True North Coaching

Courage comes in many forms

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Happy Holidays!

On the shortest day of the year celebrate not just the pending lighter days to come but the darkness you’ve just come through. Both are gifts that make us whole.

I love how, in this poem, Mary Oliver reminds us to be present and notice, even if we don’t fully understand it.

My wish for you today is to have a moment like anyone of these she describes in her poem. I’d love to hear about, please tell me.

Snowy Night by Mary Oliver

Last night, an owl
in the blue dark
tossed an indeterminate number
of carefully shaped sounds into
the world, in which,
a quarter of a mile away, I happened
to be standing.
I couldn’t tell
which one it was –
the barred or the great-horned
ship of the air –
it was that distant. But, anyway,
aren’t there moments
that are better than knowing something,
and sweeter? Snow was falling,
so much like stars
filling the dark trees
that one could easily imagine
its reason for being was nothing more
than prettiness. I suppose
if this were someone else’s story
they would have insisted on knowing
whatever is knowable – would have hurried
over the fields
to name it – the owl, I mean.
But it’s mine, this poem of the night,
and I just stood there, listening and holding out
my hands to the soft glitter
falling through the air. I love this world,
but not for its answers.
And I wish good luck to the owl,
whatever its name –
and I wish great welcome to the snow,
whatever its severe and comfortless
and beautiful meaning.

"...'Einstein said creativity is intelligence is having fun'...then the enemy of creativity is behaving"

Enjoy the weekend misbehaving.

FIND YOUR PEOPLE

They are out there you know….
waiting to be found
or even just to be seen
perhaps they are hiding in plain sight?

When you do find them
they will like you, on impact
just as you are
because they are your people.

How will you know when you come across them?

It’s a little fizz
a tiny little spark of something
that zips unseen
between you…

One soul recognising another.

Stop trying to be liked
by those who don’t see your worth
chances are they never will.

Find your people

they need you too.

Donna Ashworth
From ‘I Wish I Knew’ : https://amzn.to/3JVMJlZ

Art by Inge Löök Oy Ab (do follow)

If you received a request to connect with me on Alignable please ignore it as I did not send it out and I am not using Alignable.

Today is International Women’s Day. It’s a day to celebrate and imagine a gender equal world; free of discrimination and stereotypes, where diversity and inclusivity is celebrated.

Here’s a poem by Mary Oliver…. Kinda fits the day don’t you think?

WILD GEESE by Mary Oliver

You do not have to be good.
You do not have to walk on your knees
for a hundred miles through the desert repenting.
You only have to let the soft animal of your body
love what it loves.
Tell me about despair, yours, and I will tell you mine.
Meanwhile the world goes on.
Meanwhile the sun and the clear pebbles of the rain
are moving across the landscapes,
over the prairies and the deep trees,
the mountains and the rivers.
Meanwhile the wild geese, high in the clean blue air,
are heading home again.
Whoever you are, no matter how lonely,
the world offers itself to your imagination,
calls to you like the wild geese, harsh and exciting -
over and over announcing your place
in the family of things.

Still love this. Watch this and tell me you don’t want to start living… or at least dancing

Life is for Living Kings feat Hannah Leigh The soundtrack to the amazing Doco-film "Hip Hop Eration"

A maven on my mind

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Hmmm what’s this say about me?

Credit PETERSON'S PAINTING CHARMS for Gatewy album RED HOT CHILI PEPPERS.

(Image credit with quote unknown)

A chance encounter with a family of otters made me want to share a poem of Mary Oliver’s

ALMOST A CONVERSATION
by Mary Oliver

I have not really, not yet, talked with otter
about his life.
He has so many teeth, he has trouble
with vowels.
Wherefore our understanding
is all body expression—
he swims like the sleekest fish,
he dives and exhales and lifts a trail of bubbles.
Little by little he trusts my eyes
and my curious body sitting on the shore.
Sometimes he comes close.
I admire his whiskers
and his dark fur which I would rather die than wear.
He has no words, still what he tells about his life is clear.
He does not own a computer.
He imagines the river will last forever.
He does not envy the dry house I live in.
He does not wonder who or what it is that I worship.
He wonders, morning after morning, that the river
is so cold and fresh and alive, and still
I don’t jump in.