English is not the best language to share our story, but due to popular demand, I’ve agreed to take on this monumental task: translating our experience into a tongue that cannot fully capture it. Thank you for your grace in knowing there are stories I simply cannot tell—stories you will have to dance along to experience, instead of read. With that, I begin, not at the beginning, but before that, in death.

I was born Ujuli (oo-HOO-lee), one who both is and carries the day sun and night sun. Always opposed and always in sync.

Every dawn I am reborn. Every nightfall I die. On the full night sun, I rise even as I fall. I carry and am the responsibility of two suns. I must shine so brightly as to illuminate everything without exhausting before it is time to exhaust. Some nights I carry yet am no moon at all. I needn’t hold space for my light and am afforded sweet, momentary rest. People wonder why I cannot be as consistent as a single day sun, but I am two and must both light and carry the night sun, so I do not wonder. Though I am constantly wandering.

To stay still would be to throw off the rhythms of the milkweed and willows, the waters and bison, the clams and acorns, the winds and fire. To stay still would be to die before I am meant to die.

Before I was born Ujuli, I am possibility nestled inside of my womb mother, they themself possibility nestled inside of their womb mother, my ma’mama. I dream in a language I can’t yet speak of swirling colors and murmurred emotions. I feel the rhythms of the moons and the heartbeats of the Earth, a symphony of cacophonies that reverberate my solitary cell. Already, I sense I’m a vessel for something far beyond the ordinary.

Before then, I am possibility—vast and unseen by our earth eyes, trembling at the edge of existence. I have chosen my womb mother, suspended between being and not-being, nearly formless and likely to dissolve before becoming more than a phantom of sensation. My existence a spiritual darkness vaster than all of creation with a melancholy that aches beneath what we can hear, beneath bones, in the ether of ancient grizzly bear monstres.

I do not know what comes after this death that comes before I couple into ONE, but I already know fear that swallows little ones like me whole. This is all of what I know of being possibility inside of possibility.

I do not know the day my womb mother separated from their womb mother. Elders will later tell me how the fireflies lit a galaxy above the fire as the moon was dying. This, they will tell me, is why mother’s father named them the equivalent of Bright New Moon. And with this, they will swoon over how ma’dada’s eyes sparkled brighter than two Awakened Suns.

What I do know: this is when I learn yearn. I am now one less possibility closer to being. As vast as fear, yearn is all I can contain. Always, I am at risk of bursting through my edges and ceasing to exist. Always, I yearn to exist beyond possibility.  I yearned for myself to couple, to feel satiated, to feel expansion, to feel a new kind of whole, to feel relief from the monotony of this compulsion, to experience something new, to revel in the newness of ONEness. For six and six and two Suns, I know only yearn.

Somewhere in the ecstatic stillness of time and quiet frenzy of possibility, a collision will assign me a father and a creation assignment. Future kin will tell me that a choice was made by me. I will do my best to believe them, as I have no recollection of choice. I can only tell you about fear and yearn and my obsession and single-focus to become more than possibility. I am only a QeeQeeQee falcon in its spiral stoop, where time suspends as I fly faster than the wheel and see only my “prey”—my other self. I’ve been in this loop for my forever, I can hardly contain myself when it’s interrupted. In fact, I can’t contain myself. I burst. I die my first death. My first familiar finds me and our yearns unite—and it’s simply too much for either of us on our own. We unite to expand, trying to contain this thundering ONEness and ecstatic relief from a forever of yearn.

I was whole until I realized I wasn’t, and then I was whole again—this is what I’ll come to learn of death.

And still, I’m only a part of my mother. Still, I’m only possibility, but now I am possibility backed by the strength of creation: I am a wellspring of eternal cell creation. I am growing, or at least I will be within a moon’s whisper—it takes a moment to recover and reorganize as my new self.

