My Uncle Junior had struggled with his health for a while,
but his passing was a surprise. He
passed away on March 14, 2019.
On March 23, 2019, my stepfather died. He got the flu on February
1st, was put on life support February 7th, and was on
life support until he passed. It was the
kind of death we all dread. He suffered greatly until the end.
These 2 men were patriarchal figures in my life. My uncle
lived next door and was like a second father growing up. My stepfather was my
other dad since my early 20’s. That is decades worth of love.
“He is…I mean he WAS a great man.”
Each time I make this mistake, the knife twists a bit deeper.
It’s a reminder of my new truth.
There is no magic solution to cure the pain in changing “present”
speech to “past” speech.
I noticed family members suffering the same.
Each time “is” was changed to “was,” I saw brows furrow and
eyes tear.
Then, the foreboding “we will be”. Future tense is gone,
too. There is no more “we will be,” or, “we are going to…”.
It is a road block in time. Everything stops, and you find
yourself smashing against the sucker several times a day. You stand back in shock.
It is invisible until “was” and “were” become second nature.
No one wants to speak this way. These 2 men, who were always there, will no
longer be on the list for family gatherings. I cannot wish things were different. It will
not change the truth, and it makes me angry and broken at the same time.
The price of love is the sorrow of learning to speak in past
tense. It is the void that takes years to fill with memories. It is the piece
of you that will never be replaced, and it is the heartache of watching the survivors
struggle against their new reality.
I am still learning this new language, and I hate it. I hate
my loved ones must learn it. I hate it so much I want to scream out, “NO! I WILL NOT DO THIS!”
Then I remind myself that the cost of loving these 2 men was
worth it. They were spectacular people. I respected them. I loved them.
Their lives added to this world, and I was so lucky they were part of
mine.
Yes. I will learn. Through tears, I will learn.
They would want us to live in the present and learn to speak
“past tense” with poise. They would
encourage us to live and laugh and love. This is how to honor their memory. Though
I cannot promise poise will always triumph, I will do my best. So far, my best
isn’t honoring them much. But, that’s ok, too.
Some lessons are harder than others and learning to speak in past tense
is the hardest of them all.
The petite brunette spun on her heels in surprise.
“I’m sorry! I didn’t mean to scare you. I am just taken aback by how wonderful this is!” I laughed.
The space was full of color, light, and a refreshing sense of stepping into a world where judgement did not exist.
She offered me a tour of her remarkable art center. I accepted.
Shelves full of pencils, paint, crayons, fabric, yarn, ceramics, paper, glue, scissors, and all kinds of creative tools lined one wall. In the center of the room stood 2 large tables with chairs.
“These are our workstations.”
I looked past the large work stations, and studied another wall covered with art made by her students. Mixed textures, colors, and shapes resided in each piece. I studied one piece and thought, “This kid felt every moment of working on this.”
Chills ran up my arms as she led me to the back area.
“This is our sensory area.”
The sensory area allows the students to feel sand, water beads, and other texture intriguing materials. I thought of how much my son would enjoy this area.
Eleonora then led me to the back door and opened it.
“Out back, we have this beautiful pond and grass area where we will go to create or just play.”
A large pond boasted a backdrop of a rolling hill full of trees. I envisioned the class laughing and playing in the grassy area beside the pond.
When we stepped back inside the art center, I couldn’t help but think, “This lady has a way with magic.”
EARLY YEARS
In some ways, Eleonora Stein was born to be an artist. Both her mother and father were art curators in Venezuela.
“My friends would often ask, ‘Is this your house or a museum?’”
Eleonora giggled.
In 2000, when she was 11, Eleonora and her family courageously moved to a new country: America. They landed in Miami to new cultures and a new language.
“I quickly made friends who spoke the same language, but I knew I had to learn English. Even today, my school friends from Florida are some of my closest friends.”
Growing up in a house filled with art, parents who are art collectors and had friends who were artists provided a foundation for an understanding of creativity. Instead of toys, her family friends would give her art for special occasions (which she only truly appreciated later in life). But, it was on her 15th birthday when she received a special gift from her parents that changed everything.
