What does your art hold?

The Intention

Creativity

The Meditative Moment

On Friday I finally got to give a gift to a friend. I’ve been working on a quilt for him for over a year. Since I’ve made a few quilts for myself, Patrick, and my mom, I decided it was time to start making them for friends. And this first one has been a surprise. He didn’t know I was making it, and I kept everything about it off of socials or the friend chat. A lot has happened from March 2, 2025, when I began, to April 25, 2026, when I made the last stitch. In the world, in Minnesota, in his life, in mine. And this quilt held quite a bit: excitement and hope, frustration and fear, comfort and concern. And love. Of course. (And even some stubbornness because there were about four blocks where I was over it and ready to move on.) Our creative endeavors, whatever they may be, carry us, reflect us, embody us in the world. I think that’s one of the niftiest things about art. What are you creating today, and what are you putting into that creation?

Who are your people?

The Intention

Connect

The Meditative Moment

Today happens to be the birthday of one of my people, my husband. There are many reasons I love him, but one of the biggest is that he understands and gives space for my anxiety and grief. He knows when to snap me out of it and when to let me steep. He knows when I can handle a joke about it and when I absolutely cannot. He’s patient when I just need to talk it out, and he often knows exactly what I need to hear when I’m spiraling. Grief and anxiety are isolating experiences. They are so personal, subjective, internal. When people suggest that we “move on” or “get over it” or “just stop worrying,” they have zero idea of how the processes of grieving and being anxious are playing out in our heads, hearts, and bodies. And we are less inclined to share with them after they make such suggestions because we recognize that they are not safe witnesses for our experiences. Not everyone gets to witness. Not everyone can witness. That was a part of grieving that took a long time to learn. And it was a lesson I did not enjoy. But when we find those witnesses—whether they are our partners, friends, coworkers, family—it is an incredible experience to be seen and known in such a whole, supportive, and loving way.

How are your head, heart, and body today?

The Intention

Connect

The Meditative Moment

Every month I begin with this question. Head, heart, body. How are they? Today. Not yesterday. Not tomorrow. Today. Really, I could ask this question every day, but you’d probably get bored with that pretty quickly. It is important, though, to pause and see what’s going on in these bodies of ours. What feels great and what feels a bit tight or stagnant? Is there food or movement or water that our body needs? How has our body shifted this month? Even a simple awareness can be illuminating. I often lean against the counter when I wash dishes or brush my teeth. Sometimes I challenge myself not to do this lean, and I am amazed by how my attention shifts when my hips aren’t supported by the counter. My posture, of course, changes, but so do my thoughts. And speaking of thoughts, where are yours inclined to go today? Are you along for the ride, or do you need to nip some thoughts in the bud? Are there thoughts you need to consider that you’ve been avoiding? Do you need support to do so, or time and space to let the thoughts unfurl? What steps need to be taken to get that support or create that time and space? Can you spend a bit of time with that today? And how are you feeling? Where is your heart calling you and what is it asking of you? This often seems like a big ask, but maybe it’s as simple as going to bed when you’re actually tired instead of staying up for one more episode. Or sending a text to a friend you haven’t heard from for a while. Or saying the names of the loved ones you miss. Or jotting down five things you’ve loved about a day that’s been hard so you see the light in the midst of the tunnel. (Intentional wording there.) Or listening to silly pop music so you can dance when you usually listen to peaceful singer-songwriter stuff. (Am I betraying my own heart here?) Head, heart, body. How are they today?

How do you distinguish between anxiety and excitement?

The Intention

Discernment

The Meditative Moment

Sometime during the pandemic, after vaccines had been rolled out but before we were really comfortable engaging with each other, I read an article about how easy it is to confuse anxiety and excitement. At this point I’d been managing my anxiety for just over ten years, but this blurring of emotions had never occurred to me. Anxiety and excitement can have similar effects on the body: heart rate increases, muscles brace for movement, your mind races with all kinds of thoughts, maybe your hands and feet get clammy/cold, butterflies in the tummy. And because they mirror each other, it’s easy to confuse them. I thought of this often as we began going out and about more often. Was I truly anxious or was I excited? Truth to tell, it was often both. But asking that question allowed me to lean more into the excitement and anticipation. The next time you find yourself anxious about a situation, take a second to ponder if there’s excitement lurking there too. The answer might be no. But there might be a small yes whispered in there, which can allow you to tease apart the two and invite you toward excitement.

