“Sit down wherever you are
And listen to the wind singing in your veins.” ~ John Welwood
You are enough.
Is it fair to say that taking these three simple words to heart is one of life’s great challenges?
Lately, they’ve been giving me pause.
I’m near the end of a seven-month yoga training that’s tested me in ways I didn’t foresee when I signed on. Our small group of women meets for one long, intense weekend a month at the studio here in our town. Some are working toward becoming certified instructors. Others, like me, enrolled because it was a local opportunity to deepen our practice, to refresh our skills, and to read and study the philosophy of yoga and meditation with an inspiring teacher and some like-minded souls.
Early on, I realized that a large part of my own journey in this course would be about making peace with limitations. Two years after having both hips replaced, I’m able to walk and stretch and sit cross-legged without pain. In yoga class, though, I confront the edge of what’s possible. While my ego says, “Try harder, go deeper, be better,” my bionic joints offer a different message: “Be ok with where you are, breathe here, don’t push it.”
I can put myself into a deep lunge or forward fold, but the creepy popping sound of two artificial hips subluxating part way out of their sockets is a compelling reminder that no good can come of it. And so, I use blocks placed on the high end. I move slowly and with care. I practice transforming my desire for something more into gratitude for what is. The real challenge isn’t about lowering my thigh or my hands to the floor. It’s about finding a new way to work with that word enough.
But the inner dialogue doesn’t end with lunges and bends. Assigned a lengthy list of muscles and tendons to understand and memorize, I was surprised to observe how these unfamiliar words run through my brain like water through a sieve. I can read the Yoga Sutras and the Bhagavad Gita and comprehend just about anything that’s in front of me. Take the printed page away, though, and ask me to recite any of it back, and there’s a kind of foggy sky where there was once a solid mental blackboard full of whatever I was supposed to know.
I don’t really think my mind is going, but it’s changing. Seven years ago when I did my own teacher training, I made flash cards and memorized the Sanskrit names of all the poses, the bodily systems, the basic anatomical terms. I don’t have to do all that again, thankfully. But could I, if I had to? I’m not so sure. Do I actually know enough to teach anyone anything? Can my mind be less than it once was and still be enough? And if I’m less capable in some areas, can I still be enough in others? Does being enough as I grow older include continually surrendering to diminishment, narrowing possibilities, and loss?
My deep sadness this winter at the sudden death of a life-long friend has been complicated by regret for not having been a better friend myself. I’ve lost count of how many times I’ve re-read our last email exchange, from the end of January, wondering how I could have failed to read between the lines, failed to realize how sick she was, failed to let her know how much she meant to me. I wrote her back, urging her to take care of herself. But I didn’t call. I didn’t jump on a plane to Santa Fe. I didn’t even write again the next day, or the next, to check in. And then she was gone.
“She always loved you best,” a mutual friend said recently. “You were an anchor for her,” said another. And also: “She spoke of you often.” “Your name always came up.” “What you two had was special.” All of these kind words, intended to console, only make me feel worse. I should have been there. I wasn’t.
You are enough? Oh no, I’m not. Not always. Sometimes it’s just so hard to live with our own damned humanness.
In recent days I’ve inadvertently offended a cherished friend, left a forgotten load of laundry to solidify into a wrinkled mass in the dryer, failed to read the book club book, and procrastinated once again on cleaning the basement, which I meant to do in January. I haven’t exercised or meditated or written anything (till now). I ate two entire crème brulees in one sitting. At night I lie awake beside my sleeping husband, restless, thinking about all the things I’d do differently if I could.
But. I have also been forgiven, with grace and kindness, by my friend. I’ve driven a neighbor to Boston and back for a doctors’ appointment, made a special dinner for my parents, written notes to loved ones, gone on a date with my husband, done a little yard work with my dad, and had long heartfelt phone conversations with my kids. I can still iron those shirts. I can show up for book group and trust I’ll be welcomed anyway. I can take a walk, or sit in silence for twenty minutes, or make a first pass at the basement. Those crème brulees didn’t kill me or even matter in the grand scheme of things. Whatever I do, or fail to do, life goes on.
Before I flew to Nashville last month to interview Anna Quindlen for Parnassus, I prepared like the diligent English major I once was – as if I were going forth to teach a graduate seminar rather than to have an hour-long chat with her. I read (or re-read) the backlist, highlighter in hand, watched all the author interviews Ann Patchett’s ever done (a total treat), and filled about a hundred file cards with notes and questions, knowing all the while that when the time came I’d have to step out onto the stage without any of those crib sheets in my hand. (That brain-like-a-sieve thing had me worried, though, and I figured the more homework I did in advance, the more at ease I’d be in the moment.)
