The Safety Of You

You are the place to stand in when your feet are sore.

“…Perhaps the bee does not know it at all—but still, she remains fully devoted to her simplest, truest ways of being.”

Hello dear reader,

How are you this week? Where do your feet stand when they are sore?

Goats in the Pasture, Anticoli Corrado (1904) by Mariano Barbasán (Spanish, 1864 – 1924)

The striving to “fix” oneself stems from a deep-rooted sense of inadequacy. An ache for safety sought outside the home of one’s own being.

When there is no urgency to subtract or add, when the daily occurrence of life becomes sufficient, and we find ourselves truly living it, as it expresses itself through us from moment to moment—then, perhaps, our hearts might rejoice in the simple act of living free from performances, with all that it gifts us.

Then, perhaps, we might recognise we already are all we need to be.

I am drawn to the wordless and the spacious. Watching my dog nap wrapped in her favourite blanket as if it were the only possible thing to do in the world, because in that moment, it is.

Observing the goats going about their goat business which includes both climbing the trees for tastier leaves as well as frolicking uncontrollably, with full dedication and no second-guessing in either case.

Checking every day on the blueberries to see if they have ripened already, and invariably leaving in awe (and more often now with full belly too) at the wisdom encoded in the architecture of the plant. It knows without fault how to produce the most delightful treats for the bees, then me, the beetles, and the birds. They are all great teachers to me.

I always leave more than enough ripened fruit for both the small and slightly bigger winged bodies to feed on. It brings me joy to know that we share this treat.

Seeping out to the field from my bed at dawn, barefoot, I step into the sun’s golden embrace. Pausing, a lot. Pausing so much that doing seems to be a pause from pausing.

I do not know why the words have felt so suffocating for so long. I wanted to read others’ writing here, to participate in their journeys, and I could not. I could only be, pausing.

For a writer, I dislike words too often, I think to myself. Or perhaps it is not that I dislike them. Perhaps it is just that my relationship to them needed to evolve, and shift. I used to see them as something definitive, fixed, hungry to contain in them the uncontainable. But that changed. Now, I see them as threads with which to reweave one’s relationship with the larger fabric of life. Just like it happened with the relationship to my-self.

There is a new intimacy with life, beyond meaning. I learned I need not force my heart to care, frame the moment as sacred, or meaningful. I can just let it be blank. In the sense that, I let it be what it really is: empty.

When that who tries to make sense of it all dissolves layer by layer, there is a new opening. And this opening is not always a revelation or an insight, but simply a kind of freedom that does not strive nor does it seek meaning, but is meaning itself.

Strangely, in time, that can become the most intimate thing of all. To eat life whole. To re-member into being. A kind of inward implosion.

There are fewer moments now of yearning, striving, becoming; I find an odd kind of easeful pleasure and liberation in being, and letting that be an offering.

The words of Ajahn Sumedho, then repeated to me by a dear teacher, echo in the mind with amplifying resonance:

“More and more the path is just simply being here and now, being with the way things are. There is nowhere to go, nothing to do, nothing to become, nothing to get rid of.”

It is a kind of non-invasive life, one carried out in accord with all living things. It recognises their inherent worth and contribution to the daily process of living and dying, and in that, it roots itself in the unwavering understanding of one’s own irremovable worth.

A life lived simply, expressing what already is, what we have always been, and already are—is a prayer. And what is a prayer? And who is there to tell us, if not our own body, our own heart that knows its ways as intimately as the bee does when she lands on the soon-to-be-blueberry—maybe fully aware how her little pollen-coated feet lead the march of thousands away from starvation and towards sweetness.

Or maybe she does not know it at all—but still, remains fully devoted to her simplest, truest ways of being.

How to know oneself, if not by giving one’s all to the voracious mouth of life so its teeth can tear apart all the excess? How, if not by letting oneself be swallowed by the abyss of darkness at the very centre of this very mouth, and then letting oneself be sung and nurtured like a phoenix bird back into existence? And it will be an existence that does not try to hide anymore, nor be anything else that it is not, and honestly.

You see, there is a place in each of us that knows no harm. The traumas of childhood, the deep-carved wounds of the ancestors, the betrayals, abuse, abandonment—all carried in the tears that cut across the cheeks like rivers cut through the landscape—they do not touch the deepest soil.

As John O’Donohue writes about it:

“…There is a place in you where you have never been wounded, where there is still a sureness in you, where there is a seamlessness in you, and where there is a confidence and tranquillity in you. And I think the intention of prayer and spirituality and love is now and again to visit that inner kind of sanctuary.”

So maybe that is what the prayer is? And you know already, it is life itself. Simply, a way of being—like that of a bee.

This inner sanctuary is the well of safety. It is where to retreat time and again when the weight of dailiness grows too heavy and too burdensome to carry with your head risen up, eyes wide open. It is sweet and steady and simple. And it is all there is.

Deep down there (although it is not really deep, or down), we are immaculate. The freedom of being, as opposed to becoming, stems from a clear and direct recognition that we are already all that we need to be. That is not to say perfect, for perfection is a limited and conditioned concept, while our innermost being is unconditional and boundless.

