Daily Notes, From the Editor

(648 words)

Harvest season is here, the healer told me yesterday. Curious, I asked for more.

"It is really three seasons," she explained as I curled into her big turquoise velvet armchair, sipping filtered water from a small mason jar.

I had come for body work, a craniosacral chakra balancing. The solar eclipse Monday felt like a turning point, a reset for spirit. My body, especially my central nervous system, had yet to catch up with the shift. So I found myself in Vanessa's soothing presence, talking about harvest seasons and the way they mirror our growth.

"There is the early harvest, which is easy, like collecting ripe fruit that falls from the vine," she told me. "We simply collect the bounty we planted for last winter. Then there is the middle harvest, which we are heading into now. It requires more work but is also more rewarding. The third is the soul harvest. That comes later and goes deeper when we integrate all we have gathered."

Last weekend I spent on Marrowstone Island and it was an early harvest of sorts. I got some time away from the city with my sweetheart. We have been communicating in a new way, doing our best to hear one another, assess, and change old patterns that no longer serve. Honestly, sometimes this work feels downright scary. It is the kind of work that unearths inconvenient truths. It is the kind of work that humbles. It is the kind of work that requires trust. I think it is also the kind of work that leads to growth.

I've come to realize that relationships are basically one continuous conversation that lasts for as long as the relationship does. While the ability to have serious "relationship talks" is important (as is the ability to hold one's ground, as is the ability to give up that ground and admit when we have been perhaps the teeniest, tiniest bit wrong...) what is absolutely essential is the ability to pause with the serious talk and go play together. It's called relating, and isn't that what being in a relationship is all about?

So we kayaked as harbor seals followed us, their curious faces surfacing every few seconds like happy sea dogs. We waded into the frigid salt water, held our breath and dunked under, then came up gasp-laughing in the warm sunshine. We made gourmet dinners at sunset and foraged for perfect branches with which to roast 99 cent marshmallows before placing them upon expensive French cookies, the kind with real dark chocolate layered on top. We vowed to never buy Hershey's for camping s'mores again.

I can say with certainty that I grew. At least a little. Maybe a lot.

We also picked blackberries. Turning down a quiet road we had never taken before, he stopped the truck and hopped out to start filling empty containers. Unlike last year when, in my eagerness to reap everything I wanted from the summer all at once, I picked a lot of berries that were not quite ripe...this year I only let the softest ones fall into my palms. I chose to leave the others on the vine. The result was sweet and rewarding.

Yesterday, as Vanessa went about her work, I felt something big exit the middle of my body. My belly shook in one great sob, followed by several deep breaths that escorted whatever it was out. She held the space for what felt like a significant clearing. I think it was fear leaving the scene. I think I doused an old anger-fire that no longer needs to burn. I think middle harvest has begun.

My hope--for me, for you, for all of us--is that this harvest season brings great bounty. I hope it includes love, health, well-being, good communication, more play, and most importantly another layer removed from in between us and our hearts' deepest longings.

Yours from late August,

xo
laura

Laura Lowery is the founder, editor and publisher of Lucia. She does her best to lead a creative life. Whether triumphant or stumbling, Laura shares daily notes (that are often weekly) here on luciajournal, including stories, behind-the-scenes happenings, little doses of inspiration, and large quantities of curiosity and heart. She is pleased to meet you.