Tag: mindfulness

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News from Jules | 01.31.2022 | What Are the Odds

one lesson about integrity every week

I was already fast asleep at 7:52 pm on Thursday night when the email arrived. Thirteen hours later, I was still lying in bed around 9 a.m. when I saw the email: “The climb is headed out tomorrow night. I have space, so let me know if you can make it.”

My excitement increased as the news sunk in: A team was climbing Mt. Hood tonight…and I could go. 

I could go. 

Six months since my last climb and months of waiting for the right conditions, the opportunity arises for two summits—in one week. What are the odds? 

Way back in September while hiking up to Council Crest—one of the highest points in Portland overlooking all of the surrounding mountains—one of my climbing partners and I set our sights on climbing Mount St. Helens together. The winter route seemed like great training toward our ultimate goal: attempting Mt. Hood again after nearly summiting in June, 2021.

We set a couple of dates for early December, then trained and waited for snow. We were in peak training condition as our dates came and went. We kept waiting for snow. It started snowing, but it was the Holidays. And then Omicron surged. So, we hadn’t really trained in a month. I recovered from COVID the week before. And I had just started my monthly cycle. 

While planning an elevation training hike for the weekend, we saw a tiny high-pressure weather window of clear skies and calm winds on the horizon mid-week.

Overall, we were healthy and we were ready. 

Right now, it’s like this.  

We weren’t in our peak condition, but the conditions combined beautifully to get us to the peak. 

We saw a shooting star above the mountain right before a stunning sunrise revealed Mt. Hood gloriously floating above a sea of clouds. As the sun climbed across the clear blue sky, we paused to marvel at the breathtaking views with others we encountered on the way up, including a surprising fellow climber. An almost four-year-old walking alongside his parents, ice ax in hand—just like us. So that’s where the skittle came from that I’d seen in the snow. 

By 10 a.m., we reached the summit. 

Our little friend would get there too, just a couple of hours later. 

Five hours up, four hours down. About 5,600 ft. over 11.5 miles round trip. We got back to the car by 2 p.m., leaving plenty of time for a celebratory coffee stop and to beat traffic on the way home. It went so smoothly that I wondered throughout the climb: was it still an adventure if there weren’t any challenges, any drama? 

And I was still wondering this when I woke up on Friday morning and checked my email. Wait, this Mazamas team was climbing Mt. Hood tonight…and I could go?

Not just any adventure. My dream. Right there.

And my gear wasn’t even unpacked. 

I quickly assessed the conditions. The weather forecast showed the same high winds and cold temps that we had hustled to avoid. My body was sore, but functional. My mind less so. I didn’t know the team, though most folks with the Mazamas Mountaineering Club are strong climbers. But, would I be an asset or a liability to the team? 

“It’d be brutal but you could do it,” texted my climbing partner. 

Hood or bust indeed.

It felt like I was pushing the odds, so I reluctantly emailed the climb leader to climb on without me. 

One summit was plenty. 

For now. 

May the odds be in your favor this week. 

Love,
Jules

I share a lesson learned about integrity every Monday. Sign up for delivery right to your inbox. Want more? There’s lots more lessons learned here on my blog, so have fun exploring and commenting about your own insights! 

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News from Jules | 01.24.2022 | It’s Like This

one lesson about integrity every week

It’s been a beautiful, strange two weeks: Hoping for a miracle, sitting with a reality, mourning a loss. I have been gratefully aware of life—and the distinct difference between being alive versus feeling alive. It’s not just wording. It is a different sensation.

Two weeks ago, I went back to my naturopath for another intrauterine insemination (IUI) attempt with donor sperm on a Monday. On that Wednesday, I woke up with cold symptoms that turned out to be COVID-19 positive. And then Sunday was the anniversary of the day we lost my Mom 19 years—nearly half my life—ago. 

There was a sort of purity, simplicity and rawness in all of these elements of the circle of life converging at the very same time. Not fateful or correlated. Just beautiful and strange. 

I sure wouldn’t have planned it this way, if I was in charge of planning. 

But, like my new favorite Buddhist mantra says: Right now, it’s like this.

This is life.

Luckily, I only experienced mild COVID symptoms for a few days. After two years of fearing this virus, I was gratefully aware of being alive. Simple things: Sleeping, breathing, walking, pain, smelling, hunger, tasting. I didn’t feel awful. I didn’t feel good. But I felt. 

