This is where I live.

This is my body.

It houses me.

And not just me-now but all of the versions and aspects of me. And the infinite internal worlds that I am a part of.

My body is the home of my creativity, my strength, my desire, my boundaries, my entire experience of being alive.

This is where I live.

The absolute worst, most destructive things I can feed my body: guilt, shame, self-recrimination.

The healthiest and most loving things I can feed it: spaciousness, appreciation, boundaries, acknowledgment, movement, rest, permission, amnesty.

This is where I live.

I have not always treated this home especially well. Actually, I spent most of my twenties trashing the place. It’s okay. It was a necessary experience.

And one day I remembered that this is the only place I get to live.

I care for it to the best of my ability, which is always changing. It’s a process.

Still I commit to lovingly maintaining it. My life work includes getting to know all the hidden spaces and neglected corners.

To repair where I can. To lovingly accept where I can’t.

All houses have odd problems and structural weirdnesses. You get to know them. You work around some things. You make peace with other things.

I can have love for this home even if … okay, yes, this isn’t the kind of porch I would have designed for it. My pain. My process.

This is where I live.

My body is also the home of my business.

That’s because any business or job requires presence. Which starts in my body and my relationship with my body.

It’s not just about letting my body make executive decisions. It’s about recognizing that this container is the hub of everything.

Everything I do to support it supports my business.

Everything I do that is not supportive — even if it’s a sacrifice I’m making for my business, sabotages my business.

Here’s what’s good for my business: sleeping, moving, walking, dancing, flailing, yoga, massage. Long, slow, deep breaths. Noticing.

Here’s what’s never good for my business: rushing, panicking, forgetting where I live.

This is where I live.

Sometimes caring for your home means setting firm expectations, and kicking everyone out.

Yesterday I was at dance class and forgot that my home is my home.

I spaced out and started letting the instructor set things up her way in my home. It was not good.

I took a break so I could talk to my home. This is what I said:

“Hey, this is our space. It exists for us. We know it best. I am so sorry that I forgot. I will never push you. I will listen, ask questions and commit to supporting what you need to feel safe, strong, powerful and loved.”

This is where I live.

This is where I live.

It is the safe space from which I am able to do the things that I do, as well as the place where I practice intentionally not doing.

It is the home of my essential me-ness. Where all the bits and forgotten Havi-pieces come together.

Where I hide. Where I fall apart. Where I recover. Where I grow. Where I play.

I learn this and re-learn this and re-learn this.

This is where I get to live.

It houses me.

It houses me.

Comment blanket fort…

We all have our stuff. We all have complex relationships with our symbolic homes and internal space. We’re working on it. It’s a process.

If you’d like, you can notice things about your relationship with this place you live. Or share what you’re trying. Tell us what helps you spend more time there.

We don’t tell each other what to do or how to feel.

We give other people room to have their stuff. We take responsibility for our stuff and for our choices/reactions. We put our attention to the patterns and needs behind our thoughts and questions.

We play. Even though this stuff is hard. Which it is.

Love to the commenter mice, the Beloved Lurkers and everyone who reads.

p.s. Plum Duff! Take a look. Password: extraraisins

The Fluent Self