That’s a response I’ve heard a lot when I ask women if they’d like to join our Monday morning TIMBo circle. I understand. I feel that way, too. And, honestly, that’s part of what is drawing me into a circle right now.

When I am in my “list mode,” taking an hour and a half to be present with myself and other women is often exactly what I need. It gives me time to notice what I’m carrying, and to remind myself that I am safe in the moment. I don’t serve myself, my family, and my community best by running at breakneck speed, even when the stakes feel high. After a group, I often feel rested and reset, ready to get back in with a new perspective of space and grace. One of my favorite sayings from Valerie Kaur is, “The way we make change is just as important as the change we make.” It reminds me that I serve others best when I am in balance.

I also understand that joining a new group for the first time is different. Learning new skills and growing our awareness takes work. It can feel harder before it feels better. I remember, back in 2020, sitting in my own discomfort in a circle and saying, “Well, we are not eating bonbons; that’s for sure.” Healing is work, and only you know when you are ready to challenge what is known and risk change. There’s a framework I read about in Rick Hansen’s book The Buddha’s Brain: The Practical Neuroscience of Happiness, Love, and Wisdom, in which he discusses the stages of mastery when learning a new skill. The process starts with unconscious ignorance, then moves to conscious ignorance, then conscious mastery, and eventually to unconscious mastery. Sometimes things are out of awareness for a reason; looking at them can be difficult. And when you suddenly see a behavior clearly but don’t yet have the skill to change it, it can be hard. It is also incredibly freeing. Both can be true.

So I want to honor the people who have said no. Saying no can be a meaningful boundary, and I’m grateful to see people practicing that skill. If you’ve done TIMBo before or you know you are ready, and this space feels right for you, we’ve delayed our start by a week in the hope of filling the circle. Otherwise, we will regroup in early 2027, when, hopefully, it feels more spacious and possible. I have also heard from people that mornings just don’t work. I get that, and I will share out groups from other fabulous facilitators happening in the new year. I’d love to run evening groups, but evening time with my little sweetie pies is too precious right now.

When Mo and I first talked about whether to run a group through the holidays, we considered taking a break, as we often do during such a busy season. But we also know that the holidays can be when sitting in a circle feels most necessary. The darkening months can be hard, especially amidst all the celebrations. The circle can become a place of safety and connection.

On Wednesday morning @ 9:00, Mo and I (and maybe some other facilitators) plan to share a live video here to talk more about what the circle is and what it has meant to us. To share the promise of fruit at the end of the labor, and a little bit more clarity on what a TIMBo group looks like.

I’m actually grateful to have delayed all of this after the elections. It’s been a long season. So many people have worked incredibly hard. I hope they get a chance to rest, and that the work they’ve done comes to fruition. Please vote. We need to be able to use and protect our rights in order to keep them. It’s hard not to feel the weight of what’s at stake.

So tune in on Wednesday when we will try out something new. And if you’d like to join us next week, here is the sign-up link.

In grace,

Hannah B

I went dancing yesterday. As you all know, I love to dance. It is my opportunity to drop into a part of me that is quiet for most of my day. A space for me to create, explore, and open up places that have been shut off. Yesterday was a productive day spent on research and writing, immigrant activism, and tending a sick kid. It was a head-down kind of day, so the dance was my chance to be free.

I got there, put down my mat, and felt sluggish and slow. I didn’t feel the music like I usually do. I felt like a heavy blanket was draped over me. It was hard to move, and I REALLY wanted to move. I wanted to BE in the dance, to be open to the energetic space it creates. But every time I tried, I was fighting something. The prompt was: “In order to be grounded, we must be flexible.” I didn’t feel very flexible. It was frustrating. I felt betrayed by my body.

But I also know that there are mysteries in there to explore. So I thought about that heavy blanket. I imagined putting up sticks to prop it up. I said, Let me make a fort with this blanket, and let me dance in this fort. I found some space and a little freedom. I asked if I could expand it. Could the fort be bigger? Could it have an open ceiling? Could I leave the safety of the fort, knowing I could always return? The answer? Not really. I was still pushing. Still fighting. Even in my imagery. I still wanted OUT.

