Hello again, dear ones. Welcome back (or for the first time, for those who have recently joined) to the monthly Resourcing the Revolution newsletter.

As I write this edition, the witch hazel has started to bloom, its yellow blossoms peeking out between the other yellows when the sun hits just right. The leaves surrounding my studio have turned shades of autumn fire, and they create a steady, soft drumbeat on my studio roof as they fall.

The remnants of Hurricane Isaias blew through recently, dropping about six inches of rain, but the wind gusts that were originally forecast never made it this way — good news for both the power lines and the leaf peeper in me.

Autumn is one of my absolute favorite seasons, and this moment in particular. The one where the forest lights up in varying shades of wow and the colors pop against the deep blue sky. (I know, I know. Wow isn’t really a color. But maybe it should be.)

I think one of the things I love most about watching the leaves change is knowing why it happens in the first place. When the days get shorter and the temperatures start to drop, trees stop producing chlorophyll. Some of those colors were hiding under the green all along, while others get made fresh on the way out. (Apparently, scientists still argue about why trees bother with the reds.)

All of those beautiful jewel tones, just waiting for the green to fade out so they can show off what was already there.

Just. Whut. How freaking cool is nature?

Soon enough, the leaves will have all completed their journey of release and we’ll be crunching through layers of yellow, red, orange, and brown every time we step outside. But for now, I’ll just enjoy the view.

If I’m being honest, this season also has me thinking about a larger conversation going on around me, as we watch societal structures and norms collapse, not quite sure what’s coming next… but pretty sure there’s no “normal” coming back.

At the same time, a very real human reflex is kicking in. As things start to fall and fail, we reach for solid ground. We want to get our feet back under us, restore, and return to normal. Or even if there’s not that pull toward normalcy, perhaps something inside us has quietly stopped consenting to the way things were.

There are two easy ways around the reflex. One is the doom-scroll, where the darkest possible picture gets the most clicks. The other is the shiny everything-happens-for-a-reason version, where nothing is ever really lost.

But me? I'd rather stay somewhere between those two, with a clear head and an open heart.

Collapse may be visible in the natural world in the autumn, but that doesn’t mean the trees are somehow failing. They’re doing what they do every year: withdrawing resources from a form they can’t sustain through the winter.

Maybe you’ve felt the same call, too?

Quote of the Month: Let It Fall Away

This month’s quote found me via the delightful Dr. Deb Kern. She shared it in a recent newsletter, and it felt right to pass it along to you.

Sarah speaks about personal slowing, the kind that (usually) comes with a choice to do it or not. You can decide to put things down — be it tenacity, or trying to force things to happen, or your personal version of whatever isn't working right now.

But what we’re watching happen right now? That collective version didn’t come with an opinion survey. When what's crumbling isn't just our own story but the whole story we've been telling about what keeps us safe and what we're worth, looking to the sky can help.

Specifically to Venus, who rules what we value.

Astrology of the Month: What We Fall For

Slowing down is exactly what part of the sky has been doing lately.

Venus appears to stall, stop, and walk backward, and she's been at it since early October. She’ll eventually station direct in mid-November, but until then she’s busy revisiting the themes she touched this year.

Amy Lea of Her Constellation shares:

In astrology, retrogrades are all about review. There’s no “going back” to whatever happened in the past, but we do get a chance to look back and (hopefully) learn from what has unfolded during any specific transit.

Venus is only retracing her steps for a second look before turning direct next month. She gets to look back without moving back in. That's the distinction that feels true this month: reviewing what was isn't the same as getting it back.

Idea of the Month: What If Falling Isn’t Failure?

Societal structures, falling leaves, and a retrograde Venus have all been part of the conversation this month. But what about on an individual level?

The big question around collapse I’ve been wrestling with over the past few years is this: what happens when you discover that the person you’ve been trying to recover, rediscover, reclaim… doesn’t exist anymore?

I can’t tell you how many different versions of the following I’ve heard over the years: Bounce back! Find yourself! Discover your purpose! Return to self!

Just, ugh.

Y’all… when motherhood found me, it wrecked me. And for the first year or two after my kiddo was born, I spent a LOT of time, energy, and money trying to “reclaim” the version of me who existed pre-motherhood. And I struggled, hard.