“I got a 35mm camera for my birthday. Dad told me to grab my camera, and we headed off on a photography adventure. That is when my own love for art really began.”
Eleonora signed up for photography classes in high school. The passion grew. She entered college as a Fine Art major with a concentration in Photography at Florida International University, and graduated in 2011.
“After college, I spent a year or so working in Art Restoration.”
During this time, Eleonora’s destiny revealed itself.
“My 8 year old cousin is a child with special needs. She and I would take walks and make up stories. We spent a lot of time talking and using our minds to create. She was a big part of why I decided to teach.”
Eleonora applied to Columbia University and was accepted into their Master of Arts and Art Education program. After 2 years at Columbia, Eleonora graduated with a head full of knowledge and the enthusiasm to use it.
“I have had remarkable teachers who have guided me. I am so thankful for the experience!”
MOVING TO HUNTSVILLE
Eleonora and her fiance took a leap of faith and moved to Huntsville, Alabama.
“When I googled anything to do with art in the Huntsville area, Lowe Mill kept popping up. One day, my fiancé and I took the dogs to Monte Sano for a walk, and I mentioned we should go check out this Lowe Mill place. Before I left, I had an application in hand. I had to have a space there. It was incredible!”
The complicated acceptance process at Lowe Mill was completed, and in 6 weeks, Eleonora had her space.
“The theme of my thesis at Columbia was ‘How to Open an Art Center in Florida’. I basically wrote my business plan as my thesis. I put it into action in Huntsville.”
“ARTIS STUDIO” opened at Lowe Mill. During this time, she was employed as the art teacher at a private school.
Quickly outgrowing her space at Lowe Mill, Eleonora stepped out of her comfort zone, quit her job at the school, and opened a second studio 4 doors down from Kroger on University Drive.
“The new space opened on May 27, 2017. It was frightening but exciting! I love it here, and I still offer classes at Lowe Mill. It is perfect!”
THE ARTIS STUDIO METHOD
Eleonora’s studio is a process based art center. Her main goal as an art teacher is to help children think creatively.
This process based approach to art opens doors to vivid imaginations. It knocks down the walls of expectations and standardized learning. Instead of performing for an outcome, a child is given the keys to their own creativity.
“The final product is not necessarily important. The process of creating is the main focus of my workshop. I want my students to be curious about creativity and about exploring.
Art is not a core subject like math or science. Instead, the practice of art helps children to think outside the box of rules and formulas. Children need the exercise of freedom to express themselves without the fear of failing. When the final product is no longer important, the process becomes pleasurable and natural. The goal of our art education is to foster creativity that will help the adult individual face and resolve problems in a unique personal way. Problem solving becomes creative and amusing when a student is unconcerned about finished work.
Art is not supposed to put more pressure on a person. It is a release. There is no wrong or right way in this center. There is only creativity.”
And Eleonora is a wonderful guide. Her life, expertise, playful personality, and mind for business fills a void in the lives of our children. No longer do they have to watch a movie to experience the whimsical or the magical. They become the creators of fantasy and the future creative problem solvers of the world.
Artis Studio Website
A blank space where children can open their imagination and explore materials while working their creativity.
“Boo Boo here, Boo Boo here,” he said. He pointed to his head and throat.
Check his temperature.
It’s 99.2 degrees. Ok. That is elevated. Not enough to keep him out of school.
“Boo Boo here, Boo Boo here, NO SCHOOL!”
Is he crying wolf? He has been known to. Rarely does he want to go to school. He is my child.
How is his behavior? How was he yesterday?
The morning was full of mini-meltdowns. Christmas vacation is a hard one to overcome, though. Transitioning from being at home to going back to school is always hard. Is that what’s going on?
Yesterday, was some good, some bad.
Was he bored? Did I do our home schedule correctly? He does mirror my mood, so, was I in a good mood?
Did he have a good night?
Yes. He did have a hard time waking up.