As it turned out, our conversation flowed readily. Small in size but large in stature, Anna is as warm and kind and funny in life as she is on the page. A kind of Rock Star/Normal Person, she is quite a commanding presence, outspoken, self-assured, yet also approachable. This, I sensed right away, is what “enough” looks like — a woman who is at home in her own skin and at home in the world.
And for that hour in front of the audience, I was “enough,” too. All those weeks spent reading and thinking and writing weren’t wasted. For me, going deep into what I love is a joy. It also made it possible for me, the quiet introvert from small-town New Hampshire, to be wired up with a microphone and engage in a lively, spontaneous chat with the Pulitzer Prize-winning, best-selling novelist from Manhattan. Sometimes, being enough means putting in the extra time and effort required to bring our very best selves to the table.
At one point toward the end of our talk, I observed that Anna is, among so many other things, the queen of the commencement address. She’s given dozens of them over the years, full of candor, insight, and encouragement for those setting forth into their young adult lives. Reading through those speeches was enough to make me a bit envious of the thousands of students who’ve received her hard-won wisdom.
“I wish you could give a commencement speech to all of us who are entering our older adult lives,” I said. “Approaching sixty feels like its own right of passage, just with different questions and uncertainties. What do you have to say to those of us who are graduating out of middle age?”
Anna didn’t hesitate. “At a certain point in my fifties,” she said, “I woke up one morning and decided I was just done. I was done listening to all the negative voices in my head. The voices that said, ‘You’re not pretty enough, or smart enough, or nice enough, or thin enough, or good enough.’ I realized that I am who I am — and I’m fine with that. I’m enough. And having that clear sense of myself, and that acceptance, completely freed me. I suddenly had a lot more time and energy to put into the things that matter. Like living my life and doing my work.
“The women I know in their sixties,” she went on, “they all rock. They’re doing exactly what they want to do, and they are enjoying life to the fullest, because they aren’t wasting any more precious time doubting themselves or doubting their worth.”
This insight was the real take-away, the gift of the few hours I spent hanging out with Anna Quindlen, both onstage and over a late dinner with Ann and my soul daughter Lauren: Life is a lot more interesting once we finally get over ourselves.
We can go on rehashing our familiar litanies of regrets, mistakes, and self-doubts. Or, we can put the tired old stories away, step into our own power, and have a fresh look around – for a way to be helpful right here and for something to be grateful for right now. And guess what? The whole world glows a little brighter as soon as we lighten up and turn our gazes outward.
Being “enough,” it turns out, is a choice not an accomplishment. Being enough has nothing to do with our achievements and everything to do with our qualities. And so the conversation I want to have with myself these days isn’t “Am I enough?” but rather, “Am I being kind? Am I being honest? Am I being useful? Have I made the day a little easier or a little better for someone else?”
In a way, this intention lets me off the hook for all the things beyond my control – the wrinkles and forgetfulness and creaky joints; being shy and solitary by nature; feeling sad or anxious or less than confident. And it allows for my mistakes and failures, too, because being enough in no way means being perfect. It means both forgiving myself and making my own ordinary life be about something bigger than me. It means starting where I am with what I have: this body, this temperament, this day, this task of being alive in the world — a world much in need of all the care and compassion and healing each one of us has to offer.
As so often happens when I (finally) do sit down at my desk, the universe provides a whisper of encouragement. Today it was the poem below, which appeared this week on the always wonderful and often magically serendipitous site First Sip. The lovely “You Are Enough” ladies are the paper-mache work of Nova Scotia artist Jane Creelman, an early Mother’s Day gift from Lauren which touched my heart and helped inspire these reflections. You can follow Jane on Instagram here. Finally, congratulations to reader Reena Roshgadol, who won the signed copy of Anna Quindlen’s Alternate Side. If you didn’t win, I hope you’ll treat yourself to this provocative novel in any case, and also to my all-time favorite book of Anna’s, Lots of Candles, Plenty of Cake. It’s the one I return to every time I need a dose of confidence, courage, or compassion. (Just click on the titles to order via my affiliate link on Amazon.)
Sit down wherever you are
And listen to the wind singing in your veins.
Feel the love, the longing, the fear in your bones.
Open your heart to who you are, right now,
Not who you would like to be,
Not the saint you are striving to become,
But the being right here before you, inside you, around you.
All of you is holy.
You are already more and less
Than whatever you can know.
