Questions to ask yourself this fall - #178

For a better winter and spring ahead.

I used to throw up the morning before school started every year. My little body simply could not contain the feelings of life starting over again. I loved going back to school. Every year I would think, this is it! This is the year someone thinks I’m pretty and I get the lead in the play and everyone will see what a fashion ingénue I am and induct me into the hall of popularity.

What a hopeful child I was. What a hopeful child I still am! At the first leaf turning, at the first cool morning, I always get drunk on hope for the season ahead. I march right up to the stage, no speech prepared, no idea what I am going to say, and grab the microphone, ready for my life to evolve.

As an adult, I’m a little better at channeling this feeling. I am not throwing up every August in anticipation of wearing a great sweater. Still though, I have to get the feelings out. This is a season of thresholds, after all. Of harvesting what’s worked, shedding what hasn’t, and wondering what’s next—not in a productivity way. (Let’s be real, I was never foaming at the mouth to see what education I was about to receive.) And not in a reinvention way, either, though I understand the fun in that. But instead, in a let’s see what we’re working with now that all those leaves are gone way.

Aside from the mesas and the talus fields above tree-line, most of the area we live in is densely wooded. In the areas packed with aspens, fall is a magical time because leaf by leaf, you can see what was hiding in the grove. Sometimes this is something especially delightful like a forgotten mining cabin or a cave, other times it’s simply a lay of the land you might not previously have understood.

To really see what’s there, you have to explore. Tromp around a bit. Let the flaxen grasses scrape at your legs. This is a pretty simple concept physically, but a bit more challenging mentally. Which is why I set myself a personal exploration list. In autumn, I like to take stock of the roots and branches before they get covered by snow, and then covered by buds. Let the literal tea leaves fall where they may, and work from there.

I typically prepare these questions in advance, and then take myself on a walk. I struggle with journaling because I get too caught up in the phrasing, but! Dictating my answers into a notes app of some kind, or just answering them outloud to a typically very receptive audience of birds and trees also does the trick. This method allows me to be honest and free, rather than backspacing because I accidentally typed stalk instead of stock. That said, if you like to journal, don’t let me stop you.

Here are my autumnal questions, and if these resonate, I welcome you to join the waitlist for the full class. Let’s dive in.

What would feel good to let go?

Not what can you let go, but what would feel good. Not forever, maybe. But for now. Like wouldn’t it be nice to not care about a certain chore getting done? Or is there a project you’ve promised and promised that is starting to feel like a drag, and wouldn’t it be nice to say, “I’m tabling it until my joy for it comes back.” Or maybe it’s the idea of a person, someone they’re never going to be for you.

What do I wish I were doing more of — even a little?

I wish I was eating more greens. I’ve been eating an astronomical amount of yogurt and cereal, so I’m thinking of a way to eat more greens that’s perhaps a bit more satisfying than mouthing handfuls of arugula like a rabbit.

But also, I recently wished I was dancing more. I used to dance for exercise, and finding the dedicated time has proved nearly impossible, so I found a different way. I turn music on in the morning, and I move with it when I move. Is it the lost-in-the-music dancing I miss? No. But does it help? Yes. Yes, it does.

What am I pretending is working, but isn’t?

EVERYTHING IS WORKING IF I JUST KEEP GOING FOR IT. Just kidding. But this question did compel me to stop folding W3’s reusable wipes.

Whose life am I watching?

Look I think for most people, being on social media is just a reality. But you can choose the lives you watch. I don’t watch horror or dramas because I don’t like to intentionally make myself feel scared or depressed. I apply this same principle to social media. I want to follow lives that inspire me, light me up, make me curious. Not people who drive me wild with envy, or people who judge the sweetest parts of me.

You’re consuming it the same way you’re consuming food. So are you consuming things that make you feel good? That delight you? That energize you? Mute the rest.

What am I hungry to feel again?

Speaking of hunger and muting, is there something you’re craving that’s missing? I love that “will they, won’t they” feeling, and I was finding any books that scratched it well enough, so I risked my personal identity by launching a class and wondering if people will show up.

What have you been missing? Maybe awe? Energy? Creativity? Safety? I don’t have a cure all for finding these—the point is to be aware of what you’re missing. To name it. To acknowledge it.

This is stealing from a classic shopping principle. Saying “I need new clothes” often lands you in the same spot you’ve always been: uninspired, confused about how to put things together. But saying “I need a chunky fisherman sweater in ivory or bone to pair with my jeans, my green slacks, and wear over that one button down” gives you direction. It’s easier to find things if you know what you’re looking for.

If I imagined a regular day one year from now feeling incredible — what would that look like?

This is not the place to be like, “I check my bank account and it has $1,000,000.” We’re trying to capture tone, ease, and my old pal aliveness. Here’s what I imagine for myself:

• I drop W3 off at daycare and he gives me a kiss before running to his friends

• I swing by the coffeeshop to meet with a friend to talk career stuff

• Then I head to the library to take a few meetings on my laptop

• I get some writing done on a new class I’m launching

• I’ve got time after that for either a hike or a pedicure, and I feel leisurely in my choice

• Time to get the kid, we head home where Ben’s been in the shop, and starting to make dinner

• We go for a family walk/ski/whatever

• W3 goes to bed and Ben and I get in the hot tub with a new wine we’re trying

God that sounds so fucking nice.

What small shift could I make this fall to move in that direction?

Listen, this part is up to you. But I decided to just starting writing that class, and look where we are.

What’s being revealed now that the “leaves” have fallen away?

You knew this seasonal analogy was coming. This is the big question of the bunch. What are you starting to see clearly. What can you acknowledge to yourself, even if it’s just “I don’t love this job” or “I feel disconnected”. Take a look at the branches, at the roots exposed on the ground, and ask yourself if next spring feels like it’ll be an abundant one, or if even imagining making more leaves makes you tired.

If someone shadowed your life for one week, what would they say matters to you?

Based on how you spend your time, energy, and attention, how would they describe you? Your priorities? Your intentions? Your goals?

This is how I found out I wanted to write a memoir more than a novel.

What could be enough this season?

We’re not looking for everything here. This is not your five-year plan. We are talking enough. Enough connection. Enough delight. Enough quiet.

Ask yourself what that is, and then figure out how you get it.

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If you’ve been feeling stuck, stretched thin, or simply longing for a deeper connection to your creativity and magic, join my six-session course: The Rewilding: Embodying a deeper version of yourself through writing, wellness, and the wild.

Together we’ll explore writing, somatic practice, and seasonal ritual as ways of finding your inner compass — the one that points you back to yourself.