Something has been broken in our goodness

We could blame it on COVID, but I think it goes back before that to a certain person coming down a golden escalator. Cruelty suddenly became the norm in public discourse in a way we’d never experienced before. Our highest political leader who is supposed to, at the very least, exhibit high levels of decorum was suddenly behaving like the schoolyard bully. There seem(ed) to be no more rules and people who had been hiding their meanness, all of their ignorant bigotries, were given permission to show it all very loudly and proudly.

When people so clearly show you who they are, believe them, right?

Blaming this on the golden escalator moment can seem inaccurate. This country has had a veneer of nice over mean and violent for, well, its entire history.

But this felt and feels different. It was/has been a definite sort of flashpoint.

We often talk about “those people” and don’t recognize what living in this shit stew has done to the rest of us, because it has done something and I’m noticing it more and more during this god awful second administration from hell.

People who consider themselves openminded and compassionate are losing their capacity to hold difficult things for others. (And I am seeing this absolutely everywhere.)

Yes, we’re overwhelmed. We all are. But to lose this particular muscle — to atrophy these capacities — is a sign of some sort of larger death that we cannot afford.

A lot of people are making their circles smaller when they should be making them bigger.

A lot of people are laying down to rest when we should be working on becoming warriors of distance and depth. We need our best selves right now, not some diminished and exhausted version.

I am exhausted; most of us are exhausted. But like a distance athlete, we must push through and find the next level of energy. We must take better care of ourselves so we can build the muscles necessary to meet these moments, because these moments are likely going to get harder, not easier in the near future.

I have no answers but I want to start the discussion. I want us to notice.

Practice as safe space

I used to tell people (when I was first embarking on this somatic dance journey and felt like I had just conquered two Mount Everests in a row by dancing my way to the least amount of depression in my life that I had ever known)… I used to tell people that their own bodies in the now were their safe space. Because right this minute, nothing is happening.

I still believe we can get to that point and that it also fluctuates depending on psychological triggers, freaking life life-ing, and things like overall health and the weather and so many other variables.

But… and this is a big but… your body as safe space just doesn’t work for a lot of people and it never will.

What do I mean by safe space?

Safe spaces are places and people in which and with whom we can be totally ourselves and be held with care. This can mean that we are tolerated through annoying times ((ha)), witnessed during big changes, and encouraged in growth. It can also mean we are called out on our own bullshit but we know that calling out is coming at us with love and compassion.

Safe spaces and people are not all sunshine and rainbows. Spaces that are too sweet are actually not safe, because the number one component of safe space (and people) is honesty.

If our bodies cannot be these safe spaces, where does that leave us?

What are the other options?

Movement As safe space

This is another tricksy one.

As I have said for a very long time: as long as there is breath, there is dance.

And I believe that. To my core. I have watched people with very little mobility left find so much beautiful dance.

But to say that movement itself is a safe space is unrealistic in light of what many will encounter via disease and aging.

Movement as safe space can feel like an insult in those contexts.

Of course, we too narrowly define movement and that is a large part of the issue, but that narrow definition is how most people understand it. To lose our favorite way of moving can be devastating and transitioning to a new way of understanding movement can take many years if it happens at all.

So no, movement itself is not the safe space we’re looking for.

Community as safe space

Ugh. Sadly this one can be too… fragile, too changeable, too… unrealiable.

Communities are made of humans and humans are unpredictable and we need something somewhat predictable when it comes to creating safe space.

That’s not to say that some communities are not our safe spaces. I myself have a few communities that I would put in this category, but even then, I have experienced moments when it didn’t feel that way. (Luckily they were safe enough to even contain those moments and move beyond them.)

And the grief that comes with dissolution of or betrayal within community is intense. Not safe (or at least not always).

Practice as safe space

After all of these years of observing all of these phenomenon, I have finally come to practice as safe space.

Practice as safe space contains all the other possibilities — bodies, movement, communities, other individuals.