And then, there was the first day I woke up gratefully aware of feeling alive. Simple things: alertness, clarity, strength, energy. I didn’t feel wonderful. But I glowed. I felt like myself again.

That day I stepped out of isolation to cautiously take a walk. Bundled up in my long puffy coat, I took deep breaths of the fresh, cold, winter air. I noticed flowers, trees, clouds like I’d never seen them before. And as I kept walking, I noticed how much I preferred this sensation: this feeling alive.

In fact, it was the only sensation that I considered worth living.

I had to sit on the curb and think about that for a good long minute, or twelve: 

  • How was feeling alive different from being alive?
  • Why was vivacity better than existence?
  • Aren’t we all just lucky to be alive?

We are, we are. 

It is such a miracle to create life. It is so hard to stay present to ever-changing reality. It is even harder to accept constant loss. 

While there is a distinct difference, a different sensation, between being alive and feeling alive, there is no hierarchy. One is not better than the other.

Even if it feels like it is. 

The only “better” is aligning to what is. 

Right now, it’s like this. 

May you be and feel alive this week.  

Love,
Jules

I share a lesson learned about integrity every Monday. Sign up for delivery right to your inbox. Want more? There’s lots more lessons learned here on my blog, so have fun exploring and commenting about your own insights! 

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News from Jules | 01.17.2022 | What Feels Right and True

one lesson about integrity every week

There were so many things I expected to come to fruition last year besides the dream of summiting Mt. Hood. Seeds that I thought I planted last March, nurtured through the summer, and anticipated harvesting in the fall. Just as I’d planned. So it came as a humble reminder to enter winter, the last season in our current growth cycle, and keep trying. 

Trying to start a family. Trying to find true love. Trying to make a living. Trying to write a book. 

Persistent dreams I committed to pursuing wholeheartedly last year. 

During my annual exam last January, 2021, I excitedly told my OBGYN that after years of deliberation I was ready to have a baby on my own. And, I also kept my heart open as I met a few potential soulmates during outdoor adventures throughout the year. I accepted getting laid off in July—at the same time as finally being debt-free—as an opportunity to reassess my callings. I set up a dedicated writing desk and dusted off my box of notecards, source texts, sparkly inspirational doodads. 

This was all happening throughout last year, subtly veiled beneath the catchy phrases and metaphors in my blog; the word choices and photos on Instagram. Known to those in my day-to-day, but not to all of you. 

Even when I wasn’t writing, I constantly debated with myself about what to share and the relevance to your lives: What is necessary and useful? What is inspiring? What is personal? What is private?

And, how would it all turn out? Would I jinx myself or close doors by sharing half-baked truths?

But, can the Universe really provide if I keep withholding my truth?  

Who knows?

These questions are beyond me. I can’t know what is going on in your life—just like you don’t know mine unless I tell you. You may not even know what is necessary, useful or inspiring for your journey, until you read it. What is too personal to know, until you feel it. 

And then you’ll decide to simply follow the pull of curiosity. Or not and stop reading.

The question I can answer: What feels right and true and whole to me?

My own words reminding me:

The world cannot be whole without all of you. 

I held these questions as fall became a season of healing after so much trying. A time to stop trying. To harvest health and balance. To nourish every part of my being with long hikes, strong workouts, good food, and honest storytelling. To study the natural rhythm. 

“Tying my family’s nutritional fortunes to the seasons…did acquaint us in new ways with what seasons mean, and how they matter,” wrote Barbara Kingsolver in Animal, Vegetable, Miracle. “Especially, I’m coming to understand [my elder] culture’s special regard for winter. It’s the season to come through.” 

And so, I entered the winter solstice a month ago lighter and ready to let go of what isn’t serving me: control, planning, permanence, opacity.

Instead, I am transparently surrendering to this Season of life, and inviting you along. 

I am sharing more of the actual everyday journey toward integrity. Not waiting for how “it all turns out” and what it meant based on “what I know now.” I am still trying for the right mix of personal but not private, relatable yet specific. Necessary, useful, inspiring for you—and for me as I make sense of it as I go. 

Here we are. 

This quiet time to come through, together. 

May you come through this week.  

Love,
Jules

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News from Jules | 01.10.2022 | Don’t Quit Your Daydream

one lesson about integrity every week

It’s good to take a break from our dreams for a bit. To see where we stand. Are they exactly where we left them? Have they morphed into a different version? Have they disappeared altogether—no longer relevant as we’ve evolved in the meantime? 