It’s said that when we unite inside of our womb mother, that we are re-uniting from a split we cannot remember. A part of us, complete on its own, chooses our mother. And another part of us, complete on its own, chooses our father. We cannot fully know what we are choosing, but it is our first lesson in commitment, one that, frankly, I’m still learning. This is the choice my future kin will remind me of later, as I threaten our social structure.

Before I know words, I know sounds, light, taste, and a fierce interoception as to the daily stretching of my forming bones, lungs, heart, liver, skin. A rise in elongation of the distance between waves and a drop from the valleys to the peaks of sounds slow the cadence of my heart; my hands unfurl; and I forget for the luxurious moments inside of a split second what had been preoccupying me. Before I know words, I know sounds.

I soak in the gentle tones of my mother’s musical voice, the melodies of my father’s songs, the echos of my heartbeat harmonizing with mama’s. I revel in the choir of birds greeting light and the hush of silence saturating darkness. I learn the rhythms of touch and of dance and of rocking. All these sounds, I learn, are love.

I’m saturated with curiosity inside the newness of every moment, every moment inviting me into expansive exploration. What am I becoming? What do I do with all that I’m creating? When will enough become enough? What will feeling complete feel like? And what happens then? I am me, yet I am still a part of my mama. Are my questions theirs? I know nothing constant until I’ve run out of room to grow, at the forgotten but familiar precipice of yearn.

Mama tells me they can no longer contain me. My possibility has finally outgrown them. Mama will burst and we (who is singular and both mama and me) will die.

And so, it’s here that I die my second death. Here, I take my first breath in our breathing life in the year of the extra moon, Sanajara. Named for the guardian of fire, Sanajara’s moon brings ravenous flames more fierce as any our elders have known, and they are the keepers of our ancestors’ tales. Mama Bright New Moon says I carried us to safety through fire and birth. And so, the first name I earn is Ujuli—one who both is and carries the sun and moon.

If a name is a prophecy, a blessing and a burden, I do not yet know mine. The elders say that children born in the year of Sanajara carry fire in their blood, destined to transform everything we touch. But what transforms can also destroy.

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And like that: “Kerplunk!” and “splash!”—the river thanked me for returning the rocks. Luckily, I was in the rain forest near Arenal (in Costa Rica) and the water felt refreshing, instead of the cold sting I would have otherwise expected in January. 

“Ha!” I exclaimed, astonished at my joy arising. I so rarely give my creations back to the earth. Since the advent of computers and the diminishing cost of hard drive space and the expanse of server farms consuming real earthen materials and electricity yet called “the cloud”, I haven’t had to exercise the muscle of real-time editing and letting go. Before I breathe again (this is all happening instantaneously) I feel the weight and sorrow of my photography passion suffocating in the shift from film to digital—and not because of the image quality, but because of the infinite space to continuously capture and never process. Never a need or invitation to knock down the rocks. I’m so grateful for A’s incessant invitations.

I’m also fascinated about the rocks’ energetic lifecycle. A rock needn’t generate to move from standing. It simply needs to surrender to gravity. (And I think to myself: I must lookup potential and kinetic energy, though I won’t. I’m enjoying a week off of my phone and media and I won’t remember this until I sit to write this in the future—which is the present “now” vs the past “now”. It feels good to break rules, but I digress.)

As I picked up rocks, wanting to be an advanced stacking on my first go-of-it, I do my best to feel for their center, to feel for how they want to sit and want to be stacked. Several tumble with gravity, back into the river and some balance. I’m also feeling for my own center, sprawled somewhat precariously across a boulder near what some living in the Plains would call a waterfall. And I play with feeling for a rock’s center of gravity, as I feel for my own—balancing rocks as I balance my own body. I’ll later share this with A, and relate it to an essence of coaching. So much of what I’ve been practicing across multiple trainings is how to center and ground myself while helping someone else find/sense/connect to theirs. 