Practice is malleable over our lifetimes but it also (when approached in the way I mean) is a constant companion, even as it and we change.

Practice is devotion to your own awareness and a commitment to living a life of noticing and learning and growing.

Your practices may change but you doing them does not. You coming to them in times of joy and grief does not. And though it may be profoundly challenging to maintain, your practices truly are your safe space — where you can fully meet yourself, challenge yourself, and learn an ever deepening love of yourself and therefore of others.

We are safe in our practices so that we can go out and meet a world that is often unsafe. We then go back to our practices for repair and rejuvenation to be effective in our lives. And that cycle goes on and on…

The world has me feeling quiet

From a class I just taught at the Columbus Museum of Art. The joy in this felt right in a post about Andrea.

Words come less easily lately. I am stunned into silence by this world we’re living in. My heart aches but that is often covered over by so much red hot anger that I forget how much it is actually my softness that is suffering.

I will try to get back to writing more regularly because I have lists and lists of things I want to put words to. And I know if I write about what really matters to me that over time more words will come…

For now, I am, like so many on this planet, grieving the loss of poet Andrea Gibson. They were a gift to us.

And this … the last line especially… feels like something everyone should read:

“My love, I was so wrong. Dying is the opposite of leaving. When I left my body, I did not go away. That portal of light was not a portal to elsewhere, but a portal to here. I am more here than I ever was before. I am more with you than I ever could have imagined. So close you look past me when wondering where I am. It’s Ok. I know that to be human is to be farsighted. But feel me now, walking the chambers of your heart, pressing my palms to the soft walls of your living.”

— Andrea Gibson

The mystery of willpower and the battle of depression

Begonia Yuki is now three.

You get to a certain point in depression where your willpower switch actually gets flipped. I'm super simplifying but there's a neuro-chemical thing that happens and you literally stop having access to that "push yourself" thing that could be helpful.

This is where meds can be super helpful but alas I am medication resistant so...

I've been in that space of no “push” for quite some time. I do what needs to be done but that's it.

And I have no clue how to turn this around for anyone, including myself, but right now a turning is happening and I'm looking back trying to discern what it was for me (FOR ME).

First steps

I think it somehow goes back to tracking my food and realizing how much I was emotionally eating. Doing that was an interesting enough experiment that I was able to stick with it and I have kept going because it remains interesting. (Experiments are the nutrition of my brain and life... if I'm in that mode, I am at my best and happiest... curious and fascinated is my healthy spot.)

And something about THAT has led to some other small things...

And then suddenly! (Doesn't it always seem like that?) over the weekend, I could really feel the switch moving back to "on."

This morning I laid in bed and watched my asshole brain trying to convince me to stay in bed until the thing I HAD to do... and it was interesting because I could just watch it... as I got up and did the new things I've committed to.

Now sharing this feels scary, right? Depression brain tells me that this is just a blip...

OH! I remember now! A huge part of this was me announcing on Sunday evening that I was going to start really PUSHING HARD through the "I don't want to" ... that I could no longer be gentle with myself, because IN MY CASE, gentle is draining my life from me... slowly...

And there really is something magical in telling others "Hey! Can you check in once in a while? I'm trying to..."

We are communal.

The fight

This post is a bit all over the place but I want to emphasize something here that I didn’t when I first wrote most of this in the Circle of Trees: the fight.

Depression is a liar and a thief.

If a liar and a thief broke into your home, would you just sit there and rest?

Here’s the thing: if someone broke into my house that would mean my cats were in danger and you can bet you’d see proof that I am not a passifist.

So why when it comes to my own self do I allow this lying and thieving of my goodness, creativity, essence?

Of course, depression is complicated, and as I said at the top, we can lose motivation and I have no idea how to get it back.

But once you feel even just a bit of that motivation… even just a shadow of it, it’s time to start fighting. And you must fight hard.