Breathe out,
Touch in,
Let go.~ John Welwood
Your words are always so beautifully conveyed. You are more than enough in my opinion. Sending light, and love your way. XO
Thank you for this.
This particular blog has come at a very unsettled time in my life. I am struggling with so many things and will probably read and reread your words of wisdom many times in hopes of learning that I am enough. Thank you for the encouragement.
If only we had confidence in ourselves, courage to do what is right and compassion for our fellow man and woman and child. This world could be a better place. I take comfort in your words and strength of character.
Thank you for this. I have been having such an unsettled, not-feeling-enough kind of day and your words have been helpful. I am near to 70, and just yesterday was questioning why my mind, which was always so sharp, seems fogged at times. Scary because I don’t feel the magnitude of my chronological age creeping up so quickly.
This was encouraging.
Hi Katrina,
Your writing (and you!) are always so inspirational. Thanks for these reflections.
When I read the part about wanting a commencement speech for those entering their older adult lives, a book I just finished came to mind immediately. Living an Examined Life by James Hollis, a Jungian analyst. I read through it quickly and am now reading a chapter a day. Such depth.
Best to you,
Cathy
“You are enough”, what powerful words you have coined. Could we all believe that of ourselves, we would not need therapists. Think about it, It would all make us feel better about ourselves. I just had a total shoulder replacement last week. I had a left hip, right hip, right knee and left knee replaced over the past seventeen years. I do not want to say this has been easy. It has taken up a large part of my life, but my life goes on. I go on. I can walk without pain, I hope to reach my arm above my head at some point soon. I feel truly blessed to have a wonderful husband, children and great doctors. I am enough, and life goes on…
I lost my husband on April 3, 2018. I am “broken” and trying to figure out how to handle all of this. Your words, despite a different topic, bring me solace. They always do. You understand what we are all dealing with at any given time. Know that what you do is so worthwhile. And thank you!
Always so timely, Katrina! I checked out a Playaway of Alternate Side last Saturday, but couldn’t remember which friend had recommended it. Of course, you had! Now I’ll approach these “back nine” days a bit differently and excited that I Am Enough. Empowered for the 60s then! Thank You.
I only recently discovered this blog and when I saw your name in my inbox I had to pay attention. So timely for me as “questioning mode” has become way too familiar. What a wonderful snippet from your interview ! The honesty you share is a gift in and of itself. Thanks for putting pen to paper on this precise subject. I so needed the nudge down this path.
Your words always come at the perfect time! Thank you for your insight, honesty and grace! Do you ever come to Maine to do readings? Would love it if you do!
Thank you Katrina. So nice to “read” you again! It’s been a while for me too. My mother died about 6 months ago, soon after I had finally completed an arduous 4 year divorce process. I think my dear mom hung in there until she knew I’d be ok. I was happy for her. She was 93 and very much wanted “out” of life. It took me about 5 months before I could feel the loss. It’s hard to be sad for the loss when she so wanted to die. But here I am, feeling it and that’s good for my healing, but not easy. Her death and the loss of my husband after 30 years of marriage has pushed me to my core where I am discovering the Love Essence of everything. After mom died I felt strongly that Love is the glue of the Universe and my mother and I are still connected by that everlasting glue of Love. Your words have always been a comfort to me –from parenting teenagers to middle age and now life in my 60’s! How did we get here so fast! I’m learning we ALL have our issues and struggles and we all have a story to tell. I’m writing mine in bits and pieces as the scenes of the past arise within me. Writing helps me heal and gain perspective. Thanks for your courage to share your life and insights. I hope to do the same someday. Best wishes to you always, Linda Marten from Los Angeles, CA
So beautifully written and so nice to read words from you again that resonate. I am at the end of my 40s and feel like this message is really sinking in…I am who I am, I am where I am, and all I can do is dig in and live this ordinary but wonderful life amongst my faults and the daily crushes and challenges of life. Making a mistake and falling short doesn’t condemn me as a mother or a person, it just gives me opportunity to balance those scales a bit more. Thank you for sharing this wisdom and your vulnerabilities – I have missed your essays like this.
Thanks for sharing your thoughts, your vulnerability, your truth. I opened this as I was sitting down procrastinating about preparing to go teach a weekend of Yoga Teacher Training. I was having the low grade feeling of “what difference does it make?” and “how can I really be effective as a teacher if I feel that way?” Your words, your wonderings – they helped me know that it is enough to “show up” in this world. To do what you can, and let that be good enough. Thanks.