With two separate (very expensive) mentors, plus countless events and subscriptions, I still found myself flailing, grasping at threads and thinking the next thing would solve everything.

All the while, the outside world showered me with messages that if I just did things a certain way, I could get her back and step seamlessly into the gap where I’d left off.

And? Well? I call bullshit.

No matter how desperately I wanted (and tried) to get her back, that version of me is gone.

But I’ve started to wonder if the inability to return to that former version of myself isn’t actually a failure. What if it’s not evidence that I failed somehow? What if it’s an initiation of sorts, a threshold we have to cross when we find ourselves at a particular crossroads?

When I finally gave myself the time and permission to just sit in the messy middle — not the person I used to be, and not quite who I was becoming — I found a certain kind of peace. The part of me that wanted clarity and answers (now, dammit) still lashed out on occasion. But with the space to grieve that version of myself, and small practices that let me transform, inch by inch, I found a way to make those changes livable.

(My dad, who just turned 80 this year, still doesn’t know what he wants to be when he grows up. I think I could take a lesson from him.)

What I found, over the years and through my fair share of tears, is that collapse isn’t something to be fixed, resolved, or transcended. And it’s not a detour on the way back to productivity and purpose.

Transformation doesn’t need to be a performance. No matter what the online gurus say, it’s okay for things to take time, for identity shifts to be painful and messy, and for collapse (or even just the feeling that something isn’t quite right) to crack us wide open.

That’s just part of being human.

Collapse holds real loss and cost. The disorientation and not-knowing can be one of the hardest spaces to hold, especially for those of us raised in a culture where the value of knowing and understanding has been baked into us from an early age.

As we cross the threshold of collapse, we get to hold all of it, the cost and the possibility. One without the other is either bypassing or despair. In an ideal world, we’re aiming for the third thing.

And being able to hold possibility doesn’t mean the damage that happens as part of the whole process of collapse is somehow “sacred” or deserved. It just means letting irreversible change remain irreversible, and learning to orient ourselves in the midst of it.

But what, exactly, does orientation mean in this context? (And how do we do it?) In my mind, it has everything to do with knowing which way you’re facing when you can’t see where you’re headed. No maps or plans, just trusting a developed instinct that tells you which way is up.

(Fun fact: "orient" originally meant to turn toward the east, toward the sunrise. The word was always about facing something, not arriving at it.)

Making meaning out of collapse is individual, and has space to emerge when we stay in relationship with what’s happening — being witnessed (by others or yourself), tended, and allowing the change to happen. And the meaning-making often comes after, when we’ve had a chance to make it to the other side of an experience and integrate the whole thing.

I started this section by asking about the individual level, but I don't think the individual and the collective are as separate as they seem. I couldn't get the pre-motherhood version of me back, and I'm pretty sure we aren't getting the old normal back either. I'm learning to hold that idea without flinching. (Mostly.)

What helped me then, and what I think helps now, was other people. Sitting together with the not-knowing without trying to fix it or rush through. Collapse at any scale is too heavy to carry as a solo act, and orientation is much easier to find in company. Someone can usually see enough to carry the torch and take the next step, while we all feel into the direction we’re headed.

So whether you’ve been through your own seasons of collapse, you’re really feeling the crush of the current societal slide, or you find the old vessel becoming too small, I think there are some questions waiting for us at the threshold.

What might become visible if we stopped measuring ourselves by what we’ve been fighting to recover? What if we stopped fighting so hard against what’s happening and got curious about what it might be initiating? (And then, I dunno, did something about it once we noticed the new direction we were pointing.)

More questions than answers, as usual. (That’s kinda how I roll.)

Let's see what the rest of this edition has to say about it, shall we?

Photo of the Month: Fall, Interrupted

Short Practice of the Month: Orienting to the Fall

Back in the Idea of the Month section, I brought up the concept of orienting ourselves. But what I didn’t do was talk about the ways we can do it.

This month’s short practice is one way to do exactly that. Figuring out where you are before you figure out what’s next. Orientation is a somatic practice that helps the nervous system feel safe in the present moment, and it’s a good one for all of us to have in our back pockets.

(Note: if anything about scanning your space makes you feel uncomfortable, feel free to skip this one. Or you might start by looking out the window, or allowing your gaze to settle on the sky.)