If the dream persists once we come back, we know we’ve got unfinished business. 

It’s been six months since I attempted to summit Mt. Hood. Since the snow melted and the mountain became unattemptable, at least for a rookie climber like me. It was a surprisingly ideal end to my first season of learning how to climb through the Mazama’s Basic Climbing Education Program (BCEP). If you’re curious, an abridged account is published in the latest issue of the Mazama’s Bulletin, January/February 2022 on pages 23-26. Plus, the whole #hoodorbust journey to date is on my blog. 

I learned so much. Mostly about myself.  

As it turns out, I didn’t complete a dream. I discovered one. I tapped into my higher potential. What I might be capable of, if I dared to try. After I got past my personal motivations and goals, I was ready to simply follow the pull of curiosity. 

The pull to try. Because why not?

Last week, I felt the same thrill when I attempted a tricky, 5.9 indoor rock climbing route for the umpteenth time. At first, I thought it was too hard for a beginner like me and avoided it. But, as I watched other people race up the route, I got the itch to give it a try. I could barely make it a few feet off the ground at first, but my curiosity was hooked: Could I do it?

I tried several times…at each climbing session…every week in a row. Making a little progress upward and getting stuck each week. Feeling a bit defeated in the fourth week, I took a break and tried some even harder 5.10 routes that my climbing partners did. Why not fail harder? But, making solid, unexpected progress encouraged me to keep trying.

I went by myself on the last day of my month-long trial membership with this tricky 5.9 route in mind. It was now or never. 

First I did a Yoga for Climbers class and a few easy bouldering routes to warm up. Then, I went for it. As I reached the top of the elusive route, I was half-surprised, half-assured: Hot damn, I just did it! 

It was a feeling just for me. There was nothing to prove, just potential to unlock. 

When I went snowshoeing on Mt. Hood yesterday it was my first time this year actually seeing the south side crater blanketed with silky white snow. It was breathtaking. My dream was exactly where I left it. 

And my motivation has morphed. 

It’s good to take a break from our dreams for a bit. 

And it’s good to keep trying. 

May you know where you stand this week.  

Love,
Jules

I share a lesson learned about integrity every Monday. Sign up for delivery right to your inbox. Want more? There’s lots more lessons learned here on my blog, so have fun exploring and commenting about your own insights! 

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News from Jules | 07.16.2021 | If You Go First

one lesson about integrity every week

Caught up in my thoughts about everything that had happened in the previous week, I wasn’t really paying attention to where I was. The brown sand and low bushes had quickly turned to rolling green fields as I traveled from the Central Oregon desert back toward the Cascades mountain range earlier this week.

As I cruised along, I looked over my shoulder to the left. Noticing Mt. Hood it hit me:

Whoa, I’ve climbed that. 

I scanned the horizon. As I looked toward my right and noticed Mt. Adams over in Washington it hit me: Whoa, I climbed that too…last weekend. Even though I’d just stood near or at the highest points of these peaks—including all 12,281 feet of Mt. Adams and 1,000 feet higher than Mt. Hood—from afar they both seemed insurmountable. 

Like a dream. And yet, a dream that I lived step by step. Breath by breath. Choice by choice. The mountains patiently waiting for me to come to them. 

If I go first. 

Mt. Adams was my third climb in a month, but it felt like my first real summit. After five hours of hiking and climbing with a 35-pound pack at our leisurely pace the day before, my climbing partner and I camped at 9,300 feet to acclimatize before the next day’s ascent. We intentionally set out “late” around 7 a.m. the next morning so that the snow would be softer and less icy on our descent later that afternoon. We immediately put on our crampons and helmets and headed straight up for the next five hours.

For each “You got this, girl” pushing me through a tough spot, I reminded myself to stop and look around. Look down to face the fear. Look out to see the beauty. The vast expanse of land off into the horizon—rolling hills like waves under the drifting clouds—continued to take my breath away. It was a different ocean than I’d ever seen before.

Usually, I sprint to the finish. No matter what I tap into a hidden reserve of adrenaline and speed. I finish strong. But as we came around the bend into the last 200 feet from the top, literally a stone’s throw away, everything started slowing down.

My steps. My breath. My mind. Can I do this?