How do his eyes look?
They seem to be causing him trouble. Itchy and bothersome.
Any other clues?
He had a deep cough a couple of times in the night. It sounds like the one he had when he was diagnosed with strep a couple of weeks ago. We are all done with the antibiotic, so, is this a reoccurrence?
“Boo Boo here, Boo Boo here.”
I’ll call the school nurse. Maybe she will have good advice.
“Yeah. The flu is going around as well as a few other viruses. His temp isn’t over 100 degrees, so he can come to school, but with the elevated temp, I bet he is fighting something off.”
Ok. No school. My child may be sick. He may not be. Either way, I have to make the call.
Do I believe my kid?
Yes and No. I have not believed him before. I made him go to the doctor. Yep. He was sick. I hate being proven wrong.
Most kids do this. Some have perfected the technique of getting out of going to school. It is different with a non-verbal child. My son doesn’t have a lot of words. It is also the same as typical developers. He does have the ability to lie with confidence.
I’d rather him be pulling a fast one than to be sick. We shall see. The doctor will see us today.
I’ve often wondered if my mother learned to cook biscuits before she knew how to walk.
Mom is the oldest of 4 children. Her mom had serious heart problems, and from an early age, mom was responsible for helping out around the house. One of her chores was making biscuits.Her grandmother taught her the technique.
Over the years, she studied the art. Once, a lady brought mom biscuits, and mom was intrigued by the fluffiness. She asked the lady how she got them so fluffy, and the lady spilled her secret: White Lily Self-Rising Flour. Since then, mom uses this flour for her biscuits. As a matter of fact, when all of the family comes to town, she buys a new bag of flour. It must be fresh!
I’ve been eating my mother’s biscuits all of my life. They are savory clouds of biscuit heaven. Pour on some gravy, and you have yourself supper. Slap on some butter and jam, and you have yourself a desert!Personally, I like to scavenge the crumbs off the pan after the biscuits are gone.
SOUTHERN COOKS DON’T MEASURE
Southern cooks are notorious for “eyeballing” the measurements. (It is frustrating when you are trying to learn.) “Eyeballing” is equivalent to “that looks about right,” or, “it needs a touch more,” or, “you add this much till it looks like this.” For southern cooks, making a dish is more of an art than a science.
“This is a good batch of biscuits!” or “These biscuits aren’t that good,” mom will say as we are all stuffing our mouths. We cannot tell the difference. They are all divine. Only the artist knows the secret to perfection, and only the artist knows whether their art measures up.
With this being said, I cannot give you exact measurements. Instead, I have made a video of the artist creating a masterpiece.
Mama’s Fluffy Southern Buttermilk Biscuits
What you need:
White Lily Self-Rising Flour
Crisco
Buttermilk
(The above 3 items need to be fresh)
A bowl
A sifter
A fork
Wilton Cake Pan (Round) *Mom swears this makes a difference*
Very Clean Hands
Directions (Sort of)
Preheat Oven to 450 degrees
Sift approximately 3 full cups of flour
GREASE your biscuit pan
Add in 4 spoonfuls (‘ish…see the video) of crisco
Cut the Crisco into the flour (Watch the video for this technique)
Pour in the buttermilk (Watch the video for how much)
Mix it in (Again…watch the video)
Flour up your hands (Biscuits are sticky)
LIGHTLY roll the biscuits and place in the pan
~VERY IMPORTANT TIP~
DO NOT OVER WORK THE BISCUITS AT ANY STAGE!
THE LESS YOU HANDLE THEM, THE BETTER!
Place them in the oven towards the top to keep the bottoms from burning.
Cook until they are golden brown.
This technique takes practice. Mom has been making these biscuits for decades. If you can catch on to perfecting these, your family will be OH SO THANKFUL!
IDEAS FOR WHEN THEY ARE DONE
Here are some ideas for garnishing your biscuits with a little more unhealthy taste bud tantalizing treats:
A pad of butter mixed in with some honey
Peanut butter and honey mixed up
Peanut butter and jelly mixed up
Jam or Jelly (with butter, of course)
Gravy of any sort. We do a tomato gravy. It sounds gross…but..have mercy. It’s slap your mama good. (No worries, mom. I won’t slap you, but I will want to. Lol!)
