To Be Seen and Heard

Photo by Vanilla Panda on Unsplash

                                                            

My yearning didn’t need fixing; it needed to be seen and heard.

At Kripalu, I first discovered a poem by John O’Donohue, “For Belonging,” and it’s stayed with me, resurfacing when I need it. What really struck me was how the poem sees yearning as something vibrant, not something broken. It doesn’t feel like a problem to solve; it feels like a truth to welcome. It made “longing” feel real and human, something I didn’t have to apologize for. And the idea of being “free” felt like a gentle permission, not a pressure. Permission to go back to my heart and soul first, not just my head.

In nature, that message became even clearer. The outside world slows me down enough to hear what’s beneath the yearning: a gentler pace, a quieter mind, a deeper sense of peace. I notice it in the birdsong and in how my body softens when I’m not forcing anything.

Lately, I keep coming back to this: listening is more important than fixing. The question isn’t just what needs to change right now, but what happens when I acknowledge longing without rushing to smooth it over. What does it want to show me? What guidance does it offer when I treat it with respect instead of urgency? What happens when I actually see it and listen, instead of rushing past it?

Maybe the point isn’t to be “free” all at once. Maybe it’s to keep coming back, to see what’s there, listen carefully, and ask what I’m longing for before I try to manage, decide, or fix.

You can find “For Belonging” in O’Donohue’s collection To Bless the Space Between Us.

A Mid-Year Pause for the Spirit

July arrives quietly, and I pause, not because everything has gone wrong but because enough has already gone by. The year is half-spent, and before I let the second half carry me along, I want to choose how I meet it.

This is what I call a spiritual check-in, not a performance review, no list of failures —just a gentle reckoning,  a few minutes of honest attention to what has been nourishing and what hasn't.

I begin by finding a quiet space and closing my eyes. Five slow breaths. With each exhale I let a little of what I’ve been holding go. I'm not trying to solve anything, just making space for my intuition to be heard.

Then I take stock. On paper, I jot down three things that have fed  my spirit and three that have drained it. Specific things, like a morning routine I finally kept, a conversation that cost me more than it should have, a practice I let go of too soon. Seeing them written down helps me understand what to carry forward and what to release.

From there I return to my guiding light — a word, a phrase, an image that grounds me. Curious. Remember breath. Be present. I choose one and let it settle. I write it at the top of the page and let it move me into the next six months.

Then I choose  one practice. Just one. Something small enough to actually do: five minutes of silence each morning, a weekly walk without my phone, one evening a week with a notebook and a candle. I decide when and where, because intention without a container tends to drift.

I close with a small ritual to mark the moment: hands wrapped around a warm cup, a candle lit, a hand pressed to my heart. Something that lets my body feel the choice, not just my mind.

Mid-year is not a deadline. It's a doorway. Walk through it slowly; that slow attention is its own kind of faith.

The Courage of the Pause

Photo by Andy Makely on Unsplash

Once, when a friendship tilted toward distrust, I felt the urge to confront immediately. Instead, I went quiet. I sat with the feeling, breathed, and asked for discernment rather than reaction. In that silence, I noticed what I was most afraid of and what I actually wanted: clarity, repair, and a way forward.

When I finally spoke, my voice was steadier and my words clearer. I named the facts I’d observed, owned my own feelings without casting blame, and invited their perspective. The pause had softened my edge and turned the conversation from accusation into collaboration. Together, we named what had been unspoken and found practical solutions. The silence before speaking had been an act of courage, and it changed the shape of the relationship for the better. 

The next time you feel the urge to rush toward a difficult conversation, consider what the quiet might show you first.

July is coming. It might be worth pausing before it arrives.