The doubt came out of nowhere. Affirming itself and avoiding the present, my mind flashed back to my first half-marathon: When I felt like I was going to fall apart and started walking around mile 10. But, then as I rounded the bend I saw my brother and sister-in-law cheering me on, so I quickly started running again to not disappoint them. But, that was the past. And it wasn’t helpful. What was I moving toward?

Living into my fullest potential as a human.

Like in a slow-motion dream, I watched visions of the future: family, kids, writing, teaching, retreating, being. I felt all the sensations of being humbly, vulnerably, courageously so very human. 

And as I took the final steps to the very top, it all washed over me with warm, happy tears. 

I was standing exactly where my parents stood when I was just a speck of potential. Even though my family wasn’t there, I knew they were cheering me on from afar. Like they always have. Not to accomplish goals. But to live into my dreams. Even if they couldn’t understand. 

I savored the summit, sending bubbles of joy off in the wind before I carried this truth with me from all the way atop Mt. Adams down toward sea level and back to reality. 

Spending five days with the fluidity of the ocean and the stability of the mountain was exactly the grounding I needed to be fully present throughout the last two weeks. Driving back from an amazing weekend in Bend, I returned to wrap up my last week of work at this company. ​It’s growing fast, but not fast enough to require a full-time Learning & Development Manager.  

So, today is my last day and I am among the unemployed masses once again. One of the lucky who will receive unemployment insurance benefits and still has group healthcare coverage. 

Of course, the narrative arc is not lost on me: coming full circle to where I was a year ago when I started blogging again. 

Every week for the last 52 weeks I have sent a TinyLetter to y’all—plus and minus a few readers. That wasn’t actually the goal when I started writing again last July 20, 2021. It was simply to Carpe Diem.

And I did seize the day.

It kept me going this extraordinary past year to send these weekly updates as I processed life and shared what I discovered. I love being connected to each of you. Knowing you’re cheering me on in my journey. And as you’re navigating your own journey—whenever the subject line draws you in and wherever the words find you. 

So, I’ll keep writing eventually and we’ll stay connected. 

I’ll keep posting beautiful moments in relationships, sports, travel, nature, life on Instagram. 

Initially, I’m taking a two-week break to reset my reality. Most of which will be outdoors and offline. And, then I may come back to weekly posts or perhaps at a different or random cadence or I may switch to editing. I’m not sure. 

Right now, I am leaning deeply into the unknown. 

As my Yogi tea bags keep telling me: The unknown is where all possibilities lie. 

Where anything is possible. 

Where everything is possible. 

May you go first this week. 

Love,
Jules

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News from Jules | 07.05.2021 | Saying Yes to One Thing

one lesson about integrity every week

I could feel it all week. Having spent so much time in the mountains lately, I needed to get back to sea level.

Without anywhere in particular in mind, I scanned the Oregon coastline on Google Maps. I only had Thursday night before my next climbing trip over the weekend, so I needed to stay close to Portland. Nothing jumped off the map until I moved up to Washington. Long Beach caught my eye. It was that kooky little town on my bucket list discovered while facilitating a retreat nearby a few summers ago. 

The closest campground was at Cape Disappointment State Park. I’d never been there! 

Or had I been there too many times to count—figuratively that is? Is it possible to live life to the fullest without having hopes or expectations?

One of the many things I was wondering as I set out on this brief personal retreat. 

As soon as I parked, smelled the salt air and discovered the tiny trail directly from my campsite to the beach, I knew: This was exactly where I needed to be.

As if I had planned it long ago, instead of the night before. 

As I sunk my bare feet into the sand and scanned the beach, my first inclination was to explore the caverns and shoreline of this place I’d never been to until sunset. Getting to know every inch of it. Seeing everything. My curiosity always steering the course. Yet, this wasn’t what had drawn me to the coast. 

I needed to just sit there. 

Three steps and four drift logs from where I emerged. 

Just me, Grandmother Ocean and all the feelings of doubt and insecurity about ever living into my fullest potential as a human. Potential recently tapped into during peak experiences, but not yet amidst my day-to-day. Bringing forth everything I have been gifted to offer the world: family, kids, writing, teaching, retreating, being. 

Simply being. 

Amidst all the doing, could our being be all that’s asked of us?

So simple. Yet so immense. I still can’t wrap my head around it.

Saying yes to one thing and no to everything else. 

Yes to being right here, right now, in whatever this moment holds. 

