by Sara Barry | Apr 13, 2015 | finding time, writing
Feet together. Hands together.
Sweep arms up.
Flow down into forward bend. (God my legs are tight. I used to be more flexible.)
Breathe. Look up. Fold back down.
Palms to the floor (kind of)
Step back to downward facing dog. (Tight this way too.)
Breathe.
Keep going.
I’ve been doing a little yoga sequence in the morning. And by little, I mean 5 minutes, maybe 10.
I’m starting my day with movement and a stretch. I’m feeling a little more energized. It feels great. Well, except that part about how tight I am and that ego part about how I used to be able to bend further more easily. But I’m doing something. Instead of saying “I don’t have time,” I’m making this time.
I’m not any closer to getting back to that hour (or longer) class I used to love. I’m not even close to doing a half-hour routine at home. But this little bit that I’m doing is waking me up, reconnecting me to my breath and body, making a teensy bit of room for something I love in my life again.
That’s how I started running. It’s how I always start when I’ve gotten off track with writing. Do just a little. Remember it feels good. Do it again. Commit to that little bit. And build from there.
That little bit feels good. Is good. As you practice again and again, you train your body. You get into it more easily. Even then, sometimes you’re just tight or the words don’t come. Even then there are days you procrastinate about getting started. But you do because sometimes, as you stretch, you go deeper. Sometimes you get someplace new. A release. A connection. A realization.
What don’t you have time for? What little bit could you do today?
Are you ready to stretch and dig deep? We’ll start little and build. The Grow retreat starts next Sunday. Register here.
by Sara Barry | Dec 3, 2014 | finding time, grief, holidays, traditions, Uncategorized, winter
Three kids went home sick from my daughter’s class yesterday. One threw up at school. I’m obsessively washing my hands, reminding the kids to wash theirs, and trying to remember not to eat scraps off their plate.
Still, this morning, my stomach felt off. I don’t know if I’m on the verge of something or if I’m just fearful of getting a stomach bug.
I’ve been thinking about fear and the trepidation with which I approach December every year, and wondering if some of that is just habit.
December pulls me hard between dark and light, joy and sorrow, birth and death. All year I hold these things together, but in December, the tension is strong.
Next week I will celebrate my older daughter’s birthday. A few days later, her little sister will blow out her own candles.
And on the 17th, we mark the day Henry died.
I still feel trepidation when this month rolls around. My body tenses as we move into December, wrapping tighter as we move closer to that day.I feel the pressure of birthdays and holidays on either side of Henry’s day. I feel that weight sinking in the center between them.
I have slowly reclaimed this month. I moved from having no tree to putting up a mini tree to telling my girls the stories of the ornaments as we hang them together on a big tree. I’ve slowly reintroduced traditions like baking cookies and making ornaments. I’ve added new traditions like our Christmas story advent calendar.
Along the way, I’ve found light again and joy. My girls have helped a lot with that, their enthusiasm and excitement lighting my way. I want to follow their light, bask in it’s glow.
I want to let go of the trepidation this month brings.The weight, the darkness, the sorrow may come—surely will—but I don’t want to give it extra time.
The past few Decembers have been about building—adding in traditions and celebrations. This year, I want to start to let go of anxiety and anticipation, so even more light can come in.
What can you let go of this December? What can you make room for?
Maybe you’ll let go of a tradition you never liked or an event you grumble about every year to make room for a new tradition that brings you peace or joy.
Maybe you’ll let go of getting “perfect” gift and enjoy spending time with loved ones instead.
Maybe you’ll cull your Christmas card list and write a note to a few friends.
Maybe you’ll throw out the to do list and sit by the fire and sip your eggnog.
Not sure? Try journaling about what you love most about the holidays.
Whatever you do, I hope you find more joy and peace and light in this season.
Share in the comments what you want to make room for this month and one thing you can let go of to get there.
by Sara Barry | Oct 27, 2014 | finding time
When I started getting up early, I’d come down to the golden-pink glow of sunrise, but now when I wake up, it’s still black-gray. The house is cold, my bed so cozy. I don’t always want to get up, but most mornings I do.
I’m over on the Abundant Mama blog talking about why I wake early and the magic of early morning me time. Check it out and let me know why you do—or don’t—rise early.
by Sara Barry | Oct 4, 2014 | fall, finding time, Uncategorized, writing
Get up early. Notice the way the red leaves glow in the gray morning. Drink good coffee. Write.
Read with your kids. Let them loll on on your lap. Make raisin toast with cinnamon (or sour dough with peanut butter if one of them is picky.)
Run in the rain. Say “good morning” to the other crazy hardy soul you pass. Realize it’s a friend you never see. Say “Oh, hi it’s you!” Go home. Clear your glasses. Take a long, hot shower.
Find a package in your mailbox. Dream of garlic scape pesto next spring. Wonder when to plant your garlic. Remember you still need to dig potatoes and pull carrots. Look out at the rain. Wait.
Go to brunch at a friend’s house. Eat, drink more coffee, have a conversation while your kids are running around the house.
