somatic imagining
anchoring to a future we long for
Imagine with me:
A ceasefire has been called. It is immediate and permanent. Humanitarian aid rushes in, and the work of healing begins.
Imagine with me:
As though a spell is broken, everyone everywhere, all at once, remember that our primary task as humans is to care for each other and care for the earth. Suddenly, as though by magic, the idea of war and ecological destruction is unfathomable. It is as thought we have finally woken from a long, feverish dream.
Imagine with me:
The lands are alive with birdsong. The air is sweet and the waters are clear.
Imagine with me:
We are safe. Children everywhere are safe. We are held within the resiliency of community, our lives are full of good purpose, and the future is welcomed and carefully tended.
It might feel impossible to imagine this. Especially now. But try. And try not only to imagine it with your mind, but to feel it with your own body. How would this feel in your own belly and chest? Would it change the way you breathe, letting your breath come in a little more slowly, a little more deeply? Would it change the way your heart sits in your chest, letting it rest more easily?
I know it would for me.
It might feel impossible to imagine this, especially now, as we are so constantly bombarded with horrors through our phones and through the grapevines of our families and extended communities. If it feels impossible to imagine a future that feels hopeful and sweet, you can borrow from memories of the past: remember the sweetness of the first day of school vacation, for example, and how it felt to wake up on that first slow, delicious morning. Remember a favorite food from childhood, and not only the food itself, but the memory it lives within - coming in cold from sledding to warm up with a cup of hot cocoa, or realizing that by some miracle, tonight’s dinner is a line up of only favorites. In returning to sweet memories from childhood, look to how the body feels - how the shoulders relax, how the breath deepens. A somatic imagining takes these memories our bodies know, and places them into an unknown future.
It might seem like an impossible luxury to feel this and imagine this, and if we’re not careful, it might become that. But I trust that you, like me, have been steadily heartbroken since early October, and that you, like me, are living with a constant ache and fear of what will happen next. In this way, imagining a future of hope and beauty is an act of resilience.
A somatic imagining of a hopeful future begins by feeling and sensing a future we long for, that we hope our children will grow up into. It is not just thinking about what a hopeful future will look like. It is feeling it, breathing it, envisioning it, it’s making it visible through poetry and art, it’s speaking it into being in our communities. It’s giving ourselves the space to pray that a different world is possible, and then it’s making that world visible in whatever small way.
It’s anchoring to the world we long for, rather than running from the world we fear.
I am close to taking a few days away from work - which, for me means taking a few days away from social media. I have the privilege of being able to take the days around my birthday and the winter solstice away from screens and meetings. For my birthday, my partner is taking me to see a Christmas lights show, because ever since I was a little girl Christmas lights have been my absolute favorite. The next day some friends are gathering for a birthday party, and we’ll eat good food and dance in the living room and build a fire outside in the snow. Knowing these friends, there will be a lot of silliness and some very good and deep laughter.
I have been feeling a bit torn about celebrating anything right now - I know many people are choosing not to celebrate holidays at all in solidarity with Palestine, and I do respect that choice. But in talks with my closest circle, we’ve been talking about the need for joy and celebration, and the need to celebrate in ways that don’t fragment us off into isolated parts, this part over here grieving the ongoing genocides (not only in Palestine) and this part over here drinking eggnog. Instead, we are exploring what it means to gather together to celebrate in ways that seed this hopeful future into the present.
I’m not sure it’s the right choice - I don’t know what is right these days, and I am not trying to position myself as someone who does. But I know that this fuels me to remain grounded and present in a world full of horrors, while still remaining anchored to a world I hope the children I love will grow up into.
After the solstice and up until the Gregorian New Year, I will only be giving my attention to the stories of the Tarot. For several years now this has been my pattern: step away for a bit as we welcome the return of the light, and then in those strange, liminal days between Christmas and New Years, dive into the Tarot by offering personal readings for the year ahead. In those days when no one is really checking emails, when life seems a bit suspended and out of time, it makes sense to me to dive into these ancient stories and the guidance the Tarot offers.
I offer a limited number of readings, because they are personal for each individual (rather than a collective reading, which I do often offer to people who subscribe to my email list and so will share here on Substack as well). If you would like one, the offer will be listed on my website until my capacity is reached, and the personal, pre-recorded readings will be sent by email between 12/24-1/3/24.
And with that- farewell for now, friends. I hope the closing of your year brings you peace in whatever small way. I pray for an immediate and permanent ceasefire. And I hope for a future where we all know safety and belonging.