Like the waves lapping on the shore. The birds flying overhead. The lighthouse on the cliff, constantly turning to spread its light. 

Can just being lead me to everything I’m drawn to? Do I need to do anything? Besides showing up?

I sat there smoking a cigar until the sky, waves and beach turned the same shade of grey and there was no one else on the beach. Just me, Grandmother Ocean and all the sensations of being humbly, vulnerably, courageously so very human. 

I carried this truth with me from sea level all the way up Mt. Adams, where I camped 24 hours later beside a different ocean than I’d ever seen before. 

May you say yes to being this week.

Love,
Jules

I share a lesson learned about integrity every Monday. Sign up for delivery right to your inbox. Want more? There’s lots more lessons learned here on my blog, so have fun exploring and commenting about your own insights! 

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News from Jules | 06.28.2021 | Row Your Own Way

one lesson about integrity every week

Once my eyes opened I knew exactly what I wanted to do. I quickly changed into shorts and a sweatshirt, grabbed a life jacket and an oar and set off toward the lake. 

It seemed like everyone in the entire campground was still asleep. And the throngs of visitors had yet to arrive. 

With a record-breaking heatwave rolling into the Pacific Northwest over the weekend, everyone had the same idea to head toward the mountain. At the last minute, my plans changed from climbing South Sister with friends in Central Oregon to joining other friends on their family campout.

As soon as we got set up on Friday night, we brought the canoe and standup paddleboards (SUP) down to the water for a sunset row. I wondered how magical the sunrise on the lake would be.

The next day the lake was bustling like the waterways of Venice: SUPs, canoes, dinghies, rafts, inner tubes, even household air mattresses. People everywhere. Voices carrying across the water, everyone commenting, “I’ve never seen this many people on Trillium Lake before!” 

At 6:30 a.m. on Sunday morning, it was just me and the actual early birds chirping away. 

As I walked the boardwalk and the perimeter trail to where we’d left the canoe, it hit me:

Can you row a canoe by yourself? Or does it take two people? I had no idea. I realized I’d never rowed a canoe solo before. I could turn around and give up. Or I could try it. 

Why not?

Once I found it amongst the bushes, I turned the canoe over and pushed it away from the grassy shore. 

Would it even work with only one oar? Yes. 

Or would I just go in circles? No. 

Even if it’s backward apparently. Defying logic, I learned later that the bigger seat is actually the front and the smaller seat goes in the back. Huh, good to know!  

I sliced through the still water, alternating a few strokes on each side of the canoe. Stopping every few minutes to take photos of one magical moment after another: the sun peeking through the treeline, the yellow flower buds peeking through the lily pads, the tree stumps jutting out of the middle of the lake, the shadows moving across the mountain’s glaciers. All reflected back on the still water. 

Thoughts buzzed past just like the dragonflies, connecting this moment with past moments. Instead of dwelling on the random thoughts or making meaning, I simply smiled. 

The actual dragonflies excitedly mating over the lily pads were much more interesting. 

A gaggle buzzed over to me, some pairs hit the side of the canoe with a thud, bounced off and kept flying. 

It was more than magic. 

This was living in harmony with nature. Living in harmony with my nature. 

Fleetwood Mac had it right: Go your own way. Row your own way. 

The risk: Figuring it out on one’s own. 

The reward: Getting to witness the beginning of a new day.

May you go your own way this week. 

Love,
Jules

I share a lesson learned about integrity every Monday. Sign up for delivery right to your inbox. Want more? There’s lots more lessons learned here on my blog, so have fun exploring and commenting about your own insights! 

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News from Jules | 02.22.2021 | Tiny Perfect Things*

one lesson about integrity every week

It was not the first time that I was out on a Sabbath stroll in the woods only to hear a voice ask excitedly and surprisingly from closeby: “Jules?”

The Universe? Our magnetic forces? Similar weekending habits? 

Whatever the cause, last Saturday I serendipitously ran into this dear friend again. It was a double delight to love squint our eyes above our masks and receive what felt like a hug from the universe or a tiny perfect thing, *from a surprisingly good teen romcom if you need a light movie night. 

At that moment I knew how much I had already recovered through my sacred day of deep rest. And how burned out I had been just days before. 

From the action-packed, snowy weekend right on into the workweek, I also had virtual class or social commitments every single night. Five weeks into this kind of schedule, my routines were frayed, my rhythm was out of sync and my attitude was threadbare.