Pádraig Ó Tuama recalls in his conversation with Krista Tippett an Irish phrase for trust. When Irish say “I trust you”, in direct translation, they say “You are the place where I stand on the day when my feet are sore.” (“Mo sheasamh ort lá na choise tinne”).

And this is what this inner sanctuary is all about. A place to stand in when our feet are sore. Something to trust, always. You can be that to yourself. In fact, you already are. Dear one, you are safe in your embrace.

Rainer Maria Rilke addresses it in his poem “Let This Darkness Be a Bell Tower” through a metaphor of sound and resonance:

“Let this darkness be a bell tower and you the bell. As you ring, what batters you becomes your strength.”

And Florence + The Machine sings in “Cosmic Love,” a song that visited me last month as an unexpected messenger:

“I was [left] in the darkness, so darkness I became.”

This place of all-encompassing quietude is accessible to all of us, in any moment. It is not something to be achieved through practice, or tapped into with the assistance of an external medicine—plant or otherwise. Life gives us a thousand opportunities to return home. All we need to do is give ourselves to it, and let its song resonate in our hollowing shell of being.

To recognise this truth does not mean to become arrogant, oblivious, reckless, indulgent. And anyway, these would be signs of mere intellectual grasping of the idea of it. Rootedness in the truth gradually disperses all such tendencies.

What it means, is to understand that there is nothing to gain that would make one happier, more whole, more lovable, or more acceptable. That the striving to become “a better version of ourselves” is simply an effort of refining the story, fine-tuning the illusion of a fixed self.

But self is not a thing to improve. It is a process, fluidity. For it to be improvable, it would have to be static, built of concrete elements. It is not. It is ever-shifting. The reason we repeat certain patterns, tendencies, preferences, is that there are still conditions in place that determine them, and also because—just like the blueberry plant, or the bee—our bodies and nervous systems have encoded wisdom which orders them to follow certain pathways in their physical form.

The striving to improve and fix oneself stems from a deep sense of inadequacy. And that can be remedied by recognising the irremovable, unconditional preciousness within ourselves that is not earned, that does not stem from anything we have done or have not done, but rather emanates as the only reality of what already is, what we already are in the truth of being.

It is a kind of impersonal preciousness. A given. It cannot be questioned or undermined because it was not granted through effort. It simply is.

I am learning that this is what evokes a greater sense of safety, sovereignty, and direction in life. It is a paradox, because it is a directionless-direction. It is not aimed at anything else but its source. And the source is everywhere and everything. So it is like light—it does not see itself, and yet it allows all else to be seen, illuminating it.

Full devotion to truthfulness (for which mindfulness is a device of action) which, again, is nothing to be gained or sourced through religion or ritual, but what already is, and what we already are. Resting in being as it is.

And when there is nothing to achieve or gain, nothing to become, nowhere to go, nothing to get rid of, I offer my meditation practice as a gift—to all beings, to “my-self”. And I think to myself, tears in my eyes, a deep smile rising from the belly and warming every part of me: this is freedom.

To be so rich I can give in each moment freely, unbound by anything. Giving simply as being in truth.

This is freedom. And what a joy it is.

This is the safety of you.

If you find warmth, comfort, inspiration, joy, motivation, or anything else of value in these letters and would like to show your support, please consider becoming a deeply valued patron by upgrading to a monthly or yearly subscription. This will also give you access to the full archive. If you have a financial restriction, please don’t hesitate to contact me.

Dear all,

Important changes are unfolding within Stacking Stones, and I would like to share them with you (explained more in-depth in the email I sent on Monday):

1. Special, paid-only letters

I’ll occasionally be sharing paid-only pieces—more intimate writings, fragments from my journal, letters I wouldn’t otherwise publish widely, and behind-the-scenes glimpses. I’ll send those when I feel I have something meaningful, slightly unpolished, and deeply honest to share with you.

The first one arrived on Monday as well. It’s a raw reflection on the last two–three months of deep recalibration. Too personal to share openly, but too meaningful not to. Some of you told me you’ll transcribe it as your personal prayer you will keep returning to and I am speechless-honoured and grateful.

This offering is my way of honouring those of you who choose to support this space, and creating an opportunity for an evolving relationship between us.

2. The archive is open again

My intentions toward my work and participation in the world have evolved over these past months. I’ve been reflecting on how I want this space to grow and serve the community.

I want more people to find their way here—to be able to read, return, and feel met—without barriers. And I realised that keeping the archive gated no longer feels aligned (even though keeping the archive gated made practical sense given my current housing and financial uncertainty).

So I’ve opened it this week. All my past essays are now freely available again. My hope is that this helps the writing reach more of the people it’s meant to reach.

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To help you transition more easily, if you choose to do so, I’ve created a 35% discount on subscriptions for those who upgrade this month: $5 instead of $8/month (valid for one year), and $55 instead of $85/year.

If you have financial constraints but feel moved by my writing and would like to access these more intimate letters, please don’t hesitate to reach out.

Thank you, truly, for being here.

Cuddles with Su — a tiny soft container filled in equal parts with unpredictable, uncontainable chaos and deeply soothing warmth.

Before you go:

What helps you return to the place in you where you feel unshaken, even as life swells and shifts around you?