Being present with WHAT IS is definitely the first place to start, the main place to start. The place where we forget to be most of the time.

But it’s also good to go to what WANTS TO BE, what’s wanting to be born, what’s wanting to emerge. And called by this, being drawn to this, sometimes, maybe almost immediately, we’ll notice that we are held back. Maybe we are feeling afraid, or unsure of how to proceed.

And often that will lead us to WHAT WAS. To some way in which we can’t fully inhabit the WHAT IS because we are still in the WHAT WAS.

So despite what we may often hear repeated of “let go of the past,” it’s not a bad idea to take a visit to it, to go see what needs tending to that keeps us with one foot stuck over there. To go fully to it.

What happens if I make the WHAT WAS my WHAT IS for a moment? Take the me of the WHAT IS back, to be present with the me of the WHAT WAS.

I go back to return what belongs there that I'm still carrying, and bring forth what was left behind that needs rescuing. I tend to what wasn’t grieved, or celebrated properly in the moment. Or simply to what wasn’t witnessed or lived fully. I let it express, release, complete… let it do whatever it needs to do. And then I come back to WHAT IS.

Then it might be a purer IS from having leaned forward and dipped back.

In some sense all of time exists at once, right? Isn’t that (in my inelegant words) what theoretical physicists say? All of our existence is echoing internally, spinning into itself in the wheel of time.

What happens if we inhabit all of it, making this moment, whatever WHAT IS we are at in this moment, the AXIS? This means we don't have to push past or future away. We can feel free to embody all of it, to surrender to the folding and unfolding.

I find I can make this into a meditative practice. I feel myself turn, move. I feel how I can’t help but be in the present moment, how I never leave it, truly.

And how it is always leaving.

I feel into that leaving. And this makes me notice the simultaneous rush of the coming. Always, both the coming and the leaving as the ground of my being. The present that doesn't last a single moment, the present that is eternally lasting. I feel how I am in the flow of that river of arriving and departing. Always, the flow of that river.

I am the river, the river bed, the stone in the river.

More and more I think my job as a "coach," as someone who accompanies others in their processes, is that of a birth and death doula.

It's often about witnessing and being with someone in their grief so that those feelings don't get "buried alive" (to reference Ron Siegel) and come back to haunt them. To help what wasn't processed or metabolized in the past, and then also to accompany the living process of the moment so it has the proper care, the proper attention, the love it needs to exist.

And then to cease to exist.

Healing doesn't mean never again feeling distress or grief.

Healing means getting in a better place to allow ourselves to feel all we feel in order to let it through. Healing is just a continuous process of living, of shedding, of cellular autophagy for renewal.

We may get caught in complaint, but when we do, it’s because something in us is unresolved, and the best tonic for this is validation and compassion, not pressing ourselves to look on the bright side or to set aside complaint.

We live in a culture that often insists we "keep our chin up"... I find this is the case in all the places I've lived, perhaps with some nuances, but in a general enough way that I can name that as a pattern.

Perhaps you've noticed that people on a whole tend to be uncomfortable with complaint. It could be a well-meaning concern for your wellbeing, or maybe it's a fear or discomfort in getting pulled under by another's negativity because someone is already in an overwhelming battle of their own. Or maybe it's an entrenched belief that we should be able to shift how we feel, because “our perception creates our reality” (something that is not altogether inaccurate, but that often lacks a true understanding of how our consciousness works).

Whatever the reason, there is often an implied understanding that we shouldn't complain or that complaint should be reserved to the backrooms of the closest of friendships... leading to the tongue-in-cheek Argentinian custom of responding "bien, ¿o te cuento?" ("fine, or should I tell you about it?") when asked how we are.

We would do well to make more room for others to complain, and to allow ourselves complaint as well. Babies, children and animals know to do this instinctively—and from that the saying in Mexico, "niño que no llora no mama" (“the child that doesn't cry doesn't get breastfed”). Complaint can be an important nervous system release, and a bid for support or connection. It's a natural survival mechanism to obtain rescue, attention, or simply empathy and understanding.

It's also true that complaint can become entrenched, a kind of "go-to" evasion that puts us off from actually taking action or being with our discomfort or pain. Sometimes we let off steam and then go right back to enduring whatever it is we're enduring. But I'd say that particular stuck point is also due to something that needs attention. Perhaps fear of taking action, or an inability to see a way out. And, again, the best tonic to approach this stuckness is curiosity and compassion.

So you can't go wrong with getting a little closer to what's ailing you, or someone you care about, without wanting to shift it right away. With taking a moment to pause and be present with it.

Puede que nos quedemos atorades en quejarnos de las cosas, pero cuando es así, es porque algo en nosotres no ha encontrado resolución, y el mejor bálsamo para esto es la validación y la compasión, no obligarnos a ver el lado positivo de las cosas o dejar de quejarnos.

Vivimos en una cultura que seguido insiste que le “echemos ánimo” a todo… encuentro que es el caso en todos los lugares en los que he vivido, quizás con algunos matices, pero de forma lo suficientemente general para nombrarlo como patrón.

Posiblemente hayas notado que la gente en general tiende a estar incómoda con las quejas. Puede que sea una preocupación bien intencionada por tu bienestar, o quizás es un temor o una incomodidad en sentirse jalada por la negatividad del otro porque ya está abrumada por una batalla propia. O quizás se debe a una creencia arraigada de que deberíamos poder cambiar cómo nos sentimos, porque “nuestra percepción crea nuestra realidad” (algo que no es del todo desatinado, pero que suele carecer de un entendimiento real de cómo funciona nuestra consciencia).

Cualquiera que sea la razón, seguido hay un entendimiento implícito de que no deberíamos quejarnos, o que la queja se debería reservar para la trastienda de las amistades más cercanas… llevando a esa costumbre argentina de responder jocosamente, “bien, ¿o te cuento?” cuando nos preguntan cómo estamos.

Haríamos bien en dejar más lugar para que otres se quejen, y permitirnos a nosotres mismes quejarnos también. Les bebés, les niñes y los animales saben cómo hacer esto instintivamente—y de ahí el dicho mexicano de “niño que no llora no mama”. La queja puede ser una importante liberación del sistema nervioso, y es una petición de apoyo o conexión. Es un mecanismo de supervivencia natural para conseguir rescate, atención o simplemente empatía y entendimiento.

También es cierto que nos podemos volver quejiques empedernidos, en un tipo de evasión automática que hace que evitemos tomar acción o estar con nuestra incomodidad o dolor. A veces nos desahogamos y volvemos a aguantar lo que sea que estemos aguantando. Pero yo diría que ese posible punto de atasco también se debe a algo que necesita atención en nosotres. Quizás es un miedo a tomar acción, o la inhabilidad de ver una salida. Y, de nuevo, la mejor medicina para acercarnos a ese punto de atasco es la curiosidad y la compasión.

Por ende, no puedes fallar al acercarte un poquito más a eso que te aflige, o que aflige a alguien que te importa, sin querer moverlo de inmediato. A tomar un momento de pausa y estar más presente con ello.