Seeing Clearly
Inspiration, breath and receiving
In the first days of the new year, I got a concussion. My first brain injury.
It wasn’t dramatic. I have no exciting ski adventure story to tell. On the first Friday night of the year, after coming home from 5Rhythms dance, I stood up with force into a hanging shelf—one of those ordinary moments that passes quickly, until it doesn’t. What followed was a month shaped by slowness: headaches, dizziness, fog, fatigue, sensitivity to light, difficulty concentrating, and a very clear message from my body and nervous system to step away. Screens went dark. Meetings and events were cancelled. The pace softened. January became something else entirely.
I spent most of the month offline, healing.
At first, this felt inconvenient. For many of us, January carries a feeling of beginning—ideas forming, momentum gathering, energy turning outward again. Instead, my world grew smaller and quieter. Walks. Gardening on nice days. Tea. Rest. Long stretches of slow movement. Presence.
And slowly, something opened.
Without the usual pull of stimulation and output, my attention turned inward. I found myself listening more carefully—not for answers, exactly, but for what was already present beneath the noise. Healing asked for patience. It asked for trust. It asked for a willingness to receive rather than produce.
This is where breath entered, gently and faithfully.
Breath and inspiration are deeply intertwined. Even their roots tell the story: inspiration means to breathe in. Before inspiration becomes an idea, a vision, or a calling, it arrives as a quiet receiving. Something subtle touches us. Something moves.
Thích Nhất Hạnh taught that mindful breathing is a way of coming home—to the body, to the present moment, to life as it is. During those slow January days, I felt this truth intimately. Breathing didn’t hurry the healing along. It created space to be with what was here: the tenderness, the fatigue, the frustration, and, unexpectedly, a sense of clarity.
When we breathe consciously, we touch something already alive within us. Like a seed resting beneath the soil, there is a deeper reality waiting for the right conditions. Healing unfolded as those conditions were met—through rest, through presence, through care.
The same is true for vision.
We often imagine inspiration as something that arrives suddenly, fully formed. What I experienced felt quieter, slower, almost underground. Inspiration revealed itself as something that had been waiting patiently, becoming visible once the noise settled.
In the absence of constant digital input, my seeing sharpened. I could sense what mattered. I could feel what no longer did. I noticed what had been asking for attention for a long time. The vision for my new home, on ancient land that was new to me, here in a clearing in the tall trees.
The council of trees, the deep blue sky, the eagle who circled me overhead on more than one occasion, and my breath became the doorways to a clearing.
Each conscious inhale carried a sense of trust. Each exhale softened urgency and loosened old habits of pushing. Breathing became a way of aligning body, heart, and mind so insight could arise in its own time.
Just as the headaches subsided, the fogginess lifted, and my energy began to return, the world outside slowed me down again.
A major snow and ice storm moved through Maryland. It was both gorgeous and wild. Snow turned to sleet. Single-digit temperatures transformed a deep blanket of white into a frozen, crystalline landscape. The snowplow didn’t reach my street for four days. I was completely snowed in.
It felt unmistakable—like a gentle but firm message from the universe: no, not yet.
There was more stillness to experience. More breath. More deep listening.
I spent time outside twice a day, every day. Walking slowly. Encouraging my golden retriever to come along with me on the slippery land. Feeling the cold air and bright sun on my face. Inviting the cool wind. Letting my nervous system settle into the rhythm of light, weather, and silence. The land itself became a teacher, grounding me in a way that felt ancient and reassuring.
As I slowly re-entered the world—still gently, still with care—I noticed something important. The vision that was arriving didn’t feel like something to construct. It felt like something to live into. The future was asking for embodiment, for presence, for breath.
This is what seeing clearly feels like. This is how vision emerges. This is how we return to presence. I hope next time it doesn’t take a concussion and a major winter snowstorm, but I did receive the many gifts that came with my unexpected January retreat. May you live with intention, creating your own spaces of stillness, in nature, with peace.
Practice: Pausing, Deep Listening, and Allowing Insight to Emerge
1. Pause and arrive
Find a comfortable seat or stand where you are. Let your body settle. Take three slow, natural breaths, feeling the inhale arrive and the exhale release. Allow yourself to pause without needing to do anything else. Try this outside if you can.
2. Listen beneath the noise
Bring gentle attention to the breath moving in the body. Notice sensations, feelings, or subtle shifts without naming or fixing them. Let listening happen through the body rather than the mind.
3. Allow insight to surface
Stay with the breath for a few minutes, trusting whatever wants to emerge. Insight may come as a feeling, an image, or a quiet knowing. Let it arrive in its own time, and let that be enough.
Join me Sunday, February 1, at 10:00 am EST for more on Seeing Clearly, Breath and Inspiration. I will be live on the Insight Timer app, sharing insights from my January Winter Retreat and leading a guided meditation to take you into your own place of peace, rest, vision and insight. Click here to add it to your calendar.