Also, I write “thoughts to share” on the blog page of our website and often get caught up in the “what’s it matter?” mindset. I doubt the worth of my words, and then allow the “who do you think you are” thoughts to sneak in. Your essay made me come back again to the realization that as long as I feel pulled to share – I should share. What comes of it…that’s just not the point.
I appreciate your voice in this world.
I appreciate your shared energy.
Love and Namaste, Augusta
Katrina, I am recovering from hip replacement and awaiting knee replacement on the other leg as soon as it is safe to go forward. Your words give me encouragement that perhaps in another year or two, I will be more mobile and agile. Lord knows, I’d like to walk without looking like Chester on Gunsmoke.
When i had the other knee replaced, I noticed something interesting about getting older and “freeing” myself as Anna discussed in her comments. Forgive me for sharing, but like you, I find it cathartic to write about what I’m going through.
The Melody of Life
Bobbie S. Bryant
February 23, 2016
As the seasons begin to change and leaves take their circuitous path to the ground, I ponder the passage of time. The mirror cannot hide the truth; the lines around my eyes have grown deeper. There are tiny furrows in my skin similar to those found embedded in an old 45 record, recording the melody of my life.
My face is most certainly changing as time ticks by, just as my attitude about age adjusts to the new realities my body.
I distinctly remember the toes of my grandmother. The second toe of each foot overlapped its neighboring big toe. I always wondered how she was able to slide her shoes on her feet. In the past year, I’ve discovered the answer to that question. The toes on my left foot have taken a decided turn, fully embracing the DNA legacy she charted for me.
Another reminder of my family history is the pain that announced its arrival this summer, in both knees. Just like my dad and granddad, I find myself consciously considering the distance across a parking lot and assessing the number of stairs to desired destinations. That’s the frustration of this aging process; it reaches out and smacks awareness right into your very being.
Given these frailties, it is a happy surprise to find myself surrounded by handsome, young, adult men that seem to enjoy talking to me. From my eldest stepson, my hair dresser and the nail technician, to the campus minister and a young business man I’ve met through my work – each finds an opportunity to talk with me about things of importance to them.
Our discussions vary. One has problems with his children and another is trying to learn time management skills. There are struggles with finances, and decisions about whether to take a new job or stay with the one they know. My son contemplates marriage, wanting to choose the right partner so he’ll be just as happy as his dad and me.
These smart and delightful young people are seeking answers, checking out their decisions, and gaining confidence in themselves, just as I did when I was their age. They are maneuvering in a world that is often bewildering, sometimes harsh, and at times, heartless.
It pleases me that my age and those pesky wrinkles don’t seem to bother these nice fellows. I recall how much it meant to me to have the friendship of an adult that wasn’t my mom or dad. It humbles me to know that they are using me, just as I used those special relationships to find my path through unknown or difficult territory.
I have not fully embraced being old just yet. I believe this is simply another season of my life. I now buy nighttime eye cream by the gallon. I’ve found a decent price for the cushions I must wear in my shoes, and when I need to, I wear a brace on my knee. These physical reminders of growing older are like the green leaves of summer as they evolve into the brilliant red, yellow, and oranges of fall.
Much like those colorful leaves full of chlorophyll, my life is filled with the radiance of God’s blessings. Rather than worrying about the onset of winter, I pray more and talk less, mindful of my role as the sensible elder.
I am energized by spending time and sharing with these younger adults coming alongside me, searching for their place and their happiness in the world. I like to think the grooves of this old 45 spinning around are creating sweet music; a weathered tune of grace, intended to be shared with others.
This came in my inbox yesterday, but I waited to read this until I had the time to really read it, and I am so grateful I did. Thank you again for magically sharing with your story the lesson that so many of us needed to hear. Grateful, as always.
Ahhhh…you are more than enough.
I teach yoga to people in recovery and in prison…I end my classes saying those few words….I find it easier saying that to others than to myself. Why are we so hard on ourselves??
As you know, my heart carries such similar thoughts, and I’m grateful that you share yours so honestly.
xoxo
Katrina this is one of your best pieces yet. thank you! I work in the generosity ministry at our church and people are always wondering how will we get more pledges, more money, more involvement. I’m trying to focus on what comes first i.e. gratitude. Your writing helped me to focus on that not only am I enough but that we have enough. God does not give skimpily. We have abundance and need to consider from that viewpoint not from one that focuses on scarcity. thank you !thank you !thank you!
Thank you for this. I needed it today.
Thank you for your wisdom and honesty. Approaching 70 presents different challenges. My fuzzy brain seems to recall that you’re a Smith graduate. Do you remember the speaker’s words at your graduation? I don’t even recall mine 10 years earlier. But you’ve just given me the best commencement speech for this time of transition. Your words will stay with me.