You have to dig in. And you have to focus on the things around you — cats, people you love, work that matters — and promise those things that you will continue to fight.

That’s where I am… I’ve got my boxing gloves on and I’m trying to beat the crap out of that intruder.

My depression makes sense and yours probably does too

“It is no measure of health to be well-adjusted to a profoundly sick society.”

— Krishnamurti (or not...)

That quote goes around all the time because it speaks to so many of us, but according to the Krishnamurit Foundation Trust, there’s no actual evidence that he ever said it. He did say things that boil down to this, though, including:

Is society healthy, that an individual should return to it? Has not society itself helped to make the individual unhealthy? Of course, the unhealthy must be made healthy, that goes without saying; but why should the individual adjust himself to an unhealthy society? If he is healthy, he will not be a part of it. Without first questioning the health of society, what is the good of helping misfits to conform to society?

And Henry Miller, who said he was very inspired by Krishnamurti, put it this way:

There is no salvation in becoming adapted to a world which is crazy.

Now that all of that nerd stuff is out of the way… ((ha))

The title of this piece came to me early Wednesday morning this week, as I awoke to another day feeling deep despair about the world and my place in it.

You know… those days when even the blue sky and sun and warm temperatures do not beckon. Those days when your body feels as though it’s made of lead and even the cat can tell so she settles on you for a long nap, purring and doing her best to help.

I have been limiting my news a bit. But it feels irresponsible to completely limit it. There are people suffering and there will be more.

The cruelty of this administration is breath-taking. The people who support it even more so.

It’s one thing for sociopaths to sociopath but to watch others cheer them on…

And so I wake up under the weight of that and then the rumination starts: how is there any space for the work I bring to this world in this particular world? How is it that every single thing that means anything to me and that I am good at — writing, poetry, singing, dancing, teaching somatic dance, creating art — how is it that in this world they are building, there really is so very little space for me?

And when I ask that question I am asking as a person who has paid her bills with those things that she loves for a very long time now. I am not a hobbyist. This is my Work, in that spiritual, capital W way and in the way of making money to help with the life Craig and I are building.

To feel this sense that my work will slowly slip away (as it has already started to do to some degree)… the despair over this is profound.

So my own loss plus the vile news that comes day after day after day, wave after wave, with no end in sight, and yes, I am depressed.

And see how it makes sense?

I’ve written about this before: if you already have a propensity toward depression from early life trauma, well, you’re pretty sure to be sinking into depression now as we are triggered by a cruel and punishing administration. Punishing in that anything not to their specific liking is designated as “bad.” (Familiar?)

I know that in order to fight back against all of this, we must maintain our hopeful energy and we must be able to fuel ourselves through love and beauty and joy.

But, my god… right now that feels like a lot to ask. So I have no answers and will continue to ask the questions.

What is my part in this? How can I maintain the work that’s important to me and others? What role can I play in the larger pictures? How can I fuel my own self in a way that allows me to continue?

I do not want to give the authoritarian/schnazis the “sad bodies” that French philosopher Deleuze speaks of but I also do not know how not to.

Uncovering a layer of privilege and the shame of it...

I can’t remember if it was right after the election or right after the inauguration, but I was, as many of us were, feeling terrible. And I had a meeting with the owner of the studio where I teach in Columbus. Heartfelt is queer owned and committed to elevating the experiences of marginalized humans.

Vinny, the owner, is a freaking unicorn, and I mean that on an emotional, spiritual, and mental level. He’s worked hard to build a beautiful life filled with joy. And he personifies it: the first meeting I ever had with him, he came into the coffee shop in a long, bright pink, faux fur. He fuels himself with bags of skittles. And I think, really, he probably passes rainbows. ((laughing))

He is not a caricature, don’t get me wrong. As I said, he’s worked hard and the glitter coating you see on the outside is over a depth that comes from profound challenges met with curiosity and grace.

Back to our meeting after the orange menace took over.