At some point, I gave up. I said, if this is how you move today, let that be enough. If I stay on this mat, if my movements are delayed, slow, a beat behind the music, it is ok. I am safe. I don’t need to fight. I accept this is where I need to be right now.

I stopped pushing and held the space.

It was like magic. To say: Ok. I give up. I am with you now, and I am done asking you to be different, to feel different, to act differently. That was the key. Suddenly I was off my mat. I was spinning around the room, in a musical exchange with the other dancers. I was free.

I heard the prompt again: in order to be grounded, we must be flexible; we can be off balance and still be centered.

Flexibility wasn’t about how I moved my feet. It was about how I allowed myself to enter that space; it was about letting go of expectations. In grad school, we call it psychological flexibility. We could also call it:

Awareness, acceptance, and space.

Then choice.

And it is the lesson I will learn over and over again. Even after experiencing it, teaching it, writing about it, I still forget. It is the fight against the feeling that makes it stick around.

So I ask you: What are you fighting right now? What part of you are you rejecting because you don’t want to be that way? How can you breathe in acceptance and make space for that part?

Our nine-week circle will begin on Monday, November 2nd from 9:00-10:30. We will decide what to do for the holidays once we’ve formed.

We offer a sliding scale of $90-180, but no one will be turned away for lack of funds. All we ask is for your presence and your commitment to change. Reach out if you have any questions, or just sign up here.

Also, let me know if you would participate at a different time. It will be good information, and there are other circles of friends I can connect you with.

Finally, I want to say it means a lot to me when people tell me they miss my writing. I miss it too! I want to make time to write to you all, but school has taken over. I am out of the habit of sharing, and my messages these days are quite small. I get them when I listen deeply while walking in the woods, while dancing, in the darkness of the late-night sauna. Writing here has been an effort, a practice, and a commitment that I have not been able to maintain for a while now. Thanks for your kind words and your patience. I’ll be back someday.

But until then, if you are called, come join me in a weekly circle, and let’s find those quiet messages together.

In grace,

Hannah B

“Should I, after tea and cake and ices, have the strength to force the moment to its crisis?”

I carried that line with me on the drive up to Maine, headed for a glorious reunion with my TIMBo sisters. I’d been reflecting on how to live within the pace of life, not to rush, not to drag, but to stay in what is right now. After some deep healing work, I was wondering what it might feel like to take my foot off the gas and simply receive each moment as it came.

Usually, I’m future-oriented, always looking toward the next horizon. But as I packed for the retreat, I opened one of my favorite books, an advice column book with the Slavic witch, Baba Yaga dispensing the advice. I landed on this page.

This line that became my muse:

“Remember what your mouth already tastes.”

And so I did. I noticed the amazing food, the cool swims, the thick campfire smoke, and the laughter of six wholehearted women. The weekend was full of joy, witnessing, and the deep relief of being truly seen and loved.

Something shifted in me. Coming home, I realized there were still parts of myself I’d been hiding in everyday life. That experience of being witnessed gave me courage to face them. Once again, I had to “find the strength to force the moment to its crisis.”

It felt terrifying, like that time in the weekend when I was standing on a high rock, ready to jump. My gut said: Don’t risk it. What if you lose everything? But deep down, I knew the foundation was safe.

After a week of inching to the edge, on Thursday, I leapt.

I had the conversation. I dared to disturb the universe. And like plunging into cool water, relief and clarity washed over me. It was good. It was right. On the other side, I felt a deeper trust, in myself, in my body’s wisdom, and in the relationships and community I’ve built.

This is what TIMBo nurtures in us: the ability to slow down, listen inward, and find courage in the moment.

So I’ll ask you: is there something you know you need to do, but fear is holding you back? Do you carry a poem that still echoes in your ears?

And are you waiting to join a TIMBo group but haven’t hit send on the email? We have one spot left in our in-person group, Wednesdays 6–7:30 in Jaffrey, starting in two weeks. That spot could be yours. Unfortunately, We didn’t get the numbers for a 3.0 this round, but I’ll be back online soon once I recalibrate around grad school with another invitation.