With every basic need that fell by the wayside—eating breakfast, brushing my teeth, just putting on deodorant—each new ask in service of someone else’s need chaffed like wet cotton on a rainy run. 

No was my first reaction to most texts last week, including from that dear friend.My second response was a sigh for the obligation to respond and honor the ask. 

This irritability was one of the first symptoms of my deep fatigue that I noticed. That quickly compounded into indulging and compensating. Before I knew it, I was scraping the bottom of my survival skills. Late last week I was making lists of everything as basic as sending an email. I was micromanaging my time down to four more minutes in bed before a meeting started and I had to get up. 

I could no longer cope, or deal effectively with something difficult. Life felt like a chore, a grind, a burden. Not the privilege, the gift, the miracle that it is. 

In precious minutes on the phone with one of my long-distance best friends—a nonprofit VP and mother of a toddler herself—I rattled on and on about all of my commitments. Calmly and lovingly she listened and empathized: Wow, that is a lot, especially right now. That sounds like “Vintage Jules.”

She was right. This is how I used to live all the time and what I thought was “normal” before I started practicing Sabbath six years ago. Oops!

In the excitement of starting new things in the new year, I quickly became overextended. Then with every personal or national event—a friend’s parent passing away from cancer, the insurrection followed by impeachment trials—I crossed over “vulnerability overload.”

Plus, I forgot about the persistent low-grade stress—of natural disasters from climate change, on top of the pandemic, on top of systemic racism. 

With my friends’ insights and my body’s symptoms sounding alarms, I channeled my Nonviolent Communication learnings and asked my spirit for guidance: What was I feeling? What did I truly need?

I was exhausted. I needed rest. 

Not longer hours of sleep at night or several naps. But sacred and deep rest. 

It was that simple. 

And so, I set the intention for last weekend: go back to the basics for observing Sabbath. 

No work, no plans, offline. Let my spirit lead and make my body follow. Pause all passing thoughts. Meet my every and immediate need, no questions asked, moment by moment. 

Like an instant spiritual chiropractic treatment, my routines immediately reset, my rhythm found its groove and my attitude regained perspective as I realigned to the universe. 

I saw all the tiny perfect things the day had to offer.  

Like that dear friend sitting on a bench in the park and calling out to me as I strolled by marveling at the giant trees. No need to text back or arrange a call, she was right there before me! 

From one more thing to one less thing.

Hence the double delight. 

May your spirit savor some deep, sacred rest this week. 

Love,
Jules

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News from Jules | 02.15.2021 | Being in Love

one lesson about integrity every week

It was a good thing that I made a last-minute run to my PO Box on Wednesday before the snow arrived. Inside there was a red envelope from the Research Triangle Region addressed to Jules Williams and Forever stamped with Love. 

It was sealed with a sticker of an apple with googly eyes, a smile and legs, but no arms. Why would an apple need arms?? 

That was enough to tickle my heart for days. 

Of course, I waited until Sunday and then opened my Valentine. A little fox in raincoat and galoshes standing outside on a clear night full of stars, holding a balloon of the moon. A tiny heart above his head. “To the moon and back!” it said.

Golly gee willickers! Even after 21 years of love notes with a favorite friend, these words hold the same magic: Dear Jules. I love you!  

It’s not the actual words that are so nourishing. It’s the truth beneath them—being seen, enjoyed and acknowledged, simply for being. And when it is mutually shared, mutually reflected, it lights everything up. 

Perhaps that’s what we love so much about loving others?

So often conflated with romance, it’s easy to forget our lives are filled with true love. True because it is pure, undiluted, 100 percent. So close to feeling perfect it easily gets confused with flawless. Love because it is a distinct sensation—a combination of like, joy, happy and delight—that is universal and inexplicable.

For years, I have tried to put the sensation into words. Not in sonnets, but in lists. No surprise, I’ve studied everything I love that generates this sensation—it’s a long list—with surprisingly more places, things and experiences than people. The best synonym I’ve come up with is: favorite. 

Junior Mints, pugs, art museums, the ocean, libraries, Mt. Hood, best friends, getting mail, sending mail, postcards, collecting things, organizing things, making things (or making things from organizing collections of postcards a la 100 Days Post Love, a silly blog I made in 2013 of love notes to 100 people). Just to name a few. 

I love being in love! So, I fill my life with as many of my favorites as possible. 

