News from Jules | 02.27.2023 | Everything I Need

I am still in Portland, Ore. wearing the same three shirts, dinosaur sweatshirt, and overalls I packed three weeks ago when I thought I was imminently departing for Northern California and Central Oregon.

The used car part—not the second attempt from California, but the third from Seattle—did come in three weeks ago. Not the custom part needed when my car initially wouldn’t start (first delay), but a fluky, unrelated secondary issue with the dashboard (second delay). While the part worked, the car’s computer didn’t (third delay). So, the computer is still waiting to be reprogrammed by custom technicians at a different shop that’s short-staffed and only open four days a week—when there isn’t a national holiday or a massive snowstorm (fourth and fifth delay).

The third delay was when I broke down and cried on the phone with my mechanic: Where was I going to go? And how was I going to get there??

I was beyond ready to go.

And for the first time, I truly felt homeless. Not houseless (or carless) which is actually a much more accurate description of those who don’t have a lease or a mortgage, whether voluntarily or involuntarily. But, homeless because I did not know where to shelter my body, my one true home.

Fear gets in the way of everything: openness, creativity, faith, and especially presence. In an effort to protect ourselves, we actually become more vulnerable. Closed off from the world, curled up in a ball, shut down, thus unable to receive all that surrounds us.

This is why we can’t live in fear. We must live in faith.

As my nervous system started shutting down, I instinctively turned on the faucet. My big wet tears helped fill the bathtub. The steam opened my lungs. The hot water hugged me.

My friend in Bend, Ore. texted come anyway. My climbing partner said, Of course stay here when you get back from Bend. My mechanic called back to offer me his car. After the shuttle from Bend dropped me off downtown, the Portland Streetcar ambassador gave me a free ticket to ride across the river to my mechanic’s shop and pick up the loaner car.

I wish I could say it all turned around here. It didn’t. I caught a cold in Bend so I was too sick to do much that week. Everything was still grey—the concrete, the sky, the buildings, the trees, the litter, the sirens, the traffic, the crowds. But, the weekend in the woods felt like a break in the clouds.

Just like the window of actual blue sky between snowstorms last weekend when my friend and I drove to the Oregon coast for the annual spiritual women’s group retreat I’ve attended for the past 10 years. Year after year, a roadmap of my growth. Last year too scared to surrender to the darkness. This year so well-versed in surrendering.

After the long drive, my chest was hurting more from the cold residue in my lungs. I called a friend who lives in Manzanita, Ore. before going to the grocery store in town.

She immediately said, “Oh yeah come on over. I’ve got a stockpile of Muccinex, Elderberry lozenges, Ricola cough drops, green tea, filtered water, and heck borrow my electric tea kettle while you’re at it.”

I felt so unprepared. Everything was either still in the trunk of my car jacked up in the mechanic shop or at the store that I couldn’t get to in the snow. No cigars, no offerings, no altar item, no art supplies, no tiny journal, no snacks, no sleeping bag, no wood, no S’mores supplies, no camping chair.

I realized that I had nothing I needed. Or rather nothing I thought I needed based on the past.

But what did I need for this retreat?

On Saturday morning, twelve women of all ages nestled onto couches and floor pillows and blankets. Slowly, quietly, shyly picking up the chorus of Aly Halpert’s song “Loosen” over and over until voices warmed up, wildly and freely layering into rounds:

“Loosen, loosen, ba-by
You don't have to car-ry
The weight of the world in your muscles and bones
Let go, let go, let go.”

This year was too cold for a campfire and my lungs were in no shape for tobacco, even ceremonial. This year I was too tired for a beach run or hike up the mountain. This year’s learnings were captured in song and hugs and laughter and dancing and silence and scones. And this year there were too many snacks, as always.

On Saturday night, I shared my interest in going to the beach after dark. Surprisingly, almost everyone piled on coats and scarves and hats and mittens and boots for a spontaneous trust walk—silently walking in pairs through the snowy dunes all the way down to the white rim of the black waves.

There were no stars. The only light from houses dotting the shoreline and the spotlight of a car coming around the bend of the highway before it faded into the black mountain against a black sky.

Together, we were the only constellation shining in the darkness.

The Universe whispering in my ears—in the sweet tenor of Trevor Hall:

Mmh, I have everything I need
Mmh, from the mountain to the sea
All of this is within me
I have everything I need

(Don't be afraid)
The fruitful darkness
(Don't be afraid)
Is all around us

May you find everything you need this week.

Love,

Jules

Photo Credit: Tiffany Temple