"Those who contemplate the beauty of the earth find reserves of strength that will endure as long as life lasts. There is something infinitely healing in the repeated refrains of nature—the assurance that dawn comes after night, and spring after winter."—From Rachel Carson’s seminal work, Silent Spring.
My body has been repeating a single word for the past few years: "Receive", as if laced with some mysterious meaning, I have been asking how? Please show me how to receive. This word emerges at this time of collective uncertainty like a steady, insistent pulse.
As a child, I remember lying in the dark of my room, receiving the warmth and comfort of my bed. I am held high above the cold wooden floors, cocooned in a silent downy embrace. Moved by this kindness I start to cry. The gift I received was incredibly simple. I was consciously connecting with, opening up to, and bringing into my little body a feeling of safety. While the world outside that bed scared me, I found sweetness in between my struggles and let my body unwind. A real moment of pause. A true understanding dawned: goodness reaches out to me from many directions, not just overwhelm. In the midst of fear and unease, there was something gentle to be found. I could tune in, I could bring it in. After all, we are mostly bodies of water. I could harness my power by riding gentle currents.
Receiving has enabled me to tilt on my axis, to change the lens, to move with fluidity. As I see it, receiving is the opposite of resisting. In both the turbulent and peaceful moments of my life, I am actively receiving something. As with water meeting stone, sometimes receiving is about allowing ourselves to flow around what appears impossible. Darkness presses down on me and teaches me how to receive my body of wounds. By receiving, I embrace both its complexity and a gentle love capable of holding it. It is teaching me how to be grown. During my peaceful moments, I am receiving the presence of God hidden in all places. The air around us hums steadily with silence and love. This peace teaches me trust. Grown in Trust.
Is there anything other than resistance that causes suffering?
How can we reduce our resistance by receiving more often?
Is it possible to look for gentleness in everything we do and follow it through our lives?
It is my hope that I can be attuned to the whole, so I can receive the truth of the ongoing violence and destruction, the fears, the tears, the prayers, the mothers, the fathers, the orphans. Could I widen my aperture and allow the unaffected light of gentleness to breathe with me? In every room and moment, is it possible for me to welcome it into my body as medicine, as emptiness, as safety? Could I help my world move out of resistance, into a new frame of mind? A warm bed around each of us that is generous, and supportive. A balance between what hurts and what heals.
This story was shared by a member of our community last week. She offers a vivid illustration of receiving nature's expression:
Yesterday I felt this constriction with all the tension in the collective psyche right now, with the growing wars, the US election around the corner, and these extremely destructive hurricanes we are experiencing here in the southeast US, with Helene and now Milton barreling down in a few hours. Last night I took a walk in my neighborhood. I contemplated the crescent moon perched in between tall palm trees branches and I felt the still humid thickness in the air, that eerie calm before the storm. I released my fears to the moon praying that she stem her powerful tides. I asked the air to soften her blow just a bit. I came to this reflection that these hurricanes are just an extreme example of what happens inside of us individually and collectively, how our emotions can become mini energetic cyclones. I was once again amazed and the inter connectedness of it all. I felt a sense of awe within the dread and now here you are sharing your experience of confronting and releasing your own inner storms.
Through her receiving, she entered a new state of awareness that stabilized her in a way, imparting a palpable wisdom. Eyes wide open, awake, inside the storm. Looking in every direction, she sought out what was being offered. As a whole. It was in the midst of the upheaval that insight and understanding came to fruit.
Sometimes I wonder if receiving is nature's oldest language - one we've known since before words. When a tree receives rain, it doesn't question the timing or the amount. It simply opens its leaves, lets the water travel down its bark, shares with its roots, and offers what remains to the earth below. In this giving-receiving dance, there's no separation between personal and universal.
Perhaps this is why my body keeps whispering "receive" - not just as a personal invitation, but as a remembering of our place in the greater dance. Like water finding its way through soil, or light passing through leaves, we too can learn this ancient way of being. A way that transforms both the receiver and the received. Our ability to receive fully enables us to become part of nature's own immune system, her way of healing herself through us.
I will leave you with a letter from nature itself, the Great Mother. The following words came to me while sitting under a large cedar tree in my front yard:
"The human is trapped inside a too small container filled with many voices. They must journey into the wild of themselves, and of nature, to empty the self. Find in the gentlest place, a light that knows and grows with each visitation. Inspire the heart inside the human to wake from its palpating disconnect. An inner voice reminds you: there is a great reason for your existence.
Stand in harmony with what hurts and what heals, both yin and yang. The union. There can be no closed eyes, both must be open within one another. The clear center inside the light and the dark. Look for what is gentle. Weep your heart out to the tree, to the water, to the grass and to the sky. Recover your balance. Grace-filled forevermore.
Let my trees guide you. In the same way that my grass is now, bend. As the great gusts shift, let the pollen and dust be shaken loose. The husk, the seed, the bits that cling to you. Release.
Observe me stir this body of life as I wake and reform, seed and carry, touch and ruffle that which needs the extremes in order to find its next home. By all my mighty shapes, I show you what it means to give up your will and accept your limitations. Don't take up arms. The chaos will eventually lead to order, you must understand this. Act slowly in these moments. Watch and be still. Listen.
There is no formula for learning how to let go. You can practice and think you know, but on special days like this one, I'll show you. After taking the seeds, I toss them into the air. Don't worry about where it lands, my darling girl. In my garden, you are also a seed. With my wind, I carry you.
When you embrace this truth without arguing, you will discover its beauty. Tiny, frightened thing, nothing can destroy you. Remember not to lose heart. The nature of your being is morphogenic. Be humble in realizing this. To surrender your preconceived notions by bowing with my branches. Drop everything from your head and hands. You follow, I lead."
Like the cedar teaching me to bow, like dawn after night and spring after winter - everything returns to receiving. It was my body that knew this truth before I could grasp it, and it ran through me like a mantra. These enduring reserves of strength are found in opening and welcoming. Flourishing - like trees, rooted in nature's endless healing, who long ago learned to dance between earth and sky.
For my paid subscribers: I've included a video with a short story and a description of one way I practice receiving. I hope you will give it a try and share your findings with me.
love,
Sarah
"Dear Mother Earth, I bow my head before you. As I listen to the sound of the rising tide, I feel the rhythm of my heart.You have given me life and continue to give me life. I vow to be awake to your presence and to respond to your gifts with gratitude." —Thich Nhat Hanh. Love Letter to the Earth.