Not just for a day. I’m convinced that we could spend most of our waking hours enraptured in its glow, with the occasional break for a necessary moment of fear, hurt or boredom. We are human after all. 

Some years Valentines’ Day can feel silly, excessive and/or unnecessary.

But, this year—as we near the anniversary of life turning upside down from COVID-19 etc.—thank goodness for a whole day dedicated to reminding us of how good it feels being in love…whether or not there is a sweetheart in particular. 

May you fill your life with favorites this week and every day after. 

Love,
Jules

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News from Jules | 02.08.2021 | Getting Everything You Need

one lesson about integrity every week

Even with a worksheet in hand and three weeks into the course, I had the hardest time finding the words for my needs. Not the needs that come with obvious feelings like hungry or tired. But the more subtle needs. Like being heard or seen. Just as important though, constantly guiding our daily choices and habits that steer the bigger decisions. 

During this five-week course, I’m learning the practice of Nonviolent Communication, also known as Compassionate Communication, created by Marshall Rosenberg, a psychologist who made the link back in the 1960’s between observations, feelings, needs and requests as a way “to authentically connect to another human being.” 

I thought feelings and needs were simple. Geez, was I wrong. 

I guess feelings and needs are simple if you’re only counting the basic ones. 

But dig a little deeper, into the layer of known, but unnamed, psychological needs like security and self-expression and acceptance, and it sure gets complicated quickly. And that’s just one person’s needs! As soon as another person is added, then there’s instantly competing needs. Especially in less collective, more individually-minded cultures. 

And this is where we find a deep, troublesome and pervasive struggle. 

Whose needs are more important?

I faced this question head-on last December, when the COVID-19 case numbers surging up the charts after Thanksgiving looked more like a tsunami than a third wave. The Center for Disease Control revised recommendations for masks on all the time—inside or outside. 

Several weeks into living alone, I decided to avoid being indoors with people anywhere, including quick trips to the grocery store. I logged into Instacart and submitted my first grocery delivery order. 

Later in the afternoon the next day, my phone started vibrating with texts from the shopper: Would this [other organic, fake cheese brand] work instead?  The six-pack of beer I selected was sold out and couldn’t be substituted. Sad face.

We texted back and forth for 55-minutes while I was in a Zoom work meeting and she navigated the store to find everything on my list. 

Once I got the “I’m here” text, I grabbed my mask, put on my slippers, then ran down from the fifth floor to meet her out front. As she came around the driver’s side to open the trunk of the Ford Explorer, I saw this beautiful African American woman, twice as big as me, with a pink sequinned mask. I smiled. Now that’s my kinda style!

After a quick “Thank you” from six-feet apart, I gathered up the half-dozen grocery bags and waddled back into my apartment building. As I press the button for the elevator and stood there in the hallway, it hit me.

Wait a second. I simultaneously realized what just happened—what I just saw on the curb and had transpired over the last hour over text. I couldn’t yet name my feelings, but I knew something wasn’t right. 

Just like in March as I came to my first epiphany of the pandemic, this defining moment was just as subtle of a wake-up call.

Slowly, I connected my observations with my feelings. And then with my needs. And then her needs. 

I was concerned and worried.

Why was this woman—in one of the highest risk groups for potentially multiple reasons—spending hours exposed to others, so that I—in one of the lowest risk groups—could stay safe at home? 

Yes, I needed safety and nourishment, hence delivery and groceries. And yes, she needed nourishment, perhaps that’s why she had that job. But, what about her need for safety?

What the heck? I should be doing her grocery shopping! 

That was the one and only grocery delivery I did.

These defining moments—on my front porch and with Instacart—keep echoing, reminding me how this deep, troublesome and pervasive struggle touches every part of our lives. Because of the way we currently live, we are in a constant state of competing needs.

And the struggle to get our needs met is vulnerable. Especially when we can’t name them. We’re doing the best we can. And, this constant, collective vulnerability—not just some of us, all of us—is the opening. 

An opening for all of us to grow, together. 

We can take care of our needs and meet the needs of all. I know we can. 

It starts with practice: noticing, sensing, naming and relating.

Authentically, selflessly, compassionately. 

May you get everything you need this week. 

Love,
Jules

I share a lesson learned about integrity every Monday. Sign up for delivery right to your inbox. Want more? There’s lots more lessons learned here on my blog, so have fun exploring and commenting about your own insights! 

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