here…… trusting God, the universe, etc even when you can’t see, letting go, being present, etc. There may even be something around all the pages being “wiped clean”? Hmmmm…… lots to ponder here! Thanks for sharing🩵