How do you embrace uncertainty?

The Intention

. . .

The Meditative Moment

Uncertainty can foster anxiety. When we don’t know the outcomes, we get nervous. We spiral forward, considering every single possibility—positive and negative—of a variety of situations. We spiral backward, ruminating on how little tweaks of behavior, words, or thought could have shifted a variety of situations. Anxiety wants us to nail things down, to have plans, to know outcomes, to anticipate reactions. But life doesn’t operate that way. Curveballs are thrown. Rugs are pulled out from under feet. We do not know. When I am at my most anxious, I have to practice uncertainty. I can get very caught up in the overwhelming elements of lacking control at these times, so it’s helpful to have low-stakes situations in which I don’t have to know everything: what’s for dinner, who will be at the gathering of friends, watching a new show, taking a different route to the store. On the one hand, this seems silly. Why would anyone need to know the guest list of a gathering of friends before going? But when everything seems threatening because of anxiety, even friends can be exhausting. We practice uncertainty in these little things to remind ourselves that we can handle uncertainty in big things. We are more capable than our anxiety wants us to believe we are.

How are you holding your anxiety today?

The Intention

Try gentleness

The Meditative Moment

First, let’s locate the anxiety: Is it spiraling in your head? Thoughts that arise and hard to set down? Maybe waves of rumination or anticipation? Or are you noticing it mostly in your body? Hot and cold flashes, tingly fingers, a tight chest, a roiling tummy, a floofy head, an uncertain step, a lethargy that’s hard to shake? Or is the anxiety a feeling or emotion that’s coloring your interactions and expectations for the day? (It can be in more than one place, to be clear.) Now, let’s examine the texture: Is your anxiety spiky or soft, sticky or smooth, crunchy or fluid, dense or light? Does it have a color to it? Is it diffuse or concentrated? Is it a book you can close for a bit and set aside? Or is it like glitter that gets everywhere and you just can’t tidy away today? Maybe it has a flavor or a scent. Sometimes I find that articulating how the anxiety exists in my head, heart, and body on a given day, in a given moment, helps me to acknowledge it and shift it. And sometimes even accept it.

How does your breath feel?

The Intention

Invitation

The Meditative Moment

Let’s explore our breath as we settle in to bed this evening. Close your eyes or soften your gaze. Notice how you feel as you inhale and exhale. Are your breaths short, long, ragged, gentle? Are there pauses or catches as you inhale and exhale? Is your breath in your chest or belly? What causes your breath to change? As you bring attention to your breathing, do you calm down or does it stress you out? No judgment as you observe; there are no wrong answers. You’re simply watching the breath and noticing how it feels. As you do this, begin to lengthen your exhales. Maybe count to four as you inhale and to six as you exhale. (If those counts seems too long, count to three and five or two and four.) Settle your shoulders, soften your jaw, and see if that also changes how your breath enters and leaves your body. As you inhale, consider what you need or need to invite to you. As you exhale, what do you need or want to release? Try to think of one-word things: inhale peace; exhale frustration; inhale curiosity; exhale judgment; inhale trust; exhale fear. If possible, allow this litany to draw you toward sleep.

What do you see in these images?

The Intention

Awe

The Meditative Moment

Sometimes space overwhelms me. It’s so vast, and we’re just hurtling along in the wilderness of so many galaxies and universes and stars and planets and mysteries. We are so very small in the grand scheme of things. How is this even possible? Because of the Artemis mission earlier this month, we have some different perspectives of Earth than we’ve had from previous space missions. The ones I’ve used today put Earth in relation to the moon. I am awed by these images. And they give me that unsettled feeling of smallness. We are miniscule. A speck of dust. A wisp of breath. But here we are. On this Earth Day, I’m considering the juxtaposition of our smallness with the impact we have had on this earth. The impact we can have. Could have. As wars rage, as hunger and poverty and disease ravage populations, as stories of abuse are uncovered—as we witness the absolute worst among us, I am exhausted. This is an overwhelm of powerlessness, fear, and deep grief at what could be and isn’t. I realize, looking at these images, that the overwhelm that they inspire is actually hopeful, wondrous, and humbling. Both senses are necessary because they inspire me, and perhaps us, to operate differently. As Astronaut Christina Koch said upon returning home, “Planet Earth, you are a crew.”