Writing this now (February 15), I’m as enthusiastic about the practice as I was a month ago. Yesterday, I adventured around my new home and stopped at Lover’s Leap and the public access beach/boat-ramp across the river (and only 23 minutes by car). I found three large rocks piled neatly on top of each-other and decided to leave the bottom two as a foundation. And then I began listening for the rocks who wanted to be stacked, wanted to be reminded of their potential. 

As I look at the picture I took afterwards, I’m surprised at the zig-zag across the vertical. Balance isn’t about finding a stationary, dead-middle. It’s simply the center of whatever shape we’re in, in the moment, and can look to be “left” or “right” of “center” (in quotes because changing your viewpoint will change what direction looks “heavy” or “light”). In this, the rocks remind me that I needn’t be symmetrical or neat to stack and be in connection with others. In nature’s poetic beauty, it’s the asymmetry and rough edges that invite a stable connection and towering community. 

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I started this post with a letter to the clients I worked with over the course of my trainings—that I wrote 2 weeks ago and kept finding excuses not to send, like how annoying is it that we get BURIED in emails at the Gregorian New Year? So here’s to diving into the cold, dark water and announcing my new venture: Unstruck Sanctuary.

What have you been learning into that you’re also afraid to, or not-yet-ready to, claim? What would be supportive? I’d love to hear from you.

I’d intended to reach out much sooner—to thank you for being a client, to check-in on how you’ve been, to share my training progress and my big life update. 

Instead, I kept letting my intention slide under the guise of how much I love quiet. I moved to the country for quiet. And still, I didn’t know quiet until the temps dropped below zero, and all the animals stayed in, and the wind paused, and I thought maybe, just maybe, I could hear a satellite sputter. What I heard instead was my Self whisper through the universe, “I am.”

For such a simple phrase, this one LANDED (in all caps). You see, all of last year I was “becoming.” I was in training, in transition, in burnout recovery, in healing.) So, I AM is uppercase big and new again and scary. I’m welcoming it with as much courage as I can muster, knowing that I will continue BEcoming alongside BEing. And I’m piercing my silence to share with you that I am a coach and healer. And I’m now taking clients in-person in Northwest Arkansas, and virtually for folx anywhere.

Gulp. It’s real now.

I went through two graduations last year; yet, I didn’t become a healer/coach during those ceremonies. I also didn’t wait for certifications (though intend on completing multiple). It “happened” when I listened to my soul and claimed it for myself. 

It’s not unlike when I claimed Musician. Someone asked me if I was a musician, and despite 20+ years of saying no/not really, I said yes. Instantly, I booked a show and started writing and recording. In addition to the work, it took my Self naming myself—and then actions unveiled themselves. Like right now, writing this long over-due email.

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If you knew me when I was 18, you’d know that Christmas is *not* my holiday. My Christmas highlights of those new-to-college years include driving hours down a snowy and dark interstate to visit my brothers, visiting a boyfriend in a city not my own, picking up a Chuckwagon at any sad looking gas station open on Christmas, and meeting up with friends to play cards. Those years were marked with a curious combination of desolation and a desire to belong somewhere while not feeling an authentic sense of belonging anywhere. Fast forward a decade, and my highlights still include Christmases with friends and a particularly amazing one in Costa Rica with my girlfriend at the time.

Which is all to share that I’m adjusting to spending Christmas with family once again. I’ve been fortunate to have time to celebrate with some of my family as well as my partner’s family. He and his clan treat Christmas like my best friend does: with 1000% exuberance, strange yet comforting tradition, and JOY. I suppose they’re all rubbing off on me, for I’ve come to love a weekend marathon of cheesy Hallmark Christmas movies—despite all the criticisms I could rattle off about them. While it’s still not *my* holiday, I’m letting past grudges and broken hearts go … and I’m surrendering to some cheesy cheer.

