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I am in love with a fish.

We meet in the ocean nearly every day.

And we dance.

My heart flutters at the sight of her…the velvety brown of her back, the scar from a parasitic sucker fish she has recently lost, the white markings like brushstrokes upon the dark brown, curving into a heart… 

Today we meet about three quarters of a mile from shore, near the cliff. She’s about 40 feet down—too far for me to dive—so I hover above her and coo. 

I catch her eye, and her wingtips flutter, as if in response to my smile.

She has learned the limitations of my aquatic abilities—I am slow. I cannot dive deep, nor stay underwater for long—and she meets them all with grace, gently soaring up to the surface to meet me. 

When she’s about 10 feet down, I begin to dive. She adjusts her path so we meet belly to belly just a few feet below the surface. Her white underside also has the image of a heart, this one made of soft brown spots, as if it were gently sponge painted with a cup of strong tea. 

We glide together until the buoyancy in my lungs carries me to the surface. She does a twisting somersault and flies down towards the ocean floor, then swoops up, arcing to the left until she is directly underneath me. 

Mere inches separate me from this otherworldly creature, and while my mind is racing with excitement, my body has its own response…

My arms outstretch themselves, and begin to pulse in time with the manta’s wingbeats. My fingers flutter like her wingtips. And I feel my chest open, my heart stretching to meet the friendship and trust this being is offering me.

Manta rays have no defense other than to flee. They have no teeth, no stinging barb at the end of their tails, no powerful muscle mass with which to attack or defend. And yet, my winged companion is so close I could kiss her.

There is no hesitation in her movements. No caution. Only love.

And it’s catching. 

As my arms extend to my full wingspan, my breathing deepens and the joy from my heart feels as if it’s flowing through my veins and out my fingertips. I can almost see the wispy lines, like strands of spider silk, reaching out.

I follow their path and realize they are showing me the connections. Connections from me to everything else—the manta, the ocean, the cliff that forms the north side of the bay…

It’s as if they’re reminding me once again that I’m not alone. I’m not the solitary, isolated creature I so often think I am. 

As if to punctuate my lesson, the manta flies upward through the water towards me, then somersaults, rotates sideways, and comes nearly to the surface, looking me right in eye.

I giggle.

And then she dives down again, beckoning me to follow.

I take a deep breath, point myself down, and do a somersaulting dive to meet my friend. 

Her eyes smile, and she tips her left wing so I can once again see the heart on her belly.

And as I glide next to her, feeling the peace penetrate my entire being, I hear….

Be.
Just be.
Just be with me.

Those are the same words I’ve heard from my son Felix nearly every day since he could talk.

Just be with me.

Beingness is such an elusive word. It’s often referenced in contrast to doing, which is something we humans are much more comfortable with.

But what the manta and Felix are pointing to isn’t necessarily a state of not doing. They’re not asking me to sit silent and motionless. Or to get into some exalted state.

Beingness doesn’t exclude action, or require enlightenment. 

But it does require you to show up. To put away your distracting devices, thoughts, and judgments. And to take it all in, whatever it may be in the moment. 

When I hear just be with me from my son, it’s often a plea for me to put my book down. A reminder that whatever story I’m engrossed in will be waiting for me after Felix and I have had our time together.

Today, as I hear those words from the manta, I put my camera away. I stop trying to capture the moment so I can relive it later. And I simply live it now. 

I see more deeply into her eyes, and sense the intelligence looking back at me. I feel the friendship she’s extending to me. 

What an honor.

Who is this gorgeous being? I wonder to myself. 

She seems to sense my query, and responds by coming even closer.

Our bond strengthens. My smile widens, breaking the seal my snorkel mask makes with my face, and water rushes in, blurring my vision. 

But I don’t care. In this moment, my heart can see more clearly than my eyes ever have. 