How does patience play into your processing of grief and/or anxiety?

The Intention

Slow down

The Meditative Moment

Find time today to balance on one foot. You could, for example, take tree pose: root down through your left foot, keeping a slight bend in the left knee; come onto the tip-toes of your right foot and pivot the right knee toward the right. Either prop your right heel against your right ankle, keeping the right toes on the earth, or lift your right foot to the inside of your left calf or thigh. (Avoid placing the right foot on the knee joint.) Keeping your hands on your hips will help you balance, but consider moving your hands to your heart or extending your arms above your head like branches. Repeat on the right side: right foot rooted, left leg bent. Notice if it’s easier to balance on one side or the other. It’s easy to get frustrated with ourselves when we “fall out” of a pose, but this is an invitation to reset, practice patience, and embrace the wobbles.

Where do you see resilience?

The Intention

Observe

The Meditative Moment

About a week ago my mom sent me a photo of a peony bud from her garden (see below). Spring is springing in Kansas City, and her garden is thriving. I sent her back a photo of my peony plant here in Minnesota (see below). She responded that she thinks she’s winning. Every year, around the beginning of April, my fingers start itching for dirt. I want to clean up the gardens, say hi to the plants that have been doing hard winter work of resting, and let them bask in early spring sunshine. Every year I have to fight that temptation because, as Eliot said, April is, indeed, “the cruelest month.” The past weekend proves it. We had a nice dusting of snow yesterday morning, and our temperatures dove back down to the twenties at night. I am, today, finally clearing out the gardens and letting the iris and day lilies breathe. The peonies and hostas, clematis and hens and chicks will be uncovered. It might still be too early. I’ll keep watching the overnight lows, and some nights might require covering. I am not a spectacular gardener, but I enjoy puttering about. The garden reminds me that you simply cannot rush a process. The plants grow and flower in their own good time. I have so little control. It also reminds me of the power of resilience. Two years ago my mom gave me a shoebox full of tulip bulbs. I kept them in our covered porch over the winter and put them in the ground last spring. I know! I know bulbs should be planted in fall. But I wanted them in, and I figured that growing things will figure out how to grow when put in dirt. Squirrels apparently enjoy snacking on tulip bulbs, though, and I thought they had gotten them all. Imagine my surprise at finding tulip plants peeking out of the brushy leaves I throw over the gardens to protect them through winter. Some of them survived my ineptitude and the squirrels’ appetites. How glorious is that?

Where is the wonder?

The Intention

Awe

The Meditative Moment

I never really got it, why the moon landing had such a hold on people. Like, it’s cool, and the achievement of sending people from here to there is really quite wild. But it’s been a good number of years, we’ve not done it again, and space is just so . . . out there. Let’s keep our feet firmly planted on the ground. I am not an explorer. I struggle to understand the desire to encounter the extremes. My husband thinks it would be awesome to climb Mount Everest. I think it would be cold. So imagine my surprise when, last week, I found myself enamored with the Artemis II mission. From the launch to the landing, I was aware of four people hurtling through space, looping around the moon, connecting back to earth, and splashing safely into the ocean. Ever since my uncle Ryan died in 2017, I’ve kept my eye on the constellation Orion. The resonance of the name is part of the appeal, and Orion was a hunter, as were both Shaun and Ryan. When I see those stars, I say hello to them. Patrick is often the one who lets the dogs out before bed, but he’s had many gigs lately, so I’ve had the nighttime potty watch. I looked at the night sky differently when Artemis was up there. I looked with a different sense of wonder, of exploration, of hope, and of bafflement. If you haven’t checked on the stars and moon lately, step out tonight and give them a glance. They’re beautiful.

How do you zoom in and out?