Enjoy our song—from our hearts to yours. Full card @ https://KrisMissJewel.us

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Coaching vs Therapy

While therapy is focused on our past, coaching is focused on our present and presence—and possible futures. Since our past provides the context for what shapes us, limits us, and drives us, coaching and therapy often go hand-in-hand. Coaching may lead to therapy (which is how somatic coaching saved my life almost 20 years ago, a story for another post), and therapy may open one up to coaching.

An analogy: someone may want to see a personal trainer to get into shape or train for a specific event. While the personal trainer (“coach”) will want to be aware of any prior or current physical concerns so they can tailor their training, they will not directly diagnose or treat—that will be done by the doctors and occupational/physical (“therapists”). Since coaching doesn’t require licensure, it’s especially critical for the client and coach to respect the limits and boundaries of coaching.

Somatic Coaching

First, let’s look at the etymology of Somatics—and two words the Greek had for body:

• Soma—from sōmatikos, the “alive” body
• Nekros—from nekros, the “dead” body

I like this breakdown because it illustrates an awareness that our body exists with life and without—and the body with life is our soma, the root of Somatics. (Fodder for another post is the observation that cultures all over the world and throughout time have awareness of and words for this “life energy.”) The somatic body, or “soma”, consists of our mind, body, and spirit—our anatomy, emotions, feelings, sensations, breath, energy, matter, and consciousness. Thus, somatics is an integrated, holistic “field” of practices informed by what we know of physiology, cognition, the nervous system, neuroscience, psychologies, metaphysics, and cross-cultural spiritual practices (as they pertain to energies).

OK. That’s a lot.

So, how does this impact coaching?

As the sayings go:

• the body never lies
• you know you best
• you can’t outperform your environment

The crux of somatic coaching is (a) leveraging the knowledge contained in your body to guide you in making well-informed and authentic decisions, (b) entering into physical practices that will change your “somatic shape” to allow for (c) openings where you can take new actions towards new possibilities—a regenerative process allowing for sustained transformation.

“Power Posing” lends itself as a quick example of a physical practice: entering into a power pose (a physical shape) almost instantly impacts key hormone levels (including cortisol & testosterone) that lower stress and increase risk tolerance, providing space for love to drive vs fear and for options and choice vs entrapment.

What to Look for when Hiring a Coach—for life, business, love and everything in between

As someone who’s worked with a variety of coaches, I start with “trust your gut.” As science has been revealing: we have more of our nervous system in our guts than in our brains. Another good checklist is this one from Inc. Magazine on what to look for when hiring an executive coach.

As for the domain (life/business/love/leadership/etc.) and “credentials”—keep in mind that a coach will be limited by their own personal experiences and growth. Ideally, your coach will always be a step or two ahead of you. No one will ever have it all figured out, and you’ll want to be wary of anyone who thinks they do. I used to, I’m embarrassed and proud to admit…and was humbled to realize that healing, learning, growth, and life is not linear. We must forever be in curiosity, training, and conditioning.

Interested in Somatic Coaching?

Nov 2022: I’m looking for practice clients. Click here if you might be interested in working with me, either now or in the future. If we don’t find a fit, I’ll do my best to refer you to someone I think may be better suited.

ps. Having worked with Ontological Coaching for several years, I feel a connection and overlap between the two modalities. So, if you’re familiar with an ontological approach, I suspect you’d find somatic coaching appealing—even if simply out of curiosity. As an oversimplification, I see the root of ontology as an acceptance of being as the root of transformation, similar to how emotions work. (The act of wanting to stop, curb, or block an emotion will only make it stronger and stuck vs allowing it to be, in which case it will run its course and dissipate or shift.) While somatics will incorporate story/language and emotions along with the felt senses in the body similar to ontology, somatics uses story as context and grounds emotions to the felt senses vs the intellectual/cognitive realm. In sum, I find them to be slightly different approaches to reaching an integrated mind/body/spirit presence and practice for enacting the change we want to see in ourselves and the world.