How to do it:

1. Stand (or sit) up with a lengthened spine.
2. Turn your head comfortably to one side, right or left, and allow your eyes to focus on something away from you (across the room or at least a couple of feet away).
3. As slowly as you can manage, start turning your head toward the other side, letting your gaze pass over whatever is in between.
4. Notice colors, shadows, reflections, patterns, shapes, anything that catches your eye.
5. Keep going until you reach the other side, or as far as feels comfortable.
6. Then choose one thing you saw and allow your gaze to rest there for a few breaths.

When you’re done, take note of what happened in your body. Was there more space? Less? Did your shoulders relax or your jaw unclench? The exact opposite? Did your breath change pace?

Whatever arose, give yourself permission for it to be just as it is. You’re allowing your body to get its bearings, nothing more, nothing less.

Sometimes that’s the biggest work.

Post of the Month: Falling Into the Moment

I wrote this post a decade ago, and I’m still working on the lesson in it. The instructions haven’t changed, even after all these years. (And neither has how hard they are to follow.)

From the post:

That Jessica from a decade ago may not have had any idea what kind of future was in store for her, but she was already laying the groundwork.

Practice and patience are the long game. Some days, though, what helps is much shorter: a few minutes where your body gets to do what your head can't.

Song of the Month: Free Fall

This month’s song doesn’t pretend like anything has to be solved. The worry doesn’t leave, but for a moment you can drop in and just dance.

​Free, by Florence and the Machine, feels right for where we find ourselves this month: the cost named outright, no safety promised, and yet a window of relief in the middle of everything shifting.

Is this how it is?
Is this how it's always been?
To exist in the face of suffering and death
And somehow still keep singing?

A song can give you the window, even if dancing doesn't prove you're healed, or free. The dancing just means worry and grief haven't taken your whole range. And the relief can be real, even when it's not the same thing as being okay.

But what lives in the gap between?

Mindset of the Month: Falling Together

Earlier in this edition, I talked about that place where we hold cost and possibility at the same time. That gap between feeling relief and actually being okay is where the ideal world and the real one we’re living in part ways.

Sometimes what lives in the real moment is much harder to hold.

Everything this edition has covered is useful. Orienting helps us see where we stand. We can develop practices that help us find the room to breathe. Naming things can help lift some of the shame. And doing it together can help carry what’s too heavy to hold alone.

But none of that changes the fact that some conditions aren’t livable. At least not for long. Relief can help you feel okay for a minute, but unless something actually changes underneath, real life comes roaring back as soon as the comfort passes.

Passing through the threshold, walking the initiatory path, collapse as initiation — those can give agency back, but they can’t substitute for money, safety, care, or real change in lived conditions.

And the time and permission I gave myself while I sat in the messy middle aren’t evenly distributed. Neither are mentors or the kind of company that sits with you without trying to fix anything.

Back in the second-ever edition of this newsletter, I wrote something that still stands:

Two years later, and another verse of the same damn song.

That’s part of why this edition's theme came to be in the first place. If I had my choice, we would all live in the land of “what if” where nothing stood in between us and the better world we can see. Not just dreaming it, but starting to build it, too.

(But, unfortunately, reality often runs headfirst into my idealist visions. Yay, Capitalism.)

However! I think there are a lot of folks out there right now dreaming up new visions and ways of being that are slipping through the cracks in the machine. I continue to hold hope for all of us, and the desire to do my part.

So before we wrap up, I’ll leave you with this to ponder: what would it take for more of us to have livable conditions, and not just a moment of relief? And who is already working on some part of it that we could join?

The Sound of Falling

As I finish writing this edition, the drumbeat on the studio roof goes on. Every time the breeze passes through, more leaves are tap-tap-tapping, and then a pause, with nobody keeping time.

(And more than a few trees are still holding out. The oaks are only just starting to turn, so their reds will carry the torch for a while longer.)

No single leaf makes much of a sound on its own. It's the whole lot of them, coming down on their own schedules, that makes the rhythm. Soon enough, they'll all be down, and the roof will go quiet.

But for now, I'll just keep enjoying the view.

Until next time: rest, then rise.
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​P.S. Earlier, I mentioned the folks already working to bring part of the new vision into being, and I'd really like to know who you know. Hit reply and tell me about one person, group, or project (or you!) doing some part of it. (Big, small, or barely organized all count. One line is plenty. Links are helpful if you have them handy.)