The Intention

Focus

The Meditative Moment

I apologize for the silence last week. I wanted to write. I even wanted to simply copy and paste reflections I’ve written before. But I simply couldn’t do it. Last week felt like I was dragging myself through mud. So I have rested and written and thought and quilted and baked and napped and read. Over the weekend, the switch flipped, and I felt the energy pulse back. On one level, this is just what happens in life: we ebb and flow. But I cannot deny that the week was challenging globally. We began with the president of the United States threatening to wipe out an entire civilization. Just a casual threat, like it’s not one of the most terrifying things he could say. We are going about our normal lives—work, school, families, gigs, gatherings, playdates, meals—in the midst of deeply abnormal times. This is taking a toll on us. It reminds me of something Kelly Cervantes writes about in her book Normal Broken. She mentions taking a micro and macro approach to the question, “How are you?” when grieving. She considers the question relative to grief overall (both her own and global grief) and this particular moment. Maybe overall you’re really struggling with a lot of thoughts and worries and sadnesses, but in this moment, you notice that you are doing okay because the sun landed on you today, your partner made you laugh, the kids are all right, the pets are snuggling close, there’s food in your belly, and one breath keeps following another. This makes so much sense to me. When I zoom out to see what’s happening nationally and globally, I feel a great deal of heaviness, fear, uncertainty, confusion, anger, and annoyance. In a lot of ways, I feel paralyzed by what is happening, the injustices occurring, the blatant disregard for decency and norms. It’s not all bad, true: I’ll write about Artemis later this week. When I zoom in to focus on what’s happening personally, I feel inspired, energized, hopeful, anxious, determined, curious, playful, and grounded. There’s a lot happening in my day-to-day life that’s fostering my need to be creative, to brainstorm, to problem solve, to process. Things aren’t perfect in this personal world, and what’s happening nationally certainly affects what’s happening personally. But there’s a whole heap of goodness too. You know that adage about not seeing the forest for the trees? I think these days are good ones for remembering that we need to zoom out to see the whole forest, but we can also, should also, zoom in to see our own particular tree. And if we find ourselves struggling, if our tree isn’t doing so hot, zooming out to see the forest, to take note of the birds singing, the sun dappling the forest floor, the leaves rustling, the fungi growing, the critters darting hither and yon—zooming out helps. Where’s your lens pointed these days and does it need to be zoomed in or out?

How have you learned to grieve?

The Intention

Pausing

The Meditative Moment

It took me a long time to find the beauty in Holy Saturday, the apparently empty time between Good Friday and Easter Sunday. Even if you celebrate with the Easter Vigil on Saturday night, one of the most exciting and beautiful liturgies of the year, you don’t get to have all the candy or the egg hunt until Easter morning. I didn’t see the point of it as a kid: Jesus died; that’s sad; now let’s get to the happy rising part! But now? Oh, now I get Holy Saturday. This is the deep grief. This is the day of knowing everything has changed but not knowing how. This is the day of being huddled in an upper room with friends and family, trying to make sense of it all. This is the space where so much work happens. It is not empty time. It is the most difficult time. It’s the catch of breath before the exhale. One of the most beautiful aspects of Holy Saturday is that it tells us Jesus’s followers were afraid and confused. They had spent years with him: witnessing miracles, hearing sermons, learning about a new way of being, eating and praying together. He told them not to be afraid—and they were still afraid. These people who saw, knew, heard, and touched him had to take time to let it all fall apart. Because it did fall apart. We know this falling apart. It’s tempting to want to rush to the better bit, where we aren’t weighed down so heavily, where we aren’t sad and scared and alone. Holy Saturday teaches us that there is no rush. It teaches us that grieving is sacred time. We have to sit here for a bit, in the muck. We will arise, but for now, we pause.

How do you honor that which is most difficult?