Thank you. I am so grateful. I’m grateful for the chance to be alive, to taste it all, and to walk this path with you.

With love and appreciation,
Hannah B

Somewhere in my twenties, a decade of wild, joyful adventures. A time when I could almost hear myself cracking out of my shell. In the middle of that season, this truth emerged for me:

You get what you give.

I remember its origin clearly: a spontaneous bike trip from Exeter, NH, to Monmouth, ME, during a summer vacation from my job in the Bahamas. It was a long ride, and my thoughts ricocheted wildly between I can do anything and what was I thinking? Along the way, I noticed how differently people treated me, and how the energy I put out seemed to shape what I got back.

This idea has become etched into my family’s mantra: you give sweetness, you get sweetness in return. Guess what comes out of anger and frustration? You want a sister who treats you with kindness and respect? It’s not startlingly different from treat others as you would want to be treated, but it feels more direct. People will mirror back the energy you give.

And yet… somehow that lesson is circling back to me now, sinking in more deeply.

A few months ago, a dear Quaker friend whom I deeply respect stopped by with a book, Kinship with All Life by J. Allen Boone. She told me it had been foundational for her thinking and that she thought I might enjoy it. I thanked her and tossed it onto a stack. When I finally picked it up, it wasn’t quite what I expected.

I’ve always treated animals with respect and a belief in mutual communication. (Ask me about the day I broke up with a parrot on a nude beach in California, or when my only friend, Oscar the spider, was eaten by an invasive gecko in Hawaii.) But what struck me in the book was the emphasis on the unspoken energy you direct toward another living being. It wasn’t about the words spoken or even the actions taken, but the truth held in your heart.

In the stories, Allen took intentional steps to release superiority, malice, and control. He believed these barriers blocked his ability to truly listen to and respect nonhuman life. The lessons began with an exceptional dog and extended all the way down to… a fly.

In the end, the book was a long meditation on you get what you give, but not in the obvious ways. Not in your polite words or friendly gestures, but in the deep, unspoken truths you carry in your heart.

That lens has made me notice how often I guard my heart while asking others to work with me or trust me. How much negative expectation I carry to protect myself, smiling and saying please on the outside, but bracing for rejection or unkindness on the inside. I’ve gotten much better at the behaviors that invite cooperation, but inside there’s still a closed, protected part of me.

This is a deeper layer of you get what you give, and the work here is so much harder.

Thankfully, I am standing at the edge of a new adventure! A new chance to keep spelunking into my own heart. Today, I flew to Prescott, Arizona, to begin a three-year master’s program in Clinical Mental Health Counseling. My work with TIMBo has watered the path for this calling, and I feel grateful for the opportunity to align my work with my heart, to study deeply, and to be better equipped to help others on their paths to wellness. I can already feel my heart cracking open again for this next chapter.

Thank you for being part of this journey with me. My writing has been quiet for a while, and I don’t know if this new chapter will spark more outward sharing or invite me inward, but time will tell.

To be honest, much of my storytelling these days lives inside TIMBo circles. By way of an update: Maureen and I are meeting weekly with an incredible constellation of women in a TIMBo 2.0 circle, and next month we’ll begin our first TIMBo 3.0 circle. If you’ve completed TIMBo 1.0 and 2.0, we’d love to have you join us. This final module is deeply powerful and healing.

And, I’m thrilled to share that my dear friend Alex and I will be starting an in-person TIMBo 1.0 circle on Wednesday nights in Jaffrey in early September. Alex is the person who first introduced me to this work. It is a true honor to lead circles alongside her. Let me know if you’d like to join us.

All in all I am learning that an open heart is never a finished project. It’s a lifelong practice, and the more I give from that place, the more life gives back in ways I could never have planned.

Here’s to the journey!

Hannah B

Me in the mountains of Prescott about to start my Masters in Clinical Mental Health Counseling!

