I’ve missed those warm summer mornings on the porch, when time felt abundant. The slower pace let the inspiration for these newsletters flow simply by sitting, listening, and letting the words emerge naturally.

The past weeks have had a completely different rhythm. I knew that developing Rhythms That Restore Us would ask something of me, but I didn’t anticipate the amount of time, attention, and energy it would take to build each class, teach it, observe what emerged, listen to the participants, and then reconstruct the next element.

And somewhere along the way, something shifted. The classes stopped feeling like something I was creating for the people who joined me and became something we were discovering together.

I’d like to share some of this with you.

We began with Ether, experiencing spaciousness: the quiet foundation from which something new can arise.

Then came Air, introducing the first signs of movement: what catches our attention and how our bodies begin to respond.

With Fire, we explored themes of warmth, activation, and direction. We followed what felt warm and bright, then paused to reflect once again. For many of us, what called to us after the pause felt more meaningful and life-giving.

Not everything that captures our attention is worth pursuing. Taking a moment to pause helps us discern what truly matters, and over time, this practice may strengthen our capacity to make thoughtful decisions and help maintain our energy reserves.

For months, I had contemplated these rhythms, researched them, and imagined how we might grow closer to the ones that restore us. But experiencing them collectively brought home for me once again how each body has its own way of bringing ideas to life.

A small movement can reveal insights that words cannot express. A moment of stillness can change what comes next. Something one person notices can open a new pathway for someone else. And sometimes, the most meaningful aspect of a practice is not what I initially anticipated it would be when I created it.

Exploration doesn’t always mean knowing exactly where we are headed, and I’ve experienced this in my own life lately, too.

Some days there is space to sit on the porch and listen. Other days, something begins to stir, and life call for our energy and full participation. Eventually, a different rhythm emerges.

Now we move into Water, where we’re discovering that flow doesn’t always mean constant forward motion.

Sometimes, it means moving around something. Sometimes it brings a drawing inward – a time to receive and be nourished before giving rise to something new.

From this nurturing place, other movements can emerge: unfolding, reaching, spiraling, and finding expression.

I’m glad to be writing to you again.

Warmly,
Candice