In Hawaiian culture, the most revered teachers and elders are not the ones with the most knowledge, or even with the highest IQs. Rather, the yardstick by which respect and honor is given is how connected you are to your instincts. The Hawaiians believe the seat of intuition lies in the belly, near the location Traditional Chinese Medicine calls the dantien. In Hawaiian, it is called your na’au.

Those who are most connected to their na’au are the masters. The leaders. And the shamans — those who speak freely with the ancestors, the ocean, and who walk in both the physical and spiritual worlds.

Your na’au is so important, say the shamans, because it is the gateway to your Higher Self. Your Higher Self is all-knowing — it’s connected to your past, your future, Spirit, Earth, and everything in between. It knows all the things you’d ever want a crystal ball to show you, but it won’t share its knowledge with your monkey mind. No, your Higher Self speaks only to your na’au, so to be connected to the answers as the shamans are, you need to make friends with your gut.

I’ll say that again.

Your belly is connected to your Higher Self. To Spirit. To All-That-Is.

Not your mind. Not your logic. Not your cleverness. Not your lists of pros and cons. Not Google.

Your humble belly.

And yet, so many of us dislike our bellies. We’ve been taught to be ashamed of belly folds, jiggles, and pooches. Even when those jiggles come from the sacred act of bringing a child into this world, we are taught to cover them up, suck them in, and aerobicise them away.

We don’t breathe deeply, because it means letting our bellies expand. We cinch our belts and tighten our abs to look slim and fit. And I’ve heard on too many occasions to count, “I hate my belly.”

What do you think happens to that second brain, as the gut and its enteric nervous system has been called, when we hide, dismiss, condemn, and shame its very epicenter?

It shuts down.

Wouldn’t you?

It may still broadcast a weak signal that allows us to feel butterflies in our stomachs or to be aware when something is gut-wrenchingly disturbing, but imagine the world that would open up if we would just extend an olive branch to that gorgeous pooch…

First, a bit about the bundle of neurons we call the mind.

The 3 Minds

There are 3 levels to the mind.

The part you’re most aware of is your conscious mind. This is who most of us think we are. It’s the part of you that makes decisions, does algebra, makes dinner, participates in meetings… It’s also that voice in your head that narrates, judges, replays conversations, has arguments with itself, makes grocery lists while you’re driving, chatters on about everything you’re worrying about or ashamed of…  You know, that voice.

The unconscious mind is what keeps your heart beating, your immune system working, your digestion humming… It’s also the part of you that takes over your breathing when you’re not paying attention, and can even drive you to work while you think about something else. (Pretty cool!) Your Your unconscious mind is also responsible for your gut feelings, which are relayed to you via the enteric nervous system. As you know, those nerves in your gut don’t chatter on like your monkey mind. Rather, they speak in feelings and knowings. 

And finally, the superconscious mind is the part of you that the Hawaiians call your Higher Self. This is the part of you that’s connected to what the physicists call the Zero Point Field. The rest of us might call it All-That-Is. Or even Spirit.

As you can see, your belly is the only center that communicates with every other part of your consciousness.

Both the conscious mind and the superconscious mind are restricted, but your belly is the connector. The gateway. Your doorway to wisdom.

A Peace Offering

I’ve found that my gut doesn’t harbor resentment against me when I’ve been ashamed of it. Rather, like a wise elder, it waits patiently for the student (me) to be ready to listen to its wisdom.

An easy way to open the connection with your belly, if you’re ready, is to make a simple peace offering.

If you’re willing, let’s do that now… 

Go ahead and place your hands on your belly. Allow it to relax, to pooch out, to be OK as it is right now.

Now, take a few deep breaths, allowing your belly to rise and fall freely, with no constriction.

And now, offer an olive branch to your belly. Say or think or somehow convey… I forgive you. Please forgive me too. I forgive you. Please forgive me too.

The last step is simply to listen.

Stay open to your belly wisdom.

Notice when it contracts, or softens.

All it needs is a little attention. A little encouragement. And a little gratitude.

Just like you.

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The above article is an excerpt from my course, Ocean Within — The Sacred Art of Listening to Your Inner Voice.