The Intention

Grace

The Meditative Moment

One of the ritual actions that takes place on Good Friday is the veneration of the cross, also known as kissing the cross. It is awkward and weird and beautiful. During the Good Friday liturgy, the congregation processes forward and touches or kisses a cross. Some kneel before it. Some process forward with tears. Some merely bow their heads before moving along. It is an intensely private moment in the midst of a worshiping community. I love the veneration. I always have. As I watch people process forward, I’m overwhelmed thinking of what they’re bringing to the cross to venerate, because I know what heaviness I’ve carried to the foot of the cross as I bend to kiss it. It is a contradiction that Christians revere that which tortured their savior. It makes no sense in a logical world. But the older I get, the more I recognize the necessity of this veneration. Grief has done this. You don’t get to move past grieving without bowing your head to it. It’s hard work, heavy work, necessary work. And that’s why kissing the cross means so much to me. It’s the process of blessing and being blessed by that which is most difficult, that which tears you down, that which you would much rather turn away from. It isn’t immediate, this veneration. And it’s never easy; there’s never a year of skipping down the aisle to kiss that cross. No, it’s a trudge. But as we trudge along, we notice that the woman ahead of us is wiping her eyes too; the man who just returned to his pew is sniffling a bit; someone else just let out a deep sigh; that child there is witnessing what it means to struggle and not be alone—because every one of us has something that has bowed us down. And every one of us is trying to figure out who we are because of it.

Whose feet are you washing?

The Intention

Service

The Meditative Moment

Today Christians celebrate Holy Thursday, the day we commemorate Jesus’s Last Supper. Holy Thursday kicks off the three holiest days in the liturgical year. You may or may not be familiar with these holy days—and you may or may not believe in what they mean—but for the next few days I’m going to highlight my favorite bits of them. While the context is Catholic, I think these elements are, or can be, universal.

My favorite bit of Holy Thursday has to do with the washing of the feet. Jesus, gathered with his friends for a meal, performs the ritual cleansing of washing his disciples’ feet, a task usually done by a servant. But here Jesus grabs the basin and towel and washes the feet—those dirty, grubby, calloused, stinky feet—of his friends and followers. He stoops, takes their feet in his hands, pours water over them, towels them dry, and prepares them for the feast. He then explains what he’s done and that, once he’s gone, they are to do as he has done: be of service to others. This is where the gospel reading at Mass for the day ends, but it’s not the conclusion of the story in John’s gospel. There, as chapter 13 continues, Jesus explains that he will be betrayed by one of the people whose feet he just washed. Imagine that: an act of intimacy, vulnerability, and blessing shared with the one who will betray you most profoundly. Judas’s feet weren’t skipped. Jesus didn’t look at him and say, “Ah, not you. You are not worthy.” No. He stooped and washed those feet too. Knowing what was to come. It boggles my mind. And then Jesus gives the disciples the new commandment: “Love one another as I have loved you.” The chapter ends with Jesus foretelling Peter’s betrayal, that he will deny knowing Jesus during the passion and crucifixion. Peter’s feet weren’t skipped either. This chapter, John 13, with this moment of washing feet, holds so much richness about what means to be human: love, forgiveness, humility, service, betrayal, confusion, vulnerability, hospitality, acceptance, communion, and, I repeat, love. It’s not easy to stoop to wash feet. In reality or metaphorically. Jesus wasn’t forced to wash these feet: he freely chose to do so, and his choosing was expansive, extravagant, and baffling. I can be stingy when it comes to washing feet, but today I am reminded that washing feet isn’t only for those who are easy for me to love. Where am I called to expand, be extravagant, and maybe even baffle others?

How are your head, heart, and body today?

The Intention

Playfulness

The Meditative Moment

It is the day for fools, and I really don’t enjoy this day. In fact, I find it a tad annoying. But it is an invitation to play. So what can you do today that allows you to play in your head, heart, and body? Take a walk and skip for part of it. Sing silly songs to your kids or pets. Watch a comedy movie or funny videos on YouTube. Color. Dance. Use sidewalk chalk on the paths outside your house. (Or, if you’re in Minnesota and it’s snowing, build a snowman.) Play a game with your family. Anything that lightens your spirit, sparks your curiosity and creativity, and moves you a little outside your norm: do that today.

What happens in three breaths?

The Intention

Pause

The Meditative Moment

Three deep breaths. Let’s do them together: Breathe in through the nose, out through the mouth. In . . . and . . . out. Innnnnnnnn. Ouuuuuuuuuuut. Return to your natural breath.