Honestly, there is no wrong way to do it! Sweet or otherwise, these things are heaven on earth.
The winding country roads filled with clouds of dust and dirt as my friend, Jerry Dwain, navigated the sharp turns and twists like a NASCAR driver. He owned a bright blue Z28, and he drove it at full capacity.
The day had begun with a simple request.
“Hey, Autumn! I’m headed out to look at a horse. Wanna come?”
I agreed.
Jerry Dwain, was horse crazy. This part of his life I only heard about. My eagerness to support him in his pursuits caused me to accept the invitation.
CHILDHOOD ALLERGIES
As a child, I had severe allergies. Most foods, mold, mildew, and all animals caused me to go into reactions. Often, the reactions would send me to the hospital. Much of my early years, I considered the hospital to be a second home.
The worst of the reactions?
Horse hair/dander
Before my parents knew any of this, they allowed me, at 2 years old, to go on a horseback ride with a family friend. Not long after this ride, I came close to death. I stayed in the hospital for 2 weeks. It would not be the last time.
My parents tried to avoid horses, but with horse and cattle farms everywhere in our South Alabama culture, it was impossible.
My little sister once went horseback riding with a friend. As soon as she stepped into the house, the allergies kicked my butt. Back to the hospital for me, and I never touched her.
These types of situations happened all the time. The doctors said I would outgrow the allergies. I believed them.
NOT ANOTHER FRIEND!
Many years later, I met my soul sister, Cris. This friendship was “love at first sight”. We swear we were friends in previous lives. Then, she said these words: “I love horses!”
“Well, shit,” I responded.
She laughed at me. I told her my predicament.
“Well, shit.” She responded.
Then, we found out we were pregnant the same month. Our firstborn children were born 4 days apart.
Cris had gotten serious about her horses, and her daughter, as a babe, would frequent the barn. I wanted my son to go, too. How could I keep this wonder from him? It broke my heart.
RETRAIN THE MEMBRANE
After Asher’s diagnosis of autism spectrum disorder, Cris called.
“Girl! Get him involved with Happy Trails! They are awesome!”
“I wish I could, but…” Cris understood. She knew something I did not, but, being a great friend, she waited to tell me.
Cris started a teacher facilitator program a few years later. The program worked with horses and humans. Yoga, Somatics, and other alternative therapies taught students how to help others. She asked if I would be her guinea pig. I told her it was fine, but, NO HORSES! She agreed, and in January 2017, we began.
The lessons were odd. It took me a minute to become accustomed to the style, but after a lesson or 2, I was starting to see differences.
Cris gave me a list of questions to answer, and one of those questions led me to where I am today.
“What is a dream you never think you’ll see come true.” (A synopsis)
Easy one.
I want my child to be in therapy at Happy Trails, and I want to ride horses.
When I told Cris my answer, she smiled.
“I’ve been waiting to talk to you about this,” she said. “I do not doubt you have allergies, but I believe your biggest problem with horses is PTSD.”
My face must have mirrored my confused mind.
“Autumn, you went through a lot. Why don’t you have the doctor run an allergy test on you to see where you are now. Then, we will take the next steps to make this dream come true. We are doing this. Are you in?”
“Uh…let me think about it.” That’s exactly what I did.
A couple of months later, I called the doctor.
The results of the test were encouraging. The nurse said, “Wear a mask and gloves, make sure your arms are covered around the horses, and you will be fine.”
I asked, “So, what exactly will be my reaction? Will I need hospitalization if I do not do these things?”
“No,” she answered. “You will need allergy medicine. You’ll be sneezing and itchy. Allergy meds will take care of it.”
“Ok,” I responded with a shake, “so, if I start allergy meds daily, will that cover it?”
“Yep. It should. Take it slow. Be mindful. Take your meds. You will be ok.”
