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If you've ever felt the numbness of not feeling like you could bring a piece of yourself to a certain situation, whether with your family, at work, or out in public, you understand exactly what no peace in pieces means. While it may seem that the belief, value, or some other indispensable part of ourselves is so small that it won't hurt to cover up or hide, we know we'll never be at peace because there is a piece of us missing.


On top of that, where is the peace in trying to juggle which piece of our story we'll reveal depending on who we are around? Have you ever felt that exhaustion? Better yet, have you felt the peace of not having to keep those stories straight anymore?


It turns out that trying to present a certain picture of "who we are" depending on how we arrange the pieces isn't a trait we inherit at birth but is a habit that we learn from watching our family and society trade in their authenticity and uniqueness for a shallow mold of themselves. While living in pieces may gain us a bit of acceptance in the short run, we eventually mature to see how living this compartmentalized life slowly eats away at us from the inside.


So how do we return to ourselves and the wholeness that is our birthright? I think it's a little like the process of alchemy described in The Alchemist, whereby "impure" base metals comprised of many different individual parts are heated and purified until they reach oneness, purity. I imagine that when we come to this plane as babies, we are pure gold. The trip that society/parents/everybody lays on us causes us to lose purity, and we devolve to a state (base metal in this analogy) where we care more about what people think of us than how we can live authentically. The only way to get that metal back to its pure form is through exposing it to heat, in our case, the suffering we feel from living in pieces, which slowly removes all that is not us. As Eckhart Tolle recounts in A New World, "In the midst of conscious suffering, there is already the transmutation. The fire of suffering becomes the light of consciousness."


An ease to life returns when the pieces of who we are finally combine because suddenly, maybe for the first time since childhood, we can be the same person with everyone. No more covering. No more shifting. Life becomes effortless this way. More importantly, by having the courage to live our authentic life, we encourage others to thrive in their wholeness.

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It amazes and frustrates me how time seems to stretch or shrink depending on what I'm doing and with whom. How is it that Friday afternoon before a long weekend seems to take an eternity, while the actual weekend appears to be over in a second? OrĀ why is it that the task we hate seems to take forever to finish, while the activity we love seems to be fleetingly short at best?


We've all heard that "Time flies when you're having fun," but why is that? More importantly, where is the fun in that? And why does it feel like such an unfair aspect of being human? Any of us, if given the chance to make our own world, would craft one where time would not speed up but would instead slow down during the good moments.


So, where does time go during the good moments? And if we are so scared and disappointed with time flying by or potentially running out of time, why do those timeless moments feel so good?


Maybe it's because joy doesn't come from timing the minutes we spend doing what we love, but from the minutes disappearing. I love the quote, "Eternity doesn't mean 'forever." Eternity means beyond time." In all the moments of joy, the mind that primarily lives in the realm of past and future somehow recedes, and we are left firmly rooted in the present. It's in the present where the clock disappears, and we are left with experiencing life unveiled by scary thoughts of running out of time or not having enough time.


It makes sense; we are afraid of losing time because it feels like we're wasting a special gift. But can we consider it lost time if we lose ourselves in the moment? Being in the moment and doing what we love is sort of like the feeling of a full belly after a satisfying meal. Would it make sense to have our bellies full and be worried that we somehow lost the food in the process? We didn't lose the food - we fully ingested the food. The same is true with time. It's not that we lose time when it disappears, we have fully ingested the life within that time and can rest in being ful-filled.


Time flying isn't a bad thing. Chase those moments when time disappears, and you'll never find yourself short of time.



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My comfort zone is never as comfortable as my mind leads me to believe. Our minds crave consistency and tell us to chase it, but once we "get it," everything becomes too stable and life becomes cramped and boring. So which is it? Does stability or change bring the most comfort? To which the mind would answer, "Oh, I love change, as long as I'm the one deciding what is changing and how fast."


It's as if we want to live life as a snake that controls when it molts. But we know that's not the case. Nature decides that. Just like nature decides when it's time for us to change and let go of things that are no longer serving us.


Is it easy to grow and change? Absolutely not. Is it necessary to change? Absolutely.


This rabbi does an excellent job of explaining our predicament regarding change with his description of how lobsters grow and change and how they likely wouldn't change if they were sedated in our society.



"Right before you elevate to your next level, there's always a moment where everything that no longer aligns starts to crumble. If things are falling apart, trust that it's making space for more light to enter. Let it happen." - Unknown


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