Dip your toe in and check out the first Module free:
Module 1

Or dive right in and get the full 10-Module course for just $27!

I saw five sharks during my swim today. Two were curious about me, gliding up from below to see what strange creature was visiting their home, while the other three had more important business to attend to. 

Sharks are a powerful omen for me. While they can be fierce and intimidating, sharks are not the mindless killers we make them out to be. Rather, they are scavengers—eating the dead and the dying—thereby cleaning the ocean of that which no longer serves. 

Whenever I see a shark, it reminds me to focus. To go inward and clean my life of that which no longer serves.

Sharks also remind me to listen with my 100 senses, as I like to say. 

Sharks have the most acute sensory ability of any animal ever studied. This superpower is called electroreception, and it’s over 5 million times more sensitive than any human sense—sight, hearing, touch, smell, or taste.

Electroreception allows sharks to perceive natural electric stimuli. They use this sense to both navigate the ocean and to sense other animals nearby. Some sharks can sense the equivalent of a single flashlight battery connected to electrodes 10,000 miles apart in the ocean. 

So, yeah, they can sense your heartbeat. And whether you’re calm, or afraid, or hurt. It’s all just electricity to them.

Imagine if you could feel such minute disturbances in the proverbial Force. 

Truth is, you can.

You may not have the electrosensitive ampullae of Lorenzi that the sharks have, but you do feel much more than you give yourself credit for. 

And now, possibly more than ever before, we all must listen.

The Voice

People call it the small voice. The quiet voice. The still voice.

“Tune in to the small voice,” they say. “Listen to the whispers of your heart,” they say.

Stop right there.

It’s not small, and it’s not quiet.

It’s just that we’ve become so adept at tuning out the voice that we pretend it’s small, and quiet, and that we can’t quite hear it no matter how much we strain.

And this allows us to keep our unhealthy patterns, our unhealthy relationships, and to give up who we are in myriad facets of our lives.

Today the sharks were clear…

Listen, they said. 
Listen to the raging beast within you that knots your stomach when you say ‘yes’ but you want to say ‘no.’
Listen to the voice that tells you what no longer serves.

Listen. 

We are all agitated right now. We’re stressed. Afraid. Sad. Angry. We’ve all been forced to submit in one way or another.

And because of this, it’s the perfect time to listen.

Right when you want nothing more than a sugary snack and a glass of wine and a movie to take you into another world…

Stop. And listen. 

What is the voice telling you? What is your fierce and benevolent warrior shark of an inner voice telling you to start or stop doing?

What no longer serves you in your life? What would serve better?

Listen.

And then, by all means, get your snack and your drink and your movie…
If you still want them.

But please, do listen.

And if you don’t believe me, ask those at the end of their lives. The dying, who are looking back on their lives, wishing they had listened.

That’s what Bronnie Ware did. She’s a palliative care nurse, and she asked her dying patients their biggest regret.

Number one?

“I wish I’d had the courage to live a life true to myself, not the life others expected of me.”

Those dying patients didn’t say, “I wish I’d had a guidance system so I could have known my path.”

No.
They heard the voice.
And now they wish they had listened more deeply, more intently, and with more urgency.

The voice must not be ignored. 

It’s a warrior—sleek, muscular, lithe, nimble, and painted for battle…at all times.

It has to be.

It’s fighting for your very soul.

The world is in a state of fear.

Words like pandemic, quarantine, and health crisis are in nearly every conversation. And while we try to add some levity with jokes about toilet paper, the truth is we’re all collectively holding our breath and biting our nails.

And then remembering we’re not supposed to touch our faces.

Whether you’re in “shelter in place” like many of my friends in the California Bay Area, or you’re on an island in the Pacific like me, the coronavirus and its compadre fear have likely found you.

We all react differently to fear. Some run. Some hoard. Some rage. Some study. And some deny. 

Whatever your response, I offer here a few gems on transforming fear. Some are methods I learned from wise elders, and others are hard-won lessons from my darkest days.