JUMPING INTO THE WATER
As soon as I stepped out of the car, I walked over to the horses. It was Cris’ daughter’s 8th birthday. They had recently moved to a majestic farm. They had also moved their horses, and the barn was close to the house. This was my first visit since the horses moved. Fear gripped me.
“It is ok, Autumn. You have meds on board. Let them come to you. You’ll never know what will happen unless you try.” I convinced myself and proceeded with caution.
Indiana Jones walked over to me (a beautiful, gentle horse). I reached up and touched his soft nose. I looked him in the eye and smiled. Everything was ok! I cried.
GET ME HOME!
Jerry Dwain rounded the sharp curves, “OH GOD! GET ME HOME, JD!”
My dad came home not long after we arrived. Jerry Dwain sat in a chair staring at me as I struggled with my body on the couch. Dad relieved him of his duties.
“Autumn, what were you thinking?” Dad was angry as he handed me my meds. “Go get in the shower and wash it off. If you get any worse, we will head to the hospital.”
A hospital visit proved unnecessary. Though the night was difficult, I managed to stay above the line of emergency.
HAPPY TRAILS
“Sure! I’m there on Friday. Would you and your son like to come out then?” I had spoken to Kathi, the owner of Happy Trails, of my horse allergy drama. She was happy to help me overcome my trials. We would take it slow.
We arrived and were greeted by a dog fascinated with the game of fetch. My husband and Asher played with the dog until Kathi returned from a ride.
After the introductions, a horse, a gorgeous brown horse with black legs that looked to be dipped in paint, caught my attention.
“She is gorgeous!” I exclaimed to Kathi.
“Let’s go meet her. Her name is Zoe. She is an Arabian.”
I had smelled the horses in the air. The mask was in my hand at the ready, and I had used it a few times out of pure fear. But, for Zoe, I wanted to be without it. I didn’t want to frighten her.
Kathi attached all the head gear and explained the purpose of each rope as she worked. I couldn’t wait, so I walked over to Zoe. My stomach bubbled with excitement and fear. I reached up and stroked her face.
“Hello, Zoe! You are a beautiful horse! And you know what else? You are helping me overcome a mighty giant. I will always love you for it.”
My courage mounted as Kathi handed me the rope and allowed me to play a game with Zoe.
I continued patting her face, her hair, her neck, and her body.
No reaction.
We went into the barn and met the other horses.
No reaction.
Kathi’s brilliance and training was clear. Her presence told me if I needed a break, it would be fine. Her confidence in my ability to triumph surpassed my fears.
When it was time to go, she encouraged me to sign Asher up for lessons. I knew he would thrive in this environment. His countenance, being around the horses, had changed. Yes. He would be signed up.
PTSD BE DAMNED
I got a little sneezy when I returned home, but, I was fine. I also made my son and husband strip their clothes and put them straight in the wash. Old habits die hard.
PTSD, at its core, speaks lies. Though the experiences that caused the PTSD are real, future reactions to similar experiences are not. It takes a retraining of the brain to realize the new is not the old. After years of desire, I finally torched the idea I would never touch a horse.
One of the first things I did after going to the farm was to send a picture to Cris. She was thrilled!
Then, I sent the photo to Jerry Dwain. He and his husband own a horse farm in Florida. JD has become a notable horseman, and he breeds show horses. This was his response to my photo: “The outside of a horse is good for the inside of a man.”
Yes, Jerry Dwain. You speak the truth.
As a child, the outside of a horse broke the inside of me. The doctor said I would outgrow it, and I did. What I did not outgrow was fear. Fear, as I have learned, is not something to outgrow. It must be fought.
After years of PTSD symptoms, the thing that almost killed me healed me. The war within my body turned into a war within my mind. Winning did not occur overnight. It was a steady uphill battle. But, when the battle ended, a dream came true.
This non-profit is a worthy cause. To sign up or donate, please visit their website!
Quote from their site:
“We are horse lovers who use horses to improve the lives of children and adults with disabilities. Our
goal is that the personal confidence students gain from Therapeutic Riding will affect their lives in a
positive way.”