I asked Vinny how he was doing, expecting him to say something like “devastated” or “scared”… you know, something more along the lines that I, existing in so many safe roles, was feeling. (Besides being a woman, of course, which has never been safe in this country.)

Instead he said something more along the lines of “great! Excited about (fill in the blank)!”

I was stunned.

And this was the start of a huge realization that has taken me until the last week or so to really articulate.

I have never been someone who had to be told she was privileged. I understand the layers and layers of my personal privilege.

But this particular piece of privilege was so deep… it’s really a core privilege and I think we can be most ignorant of those.

Over these first few months of 2025, I hear myself constantly saying to loved ones and trusted confidants that I do not have the tools to live in this world that they are building. I am devastated. I am in a deep, drowning sea of despair. I feel a level of powerlessness that I have never felt before.

My depression is the worst it’s been in over 20 years.

On top of that is a red hot rage and hate that I’ve never felt before.

I am afraid for all of us.

And that all makes sense.

But it’s the lack of tools that has completely stunned me. I do not have the right tools to meet this moment. I mean psychologically, of course.

Nothing is working.

Vinny has the tools. Other marginalized humans have the tools. They are, somehow, being angry and still also finding their joy and living their lives.

You know why?

Because this unsafe world is the world they have always lived in. They have had to develop these tools from day one. (Again, as a woman, there is definitely a lack of safety but as a whyte woman… it’s, well, a bit safer.)

My. God. When I realized this!

THIS is the depth of our privilege. We have not needed these particular tools*.

(*These tools are distinctly different from the tools a lot of us have created in response to personal traumas that are not relative to being marginalized by the wider culture.)

And now we do need them and you can’t just snap your fingers to conjure them and you can’t just sit in meditation for a few days and they suddenly appear.

These are tools that are forged in pain and challenge that has been in people’s lives for decades. These are tools that marginalized communities share with one another and teach each other.

And there’s the other key… communities.

I have communities of which I am a part, but I do not know how to deepen these communities in the way that, for example, the trans community has always had to do. Or the black community. Or any religion that is not freaking Christian in this country.

I think my communities are exceptional. I love the humans who are in the many circles of which I am a part. But for the most part, the communities themselves are also part of the privilege issue in that the people in them tend to all look like me and have the same sorts of backgrounds. So there’s no new information being brought in (and we all work hard to learn but it’s second hand, for the most part, isn’t it?).

I don’t have some sort of revelatory conclusion to bring here.

I am just noticing the depth of the problem.

And it’s really scary to notice this when we need to be able to hit the ground running. People are suffering and they need us.

But it we are struggling ourselves just to maintain an okay mindset, to be able to do the bare minimum, to simply live from day to day, we are really of very little help.

Because one of the key ingredients in this coming revolution/resistance is the ability to move forward from joy and love and compassion. Or we’ll build something that looks like all the old things and those old things helped to get us to this terrible place.

We need new ideas and better ideas and more beauty and laughter and playfulness so that we can conjure and create something brand new that makes space for each of us in our unique beauty.

So that’s where I am… contemplating my privilege, my lack of tools, the layer of shame that comes with that, and what I need to do to build the right muscles for the work ahead.

And the concept of devotion can come from the most unexpected places

It’s not that I don’t expect the idea of or a demonstration of devotion to pop up from just about any human, but it still can surprise me where and through whom these messages can come at me.

This week I started teaching again at the residential addiction facility in my neighborhood. I had stopped for a wee bit, because their census was down and there were some fears around the current federal government cutting them off because the program is a welfare based one.

But alas, their census is back up and they seem okay (for now), so I am back, teaching my wacky (as you know) blend of all things yoga, breath, primal movement, and somatic dance (basic principles sort of stuff).

And we chat a bit, because it’s important for community, for them to feel they can trust me, and for me to suss out what they really need (as opposed to just giving them prepackaged yoga like the teacher before me).

