May all that isn’t mine fall away

I happen to be writing this on the autumn equinox. Yesterday was a new moon and a solar eclipse. It is also the beginning of Rosh Hashanah, the Jewish new year. Everywhere I turn there are invitations to begin again.

“Get realllllyyyyy clear with your intentions,” often goes the wisdom in such moments. “The universe will respond to exactly what you say.”

I’ve always found this daunting. As someone who is awash in so many thoughts all the time (in other words, um, human?), how to boil down all that I hope for into one pithy phrase? Usually this overwhelm has me blow past these opportunities to set intentions, keep doing what I’m doing, and hope for the best.

This time, though, Life hasn’t let me ignore this moment, these gateways. On the contrary, over the last several weeks It’s been feeding me my lines. It’s done this by piling one or two many things onto my plate, making it wobble and tip and spill and shatter. It reminds me in no uncertain terms that it’s impossible to micromanage—or even manage, really—all I believe that I am in charge of.

It has returned me to one of the only prayers (or, intentions) that have ever fully resonated in my body:

“May all that isn’t mine to do or be fall away.”

Is that really an intention? Who knows. It doesn’t have to do with manifesting or creating anything new. Still, every time I’m in touch with this phrase, it feels like exactly what I wish to become.

Don’t do anything else

I’ve been exerting a lot of effort lately. Fighting the current. Most of us have. Most of us do. (Because again: human.) My particular fight has sounded something like the following: Bring light bring joy help people feel freer and safer and oh yeah get over your scarcity issues and bring in some abundance ahhhhhhh!!!

Exactly the right energy to bring to such endeavors huh? Striving? For that matter, exactly the right terminology for such intentions: “endeavors.” Super chill. Super inviting.

Oy vey.

I was reminded recently in a conversation with one of my dozens of wise friends (holy crap am I rich in those) that my vice grip on what is important to me only ensures its suffocation. In holding on so hard I’m actually stifling something that not only wants to live, but was actually supposed to be nourishing me.

I’d forgotten that the only way we can make way for what actually wants to happen is to let go of what we believe is supposed to. To stop clawing, overdoing, grabbing, complicating things. To stop choking life with my crushing concern.

The opportunity to release

The next float in this groovy parade of serendipity is the fact that I’m leaving soon to walk the Camino de Santiago for the third time in two years—a privilege all its own, and this time with the added honor of helping hold space for my fellow pilgrims. This sacred path supports and heals in infinite ways. The biggest way it’s always aided me is in the dropping. The releasing. The grieving.

Things have indeed been stirred up in me to release, so I’m off to walk through days, over landscapes, amid weather and among new friends, to shed whatever that is. And then maybe return home to something new—or, more likely, to return to a black scary void that hasn’t yet formed into anything yet. But at least now there’s precedent. At least I know it won’t stay unformed for long.

Soul Writing isn’t going anywhere, that much I’m clear on, but its form may change as I walk with the intention of releasing my white-knuckled hold on it (and on my life in general) and let it become what it wants to, to touch as many hearts as it cares to.

Speaking it aloud

I suppose I’m writing this now as a little mile-marker, a little touch point to look back on to see, eventually, the space that this particular intention creates. Or not. I write it with as much surrender as I intend for everything else.

It also feels powerful to speak it into the space of Soul Writing itself. This community. You. So that we’re all freed from all the things we feel we have to dooooo with it (Write! Heal! Share! Spread the word! Evannngelizzze!) and allow ourselves to sink into the field of love and safety that it simply is.

You are welcome in this garden, this sanctuary. Revel in it in any way that serves you. Lie on the grass, tend the beds, wander and enjoy all that blooms and withers. Talk to people, or don’t. The only ‘rule,’ really, is kindness—to yourself, to others, and to the space.

While I’m gone I know the garden will be kept alive and thriving by the rain, the sun, the bees, and your love. I look forward to gathering in a few weeks’ time and sharing our adventures.

And you?

What are you wanting to bring in, or release, or both? How do you go about setting intentions? Obviously we don’t need new moons or weeks-long pilgrimages to release what we don’t need and maek space for what we do. We can make it a regular practice. Daily, even. I’m so curious to hear what has worked for you. In fact, maybe go ahead and write yourself an 8-minute blessing. Set a timer and answer the prompt, “May I …” Share it here if you wish.

May you be well. And happy. And free.