And thank you for sharing the poem by Welwood … such a good writer and teacher.
Thank you!
Your words are always so validating, re-assuring, comforting. I am 55 and was also feeling down about my memory and your blog post was just what I needed – as it so often is.
I have been reading and following you since “Mitten Strings…” and have raised my two boys (just a few years behind yours) with your eloquent and wise words as a roadmap of sorts. You have been a wise and kindred soul sister through the years. Validating that I was not swimming up stream, as my husband once said, but rather charting a course of my own. Thank you for being so brave and sharing your intimate journey. You are so much more than enough! You are telling your truth and in doing so – helping us discover ours. Such a gift! Thanks you! <3B
How much these words mean to me today…I feel I’m a late bloomer in so many areas and at 77 I’m still discovering ways to realize I am enough and I’m ok! Last month I had the wonderful opportunity of meeting a 95 year old lovely lady in Florida and both of us on vacation..so refreshing to talk with her and realize my mindsets of growing older needed u
dating…this wise little lady drove herself from Michigan every year u til this year and decided to have someone drive her this year..She was up and had her coffee and left for yoga before I was barely moving in the morning hours…ahhhh yes we are all enough! Thank you Katrina for your life giving words…..you are always so refreshing and a dear soul friend although we’ve never. Eat…..
We are in our 70s around our house and we have a saying: “If you haven’t started it or finished it by 3pm, forget about it!” and it works. Of course this refers to our daily chores and projects. If you can’t enjoy your life at this stage, you never will. Enjoy yourself all you youngsters in your 50’s and 60’s.
I needed this. I’m almost 52, but I’ve felt a shift in the last six months or so. It’s hard to describe, but I feel less me and more me. I can tell something is different and I lie awake at night (usually after a hot flash has woken me) and I sift through my day wishing I done things differently – not had that last glass of wine, reached out to a friend I’ve been ignoring, did my ‘dog homework’ for the training class we’re taking, watered the seedlings I keep forgetting about, read a book instead of playing bogle on my phone. For some reason, all the things i remember are the things I didn’t do. I’m not running anymore and I dont know why. Like I said, something is shifting in me. Like I’m shedding a skin (only what’s underneath will be more padded thanks to the nonrunning and the extra glass of wine). This essay gave me much food for thought. Thank you.
Not being good enough has been a subconscious (and sometimes conscious) mantra for much of my life. I have sensed a change of heart in the last few months and your words are an affirmation, a touchstone and an inspiration as I journey forward. Thank you.
I read this today giving myself time to digest slowly and carefully. Thank you for caring deeply to write with honesty and clarity. This is one of your best posts. You are beautiful in truth, revealing yourself. Thank you for helping me at 72.
Katrina,
Your words here are as beautiful and as inspirational as always. I am wondering about the lovely statues in the photos and where I might purchase one? I attempted following Jane Creelman on Instagram but I don’t think her work is sold there. I am captivated by her work. Thanks for any leads you may have!
Thank you so so much for helping me to stop and to READ. It feels so great!
All my best,
Stacy Mach
Hi Stacy, I think the only way to connect with Jane is by leaving her a comment on Instagram. She does sell work but doesn’t have a website or an Etsy site; it’s all word of mouth and very personal. I think if you just mention my blog, she’ll make the connection. Good luck! Her work is truly marvelous, isn’t it?
Katrina–I love how your words always reflect the present moment of who you are and what you are feeling. They are the written polaroids of your heart. Each word a necessary part of the picture. Thank you for writing so honestly and vulnerably. You remain a mentor of life for me. Not because you are perfect. But because you are in the boxing ring of life ( to use an image from Brene Brown!). Getting hit sometimes. Bloodied. Still, you remain resolute in your efforts to stay awake and aware. Even when it hurts. You are graceful in your moves. Determined to remain open. To learn. To connect. To create meaning. Your writing is like a soul balm to me.
Katrina, you always deliver the right message at the right time Thank you for this post. So beautifully articulated.
xoxo
fabiana
You are so able to put my inner thoughts in words. I think of you a as a translator….putting words to thoughts and feelings that are so hard to express. The language is so beautiful! Thank you.
I want you to know that I read this and felt an immediate companionship with you. You certainly are enough and your honest reflection is so refreshing. I was back and forth about how and when to go back east to see an old friend who is dying. I read this essay and it was suddenly clear. I bought a plane ticket that evening and went two days later. I will remember you and your essay every time I feel grateful for those final hours with my long time friend. Thank you.