May they bring you a bit of peace. A ray of light. A smidgeon of love.

#1 — Breathe

Yes, breathe. Breathe slowly. Breathe deeply. Give yourself completely to your breath. Feel the air as it enters your nose and fills your lungs. Let your belly rise and fall (nobody’s watching.) Close your eyes and do nothing but breathe.

If you truly give yourself to this practice, even for just a few minutes, you’ll find that it begins to dislodge whatever is stuck in your emotional body. You may yawn, gasp, or spontaneously begin to sob. 

Whatever comes, allow, acknowledge, and honor it.

Most of us only use about 20% of our lung capacity on a regular basis, so truly breathing might take some getting used to. Give yourself time. Cheer yourself on. Smile like you’re watching a toddler learn to walk.

And then breathe some more.

#2 — Embrace Mama Earth

Mother Earth has both physical and metaphysical gifts for transforming fear. The beauty of Nature can stop us in our tracks, make us gasp, grin, and cry. Simply walking barefoot in the grass or the dirt connects us to our spiritual Mama and eases us into the present moment. 

Even the physicists agree that touching the Earth is beneficial. Earthing, as they call it, connects you to a stream of pain-relieving, peace-inducing electrons. All you have to do is take off your shoes and meander on the dirt, grass, or sand.

While you’re at it, slow down and take in a bit of Nature’s beauty. Touch the bark of a tree. Examine the petals of a flower. 

You can’t bully, berate, or control yourself into not being afraid, but you can allow beauty to take over your focus. 

The velvety petals of spring tulips… 
The melodic chirping of sparrows…
The rustling of leaves in the breeze… 

Let Nature penetrate your senses. Let her hold you in her beauty. Let it change you.

#3 — Listen to This Audio

Years ago, I was diagnosed with an incurable case of something-itis. The doctors weren’t sure what exactly was inflamed, but something was making it impossible for me to walk or hold a pencil in my hand. While that’s a story for another day, one thing I learned in my quest for pain-relief was that a very particular visualization had the power to release physical, mental, and emotional pain.

The practice, called running energy, is a form of clairvoyant meditation that can be easily learned by anyone. But you don’t have to learn anything. Just push ‘play’ on the meditation audio at the end of this article, and let me do all the work for you.

As you’ll see (or hear), the process is much like the practice of Earthing described above, except that this one is all in your mind. You simply connect to Mama Earth and let her take your pain, your tension, your fear.

She graciously accepts all you release, and offers peace, nurturance, and stability in return. 

#4 — Offer It Up

We often fear that which we do not understand. Uncertainty is an enemy of the amygdala—that little almond shaped gland in the middle of your brain that’s connected to survival instincts.

We want to know. We want to understand. We want to control.

And when we don’t, or can’t, we feel anxious. Or even panicky. 

Offering it up is a sacred act of surrender, where you acknowledge that you’re not in control. You don’t know what to do. You’re scared (or angry, or resentful, or jealous) and you offer your truth up to Source.

Surrendering to truth invokes powerful magic. It relaxes the mind, because you’re no longer trying to control that which is simply beyond your reach. It opens the heart because you’ve connected to the Great Spirit, by whatever name you call her. And it brings far more peace than even having the right answer.

When my mother died suddenly, I plunged into a depth of grief that I did not know existed. In my darkest moments, when I could no longer fight the pain, I finally surrendered to it. And it was this surrender that carried me out of the abyss and into a new world where I trust that even in the bleakest of moments, I am held by something greater.

It is this something greater that receives your prayer of surrender, and holds you in response.

You can allow your fear to trickle into your cupped hands and then literally offer it up to the heavens. You can write it out or draw it on a piece of paper, and offer it into a flame of transformation. Or you can simply open your arms wide, expose your heart and allow whatever has been trapped inside to fly free.

The practice of surrender can itself be a bit scary at first. But trust me, there is freedom on the other side.