Cris Pyle works with people and horses. She offers her expertise to those wanting to become their best, and her services are available for helping your horses, too!
I stepped up onto the platform. It was higher than I first thought. Too high. I don’t like heights. Though the padding below promised a soft landing, it did little in the way of helping me feel confident.
“You are the Simone Biles of klutz. This is not a good idea.”
The voice in my head spoke these words loudly as my palms got sweaty, and my knees shook.
A kid, about 4 or 5 years old, skipped me in line…again. I let him. I was still trying to decide whether to take the stairs back down to safety or jettison myself off of this platform and slide through the air.
“Surly, the folks who built this indoor trampoline playground tested this. Look! The four year old is killin’ this! Wait…we did have to sign a waiver. Why did we have to sign the waiver? Is this thing safe?”
As the words floated into my conscience, another voice spoke up and made me move over to the zip line.
“It’s time to give your fear the middle finger, girl. Do this.”
Fear is a constant source of trouble. As someone with an anxiety disorder, my fight is daily and constant. Making decisions, even simple ones, is complicated and gut clinching. Even when I don’t have to make a quick decision, the thought of having to make a decision in the future can send me spiraling. My mind stays in hyperdrive most of the day. There are times I will even wake in the middle of the night in a panic.
Fear.
After I was diagnosed with the disorder, I began to seek out the best ways to handle it. I spent hours online reading articles and testimonies on the effects of anxiety. Often, I would find myself whispering, “Amen,” to the computer screen.
Over the last 6 years, I have tried many tactics and self-help tricks, but few proved worthy.This list is what has worked for me.
It is a mantra I speak to myself daily, and I put it into action.
FLIP OFF FEAR IN 5 STEPS
1. NAME THE DEVIL
Fear is cunning. It likes to dress itself up in costumes of other emotions. There are times I think I am feeling angry, but once I start to strip away the burning desire to scream, fear is hiding in the corner snickering. It is the same with sadness, jealousy, and so on.
I look at this sniveling little nuisance and begin to work through the rest of the list.
What happens if I don’t work through this list? What if I stop at naming the devil?
Fear begets more fear and births doubt.
“I’m afraid of this fear. I cannot do this! I cannot conquer it! It is stronger than I am…”
Before I can count to 5, the little freak as doubled in size, multiplied, and gone into hiding again. It has cloaked itself in my self-doubt and slithers away into the shadows. It knows if it stays in the shadows, it can restart it’s destruction. It finds a suitable costume, and the process begins again.
Unless a decision is made to fight this battle now, it only makes the battle worse later.
The first weapon in the arsenal is naming it.
Name the devil. Then, take the next step.
2. BREATHE
Fear hates oxygen. What it wants to do is send the mind in a tailspin. It wants us to sweat, get nauseous, wide-eyed, and paralyzed.
It wants us to hold our breath.
But, when we start to fill up it’s living quarters with oxygen, it starts squirming like a fish on the sea shore.
Why?
Oxygen feeds our brain. It helps us to think deliberately and strategically. It calms everything down when fear has stirred it all up.
Once fear has begun to fear it’s own demise, it will roar. It will go into it’s own version of a panic attack. It does not want to loose it’s playground and is cozy at home in the recesses of your brain.
What does that look like?
More fear and more doubt.
It is to be expected. This is the reaction of all things about to die. Letting fear’s fear take over only allows it to get a foot hold to fight back. Keep going.
Name it, breathe deeply, and take the next step.
3. SPEAK TRUTH
Now, the devil is backed into a corner, it begins spewing words of doubt.
“Look at you, little wimp, thinking you can defeat me!,” it cries in a monstrous cackle.
Arguing with fear does no good.
Fear is a bully.
No matter what is said to it, it will have a response. Generally, it will be laughing at you.
So, how to get through this part of the battle?
Speak truth to yourself…not to your fear.
“I am bigger than fear. I am stronger than fear. I am capable of winning. I will win. I will be the victor. I am the victor.”
