It’s 5:30 am and I’m gliding through the dark on my beloved bicycle. This is my time to feel into my guidance. 

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As I ride, I open myself to whatever may arise that requires my attention. I invite thoughts and feelings to float through my awareness, waiting for one to pull harder on my attention than the others. 

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Sometimes, nothing arises.

 

Most times, something comes to the surface with gentle insistence, and I encourage my being to focus on that.

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This particular morning, I’m wondering about my dad’s funeral. It’s coming up soon and I think I want to talk about him during the service, to honor him, to remember him. His funeral was postponed due to COVID-19 fears, so he will have been dead for 10 months by the time the service arrives. My questions flow. Should I speak at my dad’s funeral? What should I say? What stories would best invite insight into my dad? 

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When I ask, “Should I speak at my dad’s funeral?” I create different scenarios in my brain as vividly as possible, then I feel what it would be like to experience each outcome. 

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First, I picture myself in front of everyone, talking about my dad, and, with curiosity and care, I examine the feelings that arise. Am I scared? Am I happy? Am I too sad to effectively speak? Do I feel a connection with my dad and with those who are there to remember him? Is my presence as a speaker welcomed by others? Do my stories honor my dad? Am I speaking because I feel obligated as his daughter? Am I speaking because I want the attention?

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As I continue to imagine myself speaking at my dad’s funeral, I notice that I feel a little nervous and a little fearful of judgment. I also feel abundant love for and from my dad and happiness that I am lucky enough to have had this human in my life in such a special capacity. I feel proud that I am brave enough to publicly declare my love for him. I feel acceptance from my family and friends who support me and who also love my dad. The overwhelming feelings I experience as I imagine the scenario of being a speaker at my dad’s memorial service are positive. Before I fully leave this invented situation, I delve more deeply into the small fears. Do they arise from something real? Or are they imaginary stories with little basis in reality? 

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Then, I picture the opposite scene, me sitting in the audience watching other speakers, choosing to remain silent and safe. And I feel into that experience. 

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After immersing myself in both, I have a clearer picture: I feel better, more at ease, and happier with myself if I choose to speak for and about my dad. I recognize that the slight nervousness I feel as I picture myself in front of everyone reflects my own fears of being inadequate to the task. So, the answer to the first question is yes—I will speak at my dad’s service. It simply feels better than not speaking.

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From there, I allow the next question to surface, I picture all the scenarios vividly in my head, and feel into my entire self to see what outcome brings the most ease, the most calmness, the biggest yes. Or no.

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I do this for every single decision in my life. 

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Sometimes I must picture the scenarios many times, across multiple bicycle rides, before I get the clearest answers. Sometimes I realize I need to discuss it with a trusted confidant. Many more times, my decisions are near immediate, requiring very little time to create and weigh multiple scenarios because I have grown so used to relying on and trusting my guidance. A choice arises, I feel into it, then decide within seconds. If I need more time, I ask for it, hoping to prevent any fears from driving my choices before I have a chance to feel my guidance.  

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This is the experience of living within one’s own Guidance Groove.