#5 – Love

Love may be our greatest healer. It knows not time, nor distance. It crosses all borders, speaks all languages, and is felt by every species.

As the Buddhist monk Thich Nhat Hanh said, “We are here to awaken from our illusion of separateness.”

Or as the Hawaiians say, “We’re all in the same canoe.”

Just as you honor your own fear, honor the fear of those around you. 

Be kind. 

If you go out, smile at strangers. Social distancing is about avoiding germs, not connection.

While you’re at home, hug those you can. Call your mom. Text your cousin. Write love letters to your BFF. 

In times of fear, spread Love.

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And, as promised, here is the meditation audio:

I awoke to sunshine for the first time since Hurricane Lane visited our neighborhood. I had missed two days in the ocean as we hunkered down, awaiting flash floods and 100 mile an hour winds, but luckily we were only visited by gray skies, a smattering of rain, and a few gorgeous bursts of lightning.

Relieved that my little slice of paradise seemed to be returning, I had breakfast, gathered my gear, and drove down the familiar winding road to my beloved bay. 

The ocean was calmer than I expected after hosting a CAT5 twister — just a bit of a swell, but nothing I hadn’t easily navigated before.

I let a few big waves crash, walked down the rocks, and waded in. Another sizeable wave came in before I could pass the breakers, so I ducked under and stood up on the other side.

After two days away, the ocean felt especially delicious.

I reached down to pull my mask and snorkel on, but only my mask remained. I must have lost my snorkel as I ducked beneath that wave. I had a spare in the car (I always carry an extra set of everything for spur-of-the-moment swims) but I was too eager to get out into the big blue, so I continued without a breathing tube.

An Ocean Initiation

I made it out about three quarters of a mile when I saw Emma. She may be the only person I know who spends more time in the ocean than I do. You can see her at all times of the day, swimming alongside the dolphins, squeaking as if she’s one of them.

Emma waved her arms and hollered, “Come close to me!”

Emma generally keeps to herself. She, like me, makes her best friends in the ocean, and she appears to relish her time alone as much as I do. So I was a bit surprised at her invitation, but I obliged. As I slowly made my way over to her, she continued, “We should stay together. I just saw a big tiger shark.”

So much for my leisurely swim.

Emma pointed down, and I peered into the water, expecting to see this massive, terrifying creature. But no, it was the dolphins.

I relaxed a bit, and began to swim alongside the sweet spinners, holding my breath for a few moments at a time to catch a glimpse of them underwater.  A few came from below, on my left side, and I slowed down to encourage them to come close.

One spinner came by.

Then another.

Three more approached, and then this big, beautiful, gray fish swam in front of them, snuggling up beneath me before he veered off to my left side and out of sight.

Not until this 14 foot creature turned left and began to swim away did I realize who I had just met.

A tiger shark.

Tigers are hailed as one of the most ferocious and deadly sharks, known to attack dolphins, whales, and yes, humans.

But I did not feel fear.

This creature came up to me with such grace and gentleness.

I felt power. And awe. Reverence, even, like I had just been in the presence of a deity.

But not fear.

I looked around for Emma and for the dolphins.

Nothing. 

I was alone.

I looked into the water, and I saw the then-familiar gray. The shark was coming close again. He came at me from below, like the previous time, which I’ve been told is the most dangerous way he can approach. But once again he was gentle. He repeated the same maneuver, swimming beneath me and to my left. His tail nearly gracing my cheek as he swam by.

Powerful. Graceful. Gentle.

I felt as if I’d been given a gift. Shown a secret.

A large catamaran came close, and Emma asked me if I’d like her to talk to the captain for me and inquire if they have an extra snorkel.

“I bet he’ll loan you one,” she said. “We’d just have to figure out how to get it back to him.”

I told her I was doing fine, but was a bit overwhelmed by the experience. For once, I was ready to be back on land.

