At times, my life has the quality of a cautionary tale. An ordinary traveler embattled with a perfect storm of extraordinary, albeit unfortunate, events. Traumas, tragedies, and tribulations. It is funny how an alliteration can make the ugliest things sound beautiful or poetic. In the thick of the suffering, you miss the faint lines of ironic symmetry and the curves in the path, which become unhealthy patterns. Patterns can become labyrinthine, leaving you feeling stuck, lost, hopeless, + frustrated. There isn’t anything poetic or beautiful in that crystallization of dysfunction.

Why is surrender so potent? How does it happen? At what point do we move past resistance and into surrender? The answers aren’t as simple as the questions, and it looks different on every person, every experience.

I’ve heard it said before that the only thing guaranteed in life is change. Sometimes the winds of change lift you up and you soar like a bird through the heights, and sometimes those same winds whip your tender skin raw. Is it possible to choose which experience we have? Not all the time. It’s not always a choice.

We all know how difficult it can be to navigate the long winter months in Michigan. Whether it’s the lack of daylight, the cold temperatures, or the sometimes seemingly endless gray days, this season brings with it challenges in staying active, engaged, and in feeling generally positive about the days ahead.

From the time of conception in the modern-day, our life is put on a timeline. Even in the hospital at our births, it’s 24 hours allotted labor time and then under the knife. It doesn’t really get any slower from there.

There was a time when people would gather and celebrate rites of passage. Oil the feet of an expectant mother. Henna the hands of a girls first blood. Nourish the woman who had just given birth. Celebrate a boy’s quest to manhood with fire and dance. Create adornments for a dreamers first sight. Grieve at the pyre of an elders ’s passing.