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I’ve long been terrible at sharing what I do for work—people just know me as “busy” and it’s annoyed me for a long time…as I’d rather be the friend / aunt / niece / cousin / etc. you can count on to show up when you need an ear / hand / inspiration / energy boost / shoulder to cry on.

So, I’m both terrified and excited to share that I’ve closed a chapter on my 20+ year career in tech and business consulting. When I think about what will bring me joy for another 20-25 years, I realize my most favorite memories are those moments I was blessed to be a witness to someone else’s AHA, healing, and transformation. And I’m reminded of a moment that changed my life—when my boss sent me to a leadership training at ±25 which happened to be based in somatics. I didn’t immediately drink the kool-aid, but it led me to therapy, martial arts, physical fitness, emotional sobriety, spiritual connection, and a life of love-based healing and adventure vs the perpetual freeze and fear-based existence I’d been stuck in.

And thus, I’m going to be spending the next year becoming a wellness professional to help folks heal from trauma (it’s possible!) and reintegrate as a somatic therapist and coach. I will continue to be “busy” for the foreseeable future—with classes, studying, and a lot of catchup on everything I’d let slide in the pursuit of other people’s goals and needs… but it’ll be a different, much chiller “busy”.

I’ll be staying in Portland and look forward to reconnecting with my communities and hosting anyone wanting to visit my blooming sanctuary. If you read this far: know that it’s never too late to learn new tricks—and you deserve all the fulfillment and love you desire in life.

The post A New Direction appeared first on Jewels.

Incredibly, playing in front of a screened ‘live audience’ triggered my nerves more than I remembered playing in front of humans sharing the same space as myself. Much to ruminate on that as it relates to continued remote working and preparing to play fuller sets without a screen. Until then, will continue finding virtual spaces

https://youtu.be/QPNdNWmCugM?t=5881

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In this workshop we’ll explore the magic of naming, what is gained and what is lost when the unsayable becomes the said. You can expect example poems and discussions, some short readings on craft, and etymology and linguistic theory-inspired thought experiments and writing prompts, all designed to inspire you to explore the landscape of all that lives named and unnamed in you.

We read from Robin Wall Kimmerer’s essay, The Grammar of Animacy, now included in her book, Braiding Sweetgrass which a sweet friend recommended to me last year. In the excerpt, we’re challenged to think of nouns as verbs. The following is an excerpt from my morning’s reflection after taking a walk and reading a Sabrina Orah Mark’s column in the Paris Review with the teaser “I’m mourning something nameless that has vanished into thin air.”

When starting the class, Sam asked us all to introduce ourselves: our name, our access needs, our pronouns, where we are at with our writing and what we want from this class. I took some quick notes as I eagerly wanted to focus on and listen to the other students. I grew nervous on the spot, frozen as if I’d never talked in front of a group before, regressed to anxiety over being seen. How do I want to be seen? Who am I? What am I doing here? Is my curiosity not enough? Could I not share that I’m exhausted, still, and struggling with my identity at 41, yearning to put a name not only to who I am, what I do, why I do, why I matter? That it’s time for me to focus on myself and I’m the only one who can grant myself permission, forgive myself for ever thinking I didn’t matter. That I’m suddenly struck with urgency and craving to be water (I’m already water), connected to a body larger than myself, yet myself has only the boundaries I’ve set. From what I can visually see, I exist in the frame of a body bound mostly by skin with the exception of my eyes and a hole running from my mouth to my anus which, as I think on it, is also bound by “skin”. From what I can feel, I exist further beyond the physical, sometimes reaching to my mom, to the moon, a fraction of space beyond my skin. I exist in a multiverse, in multiple timelines, in the ever-changing, never static “now” and moments that have passed and have yet to pass. I exist with my ancestors. I will bear no children, yet I exist in others, in memories, photographs.