She and I made our way back to the rocky shore for our “landing” as she called it. We took breaks periodically during the swim. Not because I was without a breathing tube, although I didn’t complain. We stopped to remind the shark that we are not fish. That we walk upright, and that we are not his normal dinner fare.

Fear

During one of these pauses I turned to Emma and said, “When you said there was a shark in the Bay, I was scared. But when I saw him, I felt no fear.”

“Yeah,” she said, “fear is like that. It’s the thoughts that create fear. But life just happens, and in the moment there’s no time for fear.”

As we swam the final leg of our journey, I thought about fear and how we are so easily controlled by it.

Fear can easily become anger. Even hatred.

We so often dislike and degrade that which we fear, or don’t understand.

Even the word phobia itself is defined as “an extremely strong dislike or fear of someone or something.”

How did we ever decide that fear and hatred were interchangeable? When did we stop getting curious about that which we do not understand?

I felt it in myself as I attempted to integrate my first shark encounter.

I used to hate sharks. Wish them eradicated. Once I understood their role in the ecosystem, I could admire them from afar, but still hoped to never see one up close. 

Now having nearly kissed one, I could feel that they too are sentient beings. They too spend most of their lives not killing things. They too take daily, peaceful swims in the bay.

It’s not my bay. It’s our bay. They’re here every day, whether I see them or not.

Shark Medicine

A few days later I was on shore after an uneventful swim, and I felt the tiger shark. I was safe on land, so I welcomed the spirit of the shark to come as close as he liked. He came right up to me, nose to nose. I felt a transfer of energy like I did from my mother after she died.

An elegant stream of power filled my cells and I heard, “Be yourself without apology.”

The message was firm, but gentle. Powerful, yet kind. Just as the actual shark had been.

He continued, “I am here. Call on me.”

The deep peace I felt after meeting the shark a few days prior returned.

The Call

Be yourself without apology.

Those words tumbled around in my mind, sparking memories of all the times I did not honor myself. All the times I gave up who I was in order to fit in, or to be liked, or to follow some societal or familial should.

It reminded me of Bronnie Ware — the palliative care nurse who, in her years of working with those at the end of their lives, documented the top 5 regrets of the dying.

Number one is a doozy:

“I wish I’d had the courage to live a life true to myself, not the life others expected of me.” 

Too many of us are on course to have this same regret as we take our last breaths here on Earth.

We stand on our heads trying to be the person we think others want us to be, and in the process we bury the person we were born to be.

This was what the shark in my vision was warning me of.

“Don’t follow this trend,” he was urging me. “Don’t give up who you are. Be YOU.”

Yes. Thank you. It seems that I need this lesson again and again.

How about you?

What would it mean for you to draw on the power and wisdom of the Shark Medicine and heed the call to be true to yourself?

I’m in my favorite bay, swimming with my aquatic family, the spinner dolphins. I look below me and I see a cluster of white feathery specks.

My first thought is that a dolphin must have just lost his lunch, and it’s little fish bones that are floating beneath me. But the specks begin to take shape, and I realize I’m looking down on the speckled head of a humpback whale.

I let the dolphins pass, as I hover motionless above the whale.

Her pectoral fins are outstretched, and I move my arms out to match her. I do this without thought. Rather, it’s as if she’s locked into my circuitry and is controlling my body from below. I don’t mind. In fact I don’t think I’ve ever felt this good in my life.

Something begins to happen. Unlike the dolphins’ sonar that has an audible clicking sound, whatever is happening now is silent. Or at least out of my hearing range. But something is definitely happening.

I feel these slow-wave, seismic pulses of what I can only describe as love. Not human love. Not even dolphin love. This is an ancient, primal, deeply penetrating love. I can feel my cells rearranging in its presence. My heart pounding itself open.

Then, slowly, the whale begins to rise just to the right of me. The dolphins swirl playfully all around her head as she nimbly maneuvers herself into a vertical position, twirling, dancing upwards. I can see her white striped belly undulating as she rises, and I’m taken with how a being so massive can move with such grace and precision.

