When the conscious mind senses danger—pain, fear, uncertainty—it contracts. Muscles tighten. Breath becomes shallow. Circulation narrows. It’s an instinctive response, and it’s deeply human.
But once I understood this pattern, I stopped trying to force my way out of it.
Instead, I began to play with information.
One practice I’ve shared before comes from Dr. Masaru Emoto’s work with water. I take water into my mouth and pause. I tell it how grateful I am. I imagine it loving every cell it touches—and being loved in return. I let it trickle slowly down my throat, staying present with the experience.
Is it scientific? Maybe. Maybe not.
But it changes something.
Another way I shift out of fear is through creativity. Creativity moves me from urgency into inspiration. It turns out this is also biologically smart as we age.
I’ve always loved pen-and-ink drawing. I began in 1984, then stopped for years, then returned intensely, then stopped again. One day, my husband scanned my entire collection—188 drawings. Some were terrible. Some had promise. I put them away.
Later, I tried to paint digitally. That didn’t feel right. I tried PhotoPaint, which my husband knew well. I spent most of the time frustrated, unable to get the brush to do what I wanted. I put it down.
Then came the iPad.
I discovered Procreate, watched a tutorial, and thought, Oh, I can do that. (That was my conscious mind again.) I bought the program. I bought the Apple Pencil. And frustration returned.
So I stopped—but this time, I did something different. I asked my mind to gather everything it needed to learn Procreate, and to let me know when it was ready.
Weeks later, I picked it up again. And it flowed.
The same thing happened with Canva—thank goodness for my friend Sue Freeman, who patiently jumped on Zoom again and again until it finally clicked.
Eventually, I created a 128-page journal for writing, drawing, and reflection—playful and thoughtful, with four sections anchored by my artwork. Instead of frustration, there was ease. I could work for hours, absorbed and content. It’s almost published.
What I’ve learned is this: when we stop forcing and start listening, the system reorganizes itself.
When life becomes too serious, we need to put a sandbox and a few toys in the middle of it. Innocence isn’t naïve—it’s regenerative.
what would be playful for you?
If you haven’t played for a while, what is the first thing you would like to do?
Listening opens the door.
And play, once again, shows us how to walk through it.
In the joyful light of love,
Nancy