To Jewel is to shine as a reading lamp, carefully placed for intimate illusion, sometimes seen from the night through a window framed by plants and fractal shadows. To Jewel is to yearn for more wattage, only to burn out when lighting a stage, to remember that individual lighters (and now, cell phone lamps) collectively can light a crowd. To create greater / global change by creating safe, challenging, comforting spaces for individuals to discover their contradictory yet not invalidating truths, to illuminate all our truths.

The post To be a verb. appeared first on Jewels.

I rang in the new year with a commitment to self love, compassion and dating. My last relationship of 7 years dissolved near the end of 2018 and I took 2019 to rediscover myself through a lot of solo travel, travel with friends, language learning, music, new fitness fun and a career shift. It only made sense, then, that 2020 would be the year of clear vision.

While I started the year with open mics and an interest in learning how to better write, sing and compose music (and produce an album), never in a million years did I anticipate making a Christmas album. I rarely even listen to Christmas music, let alone decorate or celebrate. But something about being “stuck” at home, far from family, and physically separated from friends made Christmas a time to look forward to–a time for rest, recovery, and gratitude for everyone adding light, learning, and inspiration to my life. The idea of being able to be with people in spirit through music grew into a gift I was willing to spend a few sleepless nights for.

As I told some friends: had I known how much work this would be, I probably wouldn’t have started it. But I’m beyond grateful I didn’t know and did it. My Christmas miracle? That my new relationship grew over the course of this project despite some hiccups and tears.

To everyone reading and listening: here’s wishing you the best of this holiday season. May you feel comfort despite a break in traditions. Like the rest of this year (and as this project taught me), we will get through life together even when it feels like we won’t. Thank you for your resilience, compassion and support.

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I’m writing this as I listen to a song Tayler Kopp, who I met shortly before the pandemic at one of the last (and first) open mics I made it to at the Ranger Station, posted on IG—and as I stumble across this old picture of my brother and I apparently playing the piano, or at least pretending to.

When I decided to focus time on making music, I didn’t think of myself as a musician. I took a deep dive into learning the guitar this year and when I began to burn out (which I partly blamed on my hurting wrists) I decided, why not pick up something without strings, like a clarinet? Suddenly, I found myself back on the “fast track”—that period of time when learning is easy and fun. There’s no plateau to push through yet. You’re still new enough to have a bag of excuses. I soon realized, however, that this rapid learning curve is possible because music has been a part of my life since the beginning. My parents loved music. I never met an instrument I didn’t want to pick up and play, even if I didn’t know how.

I started playing the flute in 5th grade when I was 11, and while it wasn’t my first choice, I stuck with it. I switched to guitar in college so I could sing with friends and because I didn’t understand how flute could fit into my life without me being a music major or playing in a symphony or orchestra—and I certainly wasn’t going to get up 5am for marching band.

Circling back to this year, when I decided I wanted to really learn the guitar, like I learned the flute, I struggled admitting that I’d been playing for so long but was still at the “campfire guitarist” level. I hunkered down, learned, and practiced scales almost daily. Music theory morphed into a rental cabin’s puzzle missing myriad pieces, yet still exciting and time-consuming to assemble. Slowly, my interest in the guitar transferred to a broader theme of composing, arranging, and playing “all” the instruments. None of the songs I started recording this summer for a solo album are complete yet. I thought, if I get good enough, I can play what I hear in my mind. Only now, what I hear in my mind is more intricate, nuanced, and layered than before and I lack some of the naivete that makes action easier to move into and through.

This question, why is music so nostalgic? feels like a new and much-needed spark. It is, after all, somewhat rhetorical, linking me to why I always come back to music much like I always come back to photography (even after famines). It’s a language that can express what I often can’t with any of the other languages I know. It’s a time machine. A teleporter. Sunshine and a patch of blue skies in a long winter of rain. A hug amid a touchless pandemic. Heartbreak when I’ve forgotten how to feel. A short story that lingers like fog on a windowpane. A reminder that life is ours to live, and while we may not want it to be easy, we want it to be meaningful.

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