She surfaces right in front of me, gently splashing me with a soft, playful flick of her tail.

I don’t quite know what to do with myself, so I find the dolphins and swim alongside them for awhile, thinking these might be the only beings that understand how I feel.  

About 20 minutes later, as I’m peering into the blue to spot the spinners, I see this beautiful knobby nose coming towards me. The whale’s back. She comes within a few feet of me and hovers again, so we are nose to nose. I feel my arms outstretch themselves as if to embrace her, or whatever it is she is sending in my direction.

Once again I’m paralyzed on top of the water, my heart fluttering, my voice uttering the occasional moan of ecstasy.

I’m so captivated by this new emotion flooding my system that I begin to lose touch with the cells of my body. It’s as if the molecules that are Claire are mingling with the molecules that are the ocean and that are the whale. I lose my sense of separateness. In fact, I can’t even find a focal point to call “me” anymore.

After several minutes, the whale surfaces, dives deep, and I’m left as a smattering of molecules floating on the surface.

I collect myself as best I can and swim the mile back to shore.

I climb up the familiar rocky shore, but it feels different.

I feel different.

Later that night, I sit down on my meditation cushion and begin a process I call “running energy”— a technique for releasing the stresses of the day and clearing the mind.

I’ve been doing this each day for over 20 years, but today I can’t get it to work. It’s as if this well-worn path is blocked. Or broken. Instead, my heart begins pounding out its own seismic waves of love.

The pounding intensifies, as do the resulting waves. And then, just like in the water, I begin to lose my sense of self. To dissolve into the beauty of the experience.

It’s as if the whale has somehow transmitted some of her medicine to me.

As I attempt to wrap my mind around what seems to have occurred, I hear:

“This gift is for you, but not about you, Claire.”

I nod in acknowledgment of what feels like quite a hefty assignment — to somehow share this heart-pounding, self-dissolving whale wisdom with the world.

And then I giggle, because a sliver of the cosmic joke has just dawned on me.

Or rather, two slivers:
1 – I don’t need to be face to face with a whale to dissolve (and neither do you)

2 – The more I dissolve, the more whole I feel

One of the great illusions of Earthly life is that we as humans are not whole. We feel less-than, not-enough, unworthy, undeserving, and in many ways, broken.

None of us is immune to this dis-ease.

We give up who we are — in our relationships, careers, with our families, and we even hide the truth from ourselves.

The first time I recognized this illusion was during my inaugural swim with the spinner dolphins. As they held my gaze, it felt as if they were looking directly into my soul, showing me what I had been blinded to for so many years — that I am OK just as I am.

This dolphin wisdom of enoughness has defined my work now for two decades.

And today, the whale has given me the next step.

By dissolving the boundaries by which I define myself, she showed me that while I am enough just as I am, the wholeness we all seek is not an individual wholeness. Rather, it’s a longing for oneness. An ancient memory that, when it surfaces, reminds us that we are only truly whole together. As one.

When I remember that I am not separate from the whale…

Or the ocean…

Or you…

Then I don’t fight my own disappearance.

I simply relax.

And dissolve into wholeness.

Felix, my 13 year old son, sits on the couch with inquisitive eyes and the hint of a smile.

“Mom, I have a question…”

I outstretch my arms, swoop in for a hug and say, “Yes, I do love you.”

His smile broadens briefly but then disappears.

“No Mom.  A real question… You see, I have a thought, and then I have another thought about something else. There’s a little break between the thoughts sometimes, and I’d like to reduce the number of thoughts and increase the space between my thoughts, because in that space there isn’t anything to worry about.”

Um…

Gathering myself a bit, I respond, “Well Honey, you just asked a question that wise people have been asking since the beginning of time.”

He looks at me expectantly.

Felix knows Silence is my favorite playground. He knows I sit in meditation daily. His big beautiful eyes tell me that because of this, he thinks I can answer his question.

So I begin…

“Do you ever notice that you feel different when you’re walking in the trees, or sitting by the ocean?”