When I was just starting to manage my anxiety, breathwork was the fastest way to “control” how I felt. I’d notice that I was spiraling, that my chest felt tight, that I was a little nauseous, and I’d change my breathing. I’d sit for three to five minutes, ten on a bad day, and pay very close attention to my breath. At first, I resisted the breathwork because it calmed me down, but all my systems were screaming that I was unsafe. So the anxiety would ramp up. Over time, with practice and persistence, my brain started to trust my body when it breathed slowly. Ah, there’s no danger. We thought there was, but we really can settle down. Over time, the need for minutes to calm down shortened to three deep breaths. There are times when I need the longer practice: as maintenance, when I wake up in a panic, if I’m in a particularly anxious mood. But the three deep breaths are the shorthand, and they work well in a pinch because I’ve taught my body to trust my breath. I use them to start every yoga practice I teach; I cue them for every retreat session we do; I offer them at the beginning of every workshop. It’s for the students and participants, yes, but it also allows me to show up, settle down, shift from busy to present, and soften my expectations for what was and what will be. I have gathered many tools in my anxiety-management toolkit, but these three deep breaths are the tool I treasure above all others.

What tools are effective for the given situation?

The Intention

Discernment

The Meditative Moment

One of the interesting things I’ve discovered as I’ve managed anxiety over the years is that not every skill I’ve gained is helpful in every situation. The other night I woke up at 2:45 and couldn’t get back to sleep for several hours. I wasn’t anxious exactly, but my mind just kept going. It was buzzing with to-do lists and some what-ifs, and my eye kept drifting to the clock to calculate how much time I had left before I had to get up. Generally, the first thing I do when anxious is tend to my breath: even it out, slow it down, lengthen the exhales. But my breath was already steady. I played Two Dots in silence for a while, and then I realized that it wasn’t turning off the brain chatter as it usually does. So I put in my headphones, a step I only ever take in the middle of a panic attack. It didn’t help me fall asleep, but it did allow me to focus on a story instead of that dratted to-do list. I started this reflection thinking it would be about how tools don’t always work, but what I’ve written myself to is that our tools are flexible. When you begin managing anxiety, you throw all your tools at any anxiety that crops up. Well, I did that. Now, though, I tend to check what the cause of anxiety is and choose a tool that meets the need. Sometimes I need to move to alleviate the anxiety; other times, stillness is required. Sometimes just focusing on breathwork settles me enough, and other times I need an audiobook or guided meditation to nudge me out of anxious thoughts. Sometimes I need a glass of cold water, and other times a hot cup of peppermint tea soothes me. As you develop skills, you learn where they can be useful and when they can be set aside for a different one.

What surprises you about grieving?

The Intention

Curiosity

The Meditative Moment

Grieving catches us off guard in strange ways. We know that sadness is part of the experience of grief, that anniversaries are hard, that the urge to call someone after they’ve died to hear their voice is an almost physical ache. But there are certain parts of grieving that still surprise me. I got very sensitive to noise when I grieved my uncles. It wasn’t something I recognized explicitly after Shaun’s death in 2010, but when Ryan died in 2017, I remembered how much noise had bothered me. And it bothered me again. The radio was too much. Restaurants were unbearable. Big gatherings were overwhelming. Turning on the radio became a signal of grief loosening its hold on me. Today, as I write this, I’m sitting on the patio. The birds have begun singing again, and they are quite loud; it’s hopeful and beautiful and joyous. There’s a park nearby where children are playing: their squeals and screams and laughs are delightful to hear, but in my grieving, I’d have been annoyed. There is traffic buzzing about as people begin to head home after their workdays; the occasional motorcycle revs as they too enjoy this gorgeous weather. I don’t hear the way I did before my uncles died. I still get overwhelmed by noise sometimes; I’m sensitive to the cacophony in ways I don’t think I would have been without grieving. Sensitive to—and grateful for. Because where once the noise would have had me rushing to get back inside, now I turn my face to the sun and listen a little more closely to those birds chirping, those kids laughing, the dogs playing, and even the traffic rushing.

What five things did you love today?

The Intention

Notice

The Meditative Moment

Five Things I Love about the Day is my daily practice before I go to bed. I write them out in a planner. Every night. Five things that I loved in the day. It’s a practice that provides recollection, gratitude, insight, and peacefulness. Even on cruddy days, I can find things to love. So here are mine for today:

1. Sitting outside in the afternoon sun.

2. Mumford & Sons.

3. The birds are singing again.

4. That first sip of coffee in the morning.

5. Got caught up on laundry.