Fear will hear these words. As it gags on the oxygen in the brain, it will brag about it’s own strength, wit, and stealth. It will reach it’s dying arms out into the soul and charge it with electrical impulses of fight or flight.
Don’t stop.
Name it, Breathe, and Speak truth. Then, move to the next step.
4. MOVE
The intensity of the battle has reached a climax. Fear is pulling out all of the stops. Every play in the playbook and every trick in the bag is revealed. It knows death is close. It will not go down without a fight.
Now is the time to move.
Move towards the object of your fear. It could be as simple as a decision to walk out the door or as big as stepping out of an airplane for the first time sky diving. Either way, the battle is the same.
Propelling the body towards the feared object or situation requires activation of all the other steps. The little freak will begin to grow larger the closer the object or the situation gets. It does what fear does…attacks.
Name the devil, breathe, speak truth, move…repeat
The devil is defeated when the food supply is gone. It no longer has footing. It no longer has it’s feast. It no longer has doubt as a weapon. Now, the situation has been dealt with, the decision has been made, the snake has been handled, the step out of the airplane has been taken, and fear has been proven wrong.
Fear has been conquered. The battle is won.
Now, take the next step.
5. TRAIN
Prepare for the next battle.
Fear has thousands of identical twins lurking in the corners of the mind. With anxiety disorders, the chemistry in the brain is jacked up. It is a water source for fear.
Slowly, over time, I believe the chemistry can be changed. But, it takes training.
How does one train to conquer fear?
Meditation, exercise and diet.
Like with all training, it takes time. Time to set routines. Time to learn how to do it. Time to conquer fear enough to even start.
Pick one of the above and start slowly. I have found if I do too much too soon, I give up. Starting slowly with training will set those routines in place. Each time you do a session, confidence grows.
If you pick mediation, do a 5-minute mediation every morning or evening and gradually move up in time. If you pick exercise, do 5-minutes a day and move up. If you pick diet, eat one healthy food a day and move up.
Sometimes, a season of training is put on pause due to depression or other issues, it is ok. Let me repeat this again:
IT IS OK!!!!
The trick is to not allow this time of depression or forgetfulness conquer the training. If it has been a long time since training, IT IS OK! Start over with 5-minutes.We all have other battles we face in a day.
NO JUDGEMENT!
Half of the battle with training is learning how to take care of the mind. Taking care of the mind means to be accepting of where one finds themselves.
Fear does not want us to be kind or gentle to ourselves.
It wants a person to feel disappointed in themselves and defeated by themselves. Once a person feels defeated, the voice of fear is amplified over all the other voices of truth.
Being kind to oneself oftentimes requires these same steps listed above:
Name the devil (Self-defeating talk)
Breathe (Oxygen stimulates confidence)
Speak Truth (You truly are worthy and capable.)
Move (Do 5-minutes of training.)
Train (Keep Training)
SIMONE WOULD BE PROUD
I reached out an grabbed the zip-line bars. I looked down at the guy operating the zip-line. He was smiling at me. Something in his smile gave the extra boost of confidence to step off the platform.
I flew through the air. The rushing wind flowed over my face, and I giggled. It was fun! Not only was it fun, it was a win for the “me” team! The carcass of fear dissolved.
I let go of the bars and landed in the soft foam below. Immediately, I gave the zip-line worker 2-thumbs up.
I had won against my own fear. The taste of victory was divine.
With a new-found confidence, I made my way over to the monkey swing. It, too, was on a high platform. Again, I let the little kid skip me in line…several times. I was working on tackling fear.
Courage takes work.
“This is only fear. Breathe, Autumn. Yeah…that’s good. Breathe more. Ok…keep doing that. You can do this. You are stronger than this fear. You are not the Simone Biles of klutz. You are powerful.”
I moved over to the take off area and placed my hands on the swing handle bar. I looked over at the swing worker, and he was smiling.
“I can do this. I can do this. I can do this.”
I stepped off the platform and into who I truly am.