“Yeah, I feel peaceful. Nature is calming.”

“Nature moves at a different pace than we do. The ocean ebbs and flows. Rises and falls. She lets me in to swim nearly every day, but not on my schedule. Only hers. Only if I wait, and watch, and feel the motion of the water, do I know when to plunge in. Otherwise the rocky shore leaves its mark on my hands and shins.”

Felix offers a knowing grin. He’s been there too.

And he’s sparking something within me that I’ve never put into words…

Even when I’m just sitting on the shore, if I let it, the pace of Nature seeps into me.

If I feel the sand, and breathe in the salt laden air, and look out at the waves, then instead of hearing my thoughts, it’s as if I’m hearing her thoughts. The ocean’s thoughts.

But the ocean doesn’t have thoughts like, “What am I going to make for dinner?” or “How am I going to do on my next algebra test?”

Rather, the ocean lobs fully-formed visceral knowings of well-being.

They hit me and I remember to unclench my jaw. To inhale deeply. To cry those tears I’ve been holding on to.

And then, without me having to get out the whip or the megaphone, those thoughts I’ve been berating or running from… they begin to soften. To spread out. And some of them even vanish.

It’s as if they know, deep down, that the pace of Nature is our pace too.

The rocks, the trees, the birds, the geckos… They know this too. It’s only humans that have forgotten.

So, take your brilliant mind, full of thoughts, and look out at the horizon, or sit beneath a tree, or hold a rock, and simply listen.

Let Nature lob her knowings of well-being your way. Let your breathing match her breathing. Let your heartbeat match her heartbeat.

And then tell me what happens to your thoughts.

When my son Felix was an infant, I could say I love you as many times as I liked, and he’d just look up at me with those liquid eyes of bliss.

But as soon as he understood what love meant, he began to have a rather violent reaction to the word.

I’d say, “I love you, Felix,” and he’d start to cry.

“Oh Sweetie, it’s a good thing. I love you so much,” I’d say.

More tears.

“No! No!” he’d yell.

Then he’d look me right in the eye, and very sternly correct me. “I love me, and you love you, and Daddy loves Daddy.”

It’s as if he was looking right into my heart, and it pained him to see that I wasn’t directing any of my affection towards myself.

“You love YOU,” he’d say again, more commanding the second time, as he placed his little warm and sticky hand on my chest.

Me love me…

Can I do that?
Do I know how?
What would it even look like?

At the time, I don’t think I knew.

And over time, Felix changed his tune, accepting my I love yous and returning them with smiles and hugs.

Now 13, Felix might possibly say “I love you” as much as I do.

He certainly no longer admonishes me for not loving myself.

Rather, it is now my turn to make sure Felix is remembering his own wisdom.

Is he directing some of his affection towards his own heart?
Does he know how?
What would it look like for Felix to be loving towards himself?

These questions burn in my heart.

I notice I’ve decided it’s more important that Felix learn to love himself than it ever was for me to love myself.

Of course, that’s because I love Felix more than I love myself. Which is precisely what he was reprimanding me for when he was 2.

Maybe he knew that this is why so many of us do not emerge from childhood feeling whole. Nobody models it for us.

So today, for Felix’s sake, I asked myself these questions:

Am I loving myself right now?
What can I do in this moment that is loving towards myself?

Immediately, I felt my shoulders come down from around my ears and the tension drain out of my jaw. My belly relaxed, and my breathing deepened.

The inquiry itself seemed to have a healing effect all on its own.

It’s as if Love itself was saying to me, “I’m always here, underneath everything else. And whenever you ask, I’ll show myself.”

And then, slowly, a few answers emerged.

Sit.
Breathe in.
Breathe out.
Write.

A gentle smile spread across my face.

Yes, I do know how to love myself. I know what brings me peace. I know my medicine.

Silence.
Breath.
Letters on a page.

At least that’s my message today.

What about you?

What is your medicine?

What would it look like to be more loving towards yourself right now?