I once heard a Buddhist definition of spaciousness as “allowing it to be.” It was one of those sentences that the heart instantly recognizes as truth and the whole body responds by softening.

It’s that breathing room around something, freedom of movement, seeing beyond limitations (even though they are so compelling).

It’s the opposite of grasping. Holding. Contracting.

Recently, one of the teacher trainees was standing knee-deep in a challenging situation. Her auto-response was, “It’s fine, no big deal, I’m not upset,” when really, she was pissed. She was hurt and mad and confused. She later wrote in her blog (soon to be shared, I promise!):

There is great vulnerability in feeling. It takes so much courage to be honest, honest in this moment, honest with this anger/sadness/frustration.

To allow the feelings to be. To make room and give them space to be experienced.

Fall can be a profound time of change and letting go. Nature gently guides us as leaves get brittle and let go of the branch, flowers fade and turn back in toward the root, and the sun appears later and leaves sooner… reminding us that the dark and quite of winter is coming.

So many in our yogi family are experiencing intense transitions as well–births, deaths, loss of job, change of job, surgeries, diagnoses.

It would be easy, a natural response perhaps, to contract around any of these circumstances. But the heart knows, nature knows, that nothing is fixed or forever. May we all “allow it to be.”

A poem (thanks, Cecile) from Robert Bly:

The nimble Ovenbird, the dignity of pears, the simplicity of oars,

The imperishable engines inside slim Fir seeds.

All of these hint at how much we long

For the impermanent to be permanent.

We want the Hermit Wren to keep her eggs,

Even in the storm. We want eternal oceans.

But we are perishable friends. We are

Salty impermanent kingdoms.