This week, Maureen and I will officially launch our first TIMBo circle, and I could not be more excited. We’re holding space for some incredible women, each of whom I know in some way. I’m honored that they are trusting us with their stories, their time, and their presence. It feels like the beginning of something powerful.

We’ve been preparing for this for a very long time. . .the work we’re stepping into is deep. And that word work has been on my mind lately.

When Dan and I first got together, we used to argue about the word work. For me, it has always meant something life fulfilling, brimming with purpose. Work is what moves us forward in life. It’s how we engage with this one precious life.

But for Dan, the word meant drudgery and obligation.

I’d say “work” and light up. He’d groan. I’d ask, “Don’t you want to live life to the fullest?” and he’d say, “Exactly.” Cue the fight.

Eventually, we figured out that we were just using the same word to mean two very different things. If you know Dan, you know how much he actually loves purposeful forward motion. He just doesn’t call it work.

Lately, I’ve been wondering if I’ve made the “work” of TIMBo sound heavier than it is. Maybe I haven’t talked enough about the joy of it. The way it opens doors, softens hearts, and reconnects us to ourselves.

For me, this is joyful work. It’s both tender and challenging, as well as powerful and life-giving.

Why It’s Worth It

Here are a few things that changed for me after going through the TIMBo program:

I stopped yelling at my kids in a way that made them afraid of me. More than that, I started seeing them, spending time with them in meaningful purposeful ways. I am more and more available to receive the precious gift of time with these three beautiful and amazing girls.

I started truly listening to the people around me instead of just waiting for my turn to speak.

I stopped constantly searching for the thing that was wrong with me and actually started believing the kind things people said.

I stopped living in a constant state of fear. I learned to trust myself and notice when I needed care.

My body stopped hurting all the time. This one is big. I’ve lived with chronic pain my entire adult life. For the first time ever, I’m not in pain every day.

And it wasn’t magic. It didn’t happen overnight. But it happened. And it’s still happening. That’s the thing about healing, once it starts, it doesn’t end. Growth becomes a way of life.

Sure, as I get stronger, the old wounds sometimes show up more clearly. But I meet them differently now. It's harder to knock me off my mark. I have better tools and resources.

Working with faith

These past few weeks have been a challenge. Launching this first circle brought up a lot. I thought it would be easier to find people. I figured we’d fill the group quickly, even at a modest price to offset the time and money we’ve invested over the last 18 months.

But it didn’t go that way. Some people said cost was a barrier. Maureen and I had to stop and ask—what matters most?

This circle mattered. To us, to our path, to the change we know it makes possible, to the work we feel called to do. So we dropped the money barrier. We hosted an info session. Four beautiful women came.

We said we needed at least six. That felt like the minimum for creating a safe, vibrant group. So I reached out to people. I followed up. I tried again.

And it worked.

Now we have seven amazing women. The perfect seven, really. And I am so grateful. They are trusting us with their stories and their presence for 90 minutes a week. What a gift.

Faith in Action

That’s where faith comes back in. After all that worry, all the what-ifs and not-enoughs, here we are. The group came together.

I wish I had trusted it sooner. Trusted that what’s meant to be, will be.

Then again, maybe that uncertainty served a purpose. Maybe it gave me the push to hustle, to adapt, to keep showing up. Maybe that tension between faith and effort is the whole point.

Faith doesn’t mean sitting back and waiting. It means doing your part. And then letting go.

If someone said no, or didn’t respond, it just wasn’t their time. And that’s okay.

What’s here now is exactly what’s supposed to be.

There is no failure.

Unless... You’re Meant to Be Here Too

Unless you’ve been on the fence.

Because we still have room in our circle. We’re hosting an orientation this Wednesday morning (the 23rd). We’ll talk through the program, answer questions, and practice some gentle yoga and meditation together. Sign up here.

If you’re curious, if something in your body is saying “maybe,” I hope you’ll listen.

You’re invited too.

In faith,

Hannah B

Tomorrow is my birthday! It’s not a wild number, I’ll be 41, but I love this moment every year when the world spins me back to the beginning. A time to look backwards to see how far I’ve come, to look ahead on the path I’m walking, and then to stay right here and count the many gifts of the present.