Stop at the library. Pick up the next book in the Fairy Realm series for bedtime. Check out a garden book for inspiration.
Back home, smile at the flowers all over the house, the ones that this and coming rain inspired you to cut yesterday—cosmos and zinnias and mums and sedum.
Eat bacon. On a burger. With home brewed beer.
Add a side of spicy oven fries cooked in some of the bacon fat. Notice that nobody complains about dinner tonight.
Wait til the kids are in bed. Eat apple crisp for a late dessert. Wonder if your pears are ripe enough to make this. Wonder if you have time to make it for breakfast in the morning.
Put on PJs snuggle under covers. Love that it is cool enough to snuggle under covers. Sleep. Get ready to get up early, notice the light, drink coffee, and write.
How are you creating energy, connecting with family and friends, finding beauty, or nourishing yourself this weekend?
by Sara Barry | Sep 29, 2014 | fall, finding time, traditions
Imagine waking up and hearing that you didn’t have to go to work and all your appointments were cancelled today.
The bells rang out on my college campus today signalling Mountain Day. Classes are cancelled. It’s a day to be outside, climb a mountain, eat cider donuts and ice cream.
Ever since I graduated, I’ve been tempted to take my own Mountain Day when I get the email announcing the arrival of this fall tradition.
I think about going on a hike or cancelling work for the day, but inevitably I’m on deadline or catching up after a weekend away or just got a call from a client I haven’t heard from in a while. There’s always something isn’t there?
So I’m not calling off work today or pulling my kids from school, but I had a cider donut with my coffee. I’ll give my girls donuts or take them out for ice cream this afternoon.
I took a walk this morning, just around the block, no mountain involved, but I slowed down. I paid attention to the swirl of colors that has emerged recently, noticed the yellow against gray sky that has now brightened up to blue.
I’m not taking the whole day off, but I’m going to take a little break anyway. I encourage you to take your own Mountain Day today, or a least a Mountain Moment.
Take a break.
Have a treat.
Get outside.
Slow down.
Notice the beauty around you.
Happy Mountain Day!
What are you going to do with your Mountain Moments?
For a month of this kind of Mountain Moment, join me for Abundance.
by Sara Barry | Sep 22, 2014 | fall, finding time, Uncategorized, writing
It’s the last day of summer, but I’ve already embraced fall.
We’re digging potatoes, stacking wood, crunching apples.
My garden is still putting out kale and chard, beans and herbs, zinnias and cosmos.
I sauté deep green kale and pair it with bright orange squash. I simmer big pots of soup and chili, bake pork and apple pie, fill up the freezer.
I notice the beauty, the color, how much we have.
I invite you to notice the beauty and fullness in your life, harvest your own ideas, preserve your memories, and savor your own abundance. I invite you to make time to think, space to write.
The school bus rumbles down our street, squeals to a stop, bright yellow against a deep blue sky. Watching my big girl climb the high steps I remember holding her—then holding her back—as we watched our friends get on the bus, back when the bus was a break in a long morning.
I collect that memory, sit with it, gather the details, write it.
***
Saturday orange-red globes and dusky cherry tomatoes spilled over my friends counter. I set down a bag of peppers, chunky fir green poblanos, narrow yellow bananas, mid-green bells. We chopped and simmered, moving easily around each other in the comfort of old friends.
It is the last of our summer canning. Apple sauce yes, but that’s fall. Green tomatoes maybe as frost threatens. I’ve step out at night with the dog and smelled the cold already. When I get out of bed for my early morning writing, I pull on a sweater, slide into slippers.
Sunday was sticky and warm days are in the forecast for this week—summer hanging on, but the crispness of the days before, the days to come, it energizes me. I’m running more regularly and settling back into a better writing routine after a lack of summer schedule.
I am more motivated to do. But I take time still to sit outside writing, watching, reading, letting go of the weeds in the garden, letting go of my lists.
Later when my girls are in bed . . .
Tomorrow morning before they are up . . .
In the car after preschool drop off before I start work . . .
I’ll write.
I’ll describe this late summer day, the quiet in the house, the steady buzz of bees in the carpet of alyssum around the kale. I’ll shake off a morning meltdown or shift back my to my own kindergarten days, little snippets—red shoes, a yellow record, a batik project outside. I’ll start with the sensory details of making salsa and see where it takes me.
Take the time to write, to explore your ideas and memories, tap into creativity.
It’s Monday. Lunches to pack, school drop off, call with a client, meet the bus.
It’s Monday, and I’m taking time to write, creating a pocket of calm, holding space for myself.
I’m noticing my world in all its messy glory.
I’m capturing bits of today and harvesting memories, palpable, and sometimes as elusive as the potatoes I need to finish digging up.
I’m preserving the moments in words, filling notebooks as I fill my canning cabinet.
And I’m slowing down, savoring it all—even the chaos of a Monday morning.
You can too.
Take time for yourself. Notice your world. Write it. Join me and embrace your own abundance.