Some of these men have been kicked down by life over and over again and they keep getting up and they keep trying and for that reason I find them a source of true inspiration.

They own their mistakes; they face their demons; they are working so hard with the intention of becoming the best versions of themselves. And they take beautiful emotional care of each other. I get to witness that fact time after time.

There are a lot of people in this world that are “functional” addicts of one kind or another and they float through life never facing themselves like these men do.

But there was one new student in particular who really demonstrates what hard work looks like.

Besides the daily schedule of meetings and therapy and work that they all are put on, he gets up every day between 4:30 and 5 so that he can spend time in prayer and then spiritual reading. He then goes outside and does stretching and body weight work for an hour before entering into the house’s daily schedule. He also gets outside around lunch and dinner to do some more of the same.

He understands the inextricable link between how he treats his body and how his mind is going to function or not in the world. And he is living that understanding.

I see my previous self in him. The depth of understanding of the need for this work plus the fear of what would happen if we were to stop and so the doing.

But I did stop. And my fears were warranted.

I still am only really moving when I teach. Luckily I teach enough to maintain a baseline of okay-ness but it’s not even good much less great… like I used to feel.

And of course the external circumstances of our lives right now could drive even the most mentally healthy into depression and anxiety. If you’re paying attention at all to the horrors of what’s happening, no matter your own stability, there is so much energy that needs to be spent every day just to survive this.

So again, for those of us who already struggle with our mental health, things are definitely bad. Really bad. There’s much that is simply out of our hands.

But I think this new student of mine would say that even then… even when there’s a lot that’s out of your hands… there’s still so much that is. There’s still so much that we can control, that we can work with.

I’m not going to suddenly revert to my most healthy self after this wee interaction with this human, but it’s one more bit of… inspiration, one more bit of hope, one more breadcrumb to follow.

You have to move to feel

This is not a metaphor.

Think about it this way first:

Lay a hand on a cat and it's soft, but keep it lying there and you stop feeling the soft. Or at least, not with the same intensity as when you pet the cat.

Same with water... Get into the Lake (if you’re in Erie or near any lake) and walk through the water, feeling the softness of the water. Stand still. Less input, less sensation.

Go another step and realize that you only really feel wet relative to dry. Or relative to your wet swim suit as you try to peel it off.

(Before we go any further, as always, there are different levels of and ways of moving, but there is always movement of one kind or another, even just the breath and how it moves the chest and back. Or the movement of the eyes. Or the the tongue as it tastes.)

Stand still. Less input, less sensation.

We know that to be still in the body during and/or right after a traumatic event is to get stuck in that moment. (Here for more on that.) The feelings of that moment are then not moved through… or we do not move through them.

This is not a one time thing, of course, and that’s why somatic movement — movement married to intention and awareness and breath — is needed every day in one way or another, because every day brings us more to move through.

This is even obvious in our language. We say we are “stuck,” meaning we can’t seem to “get over” something or move forward in our lives.

Move. More input, more sensation.

Go back to the cat and the water. We experience the world through external sensation entering our nervous systems via our senses.

Same for our emotional lives.

For example, we think we are “intuiting” something about someone else or a situation, but it’s just our senses capturing information so quickly that we don’t notice.

This is also related to your “gut feelings.” That’s your vagus nerve relaying information to you that you might not have noticed consciously.

Move to feel to move.

We take in the world, our lives, the traumas, and then what? We can lock them up and let them gather dust and mold or we can move to feel them fully so that we might move more.

And here is the beauty of somatic dance: we can do all of this with joy in community. (You can check out the basic parts of a Peony Somatic Dance class here.) And over time, we can build our capacity to go through the cycles quicker. This is not so we can develop a method of bypassing. Not at all.

This is a spiritual practice of the most real variety: we honestly look at ourselves and our experiences and we digest them and use that digested material to build the life we really want — rather than the life that just happens to us.