One of these gifts is the opportunity to co-facilitate my own TIMBo Circle beginning next week, April 23rd and running every Wednesday morning for nine weeks. My wonderful partner Mo and I decided to run a birthday special for this first circle: $150 for nine weeks — a 25% discount! Sign up this weekend and use the code #celebration in your Venmo tag to join this incredible community of women doing the work together.

This feels like a good moment to tell you more about how these circles are structured:

• Classes are capped at 12 participants to keep the circle (or Zoom matrix) small enough that everyone has a chance to share — if they want to. Sharing is always optional. I’ve shared circles with women who never said a word aloud, and still had a deeply transformative experience.
  

• Each class is 90 minutes. We begin with an opening breath, a check-in word (pass is always an option), and then spend just under an hour in conversation around the week’s TIMBo readings.
  

• We close with a grounding breath, a check-out word, and a short yoga and meditation session. The Yoga is gentle, adaptable, and doesn’t require much physical stamina. It’s accessible to many bodies.
  
  

If you’ve been reading Fractals of Hope, you already know many of the themes. I’ve been structuring my writing around the TIMBo cycle for several rounds now. At the heart of this work is building the muscle of awareness — learning to listen to the wisdom of your body, to understand and appreciate how your life shaped your adaptations, and to build community around healing.

We do a lot of breathing together. A lot of noticing. A lot of honoring our bodies.

There’s only one “assignment,” a final art project that is flexible, creative, and is always my favorite class

You can read more about the philosophy of the work in my very first Fractals post.

If you’re ready to sign up, click on this link to visit our registration page. It includes a "what to expect" document and a “responsibility agreement” outlining shared expectations for more detailed information.

I like to say there’s no such thing as a bad TIMBo class.

There have definitely been times I’ve been triggered, angry, scared, or just plain uncomfortable while sitting in the circle. Sometimes it’s what I bring in with me — sometimes it’s screaming kids in the background, a shaky internet connection, or a fellow participant who hits all my buttons.

And then it hits me in my body. My heart races. My hands get shaky. I find it hard to breathe.
And I want to do something — anything — RIGHT NOW. Fix it. Change it. Escape it.

That rush of urgency — that need to fight, flee, or fix — is a survival response. Something in these conditions once felt physically dangerous, likely long ago. My body remembers.

But now, I get to breathe into that space. To notice where the sensation lands in my body.

To remind myself: I am safe.

And I am especially safe in a community of women who are doing the work with me.
That’s the real magic. We take risks. We share what’s real. And I see other women carrying the same burdens I’ve carried — and somehow, on them, it doesn’t look like weakness. It looks like strength.

Together, we build a practice of staying present — with ourselves and with each other.
That is the work. That is the magic of TIMBo. It’s hard work, and it’s shared.

I’ve been so moved by the messages and comments I’ve received about the practice of presence. They remind me why I started writing Fractals in the first place — to build community around what can feel like isolating experiences. To remember that we are not alone. That we are stronger together.

Last week I was at the dance, and as always, it was marvelous. It is not that different from TIMBo. It is moving together in community—sharing space, taking risks, creating something beautiful.

At the end of the dance, I took a chance. I told the group there wasn’t a dance scheduled on my birthday and asked if anyone wanted to make one happen. And you know what? Alex said, “Why not? Let’s do it at the church.”

From nothing—suddenly, something. Because I asked. Because I took a risk. It was pure magic. The alchemy of simply asking for what you want.

So if you’d like to join me, I’ll be dancing at the UU Church in Peterborough Saturday (tomorrow morning) at 10 am—welcoming the day with movement and community.

Then next week, On Wednesday morning at 9 am, I’ll be starting my first TIMBo circle. I’m nervous. I’m excited. I want you to be a part of it—it would be the most meaningful gift.

Thank you, friends.

So much love,

Hannah B

Awareness sounds benign. It seems simple on the surface, but in practice, it's profoundly challenging work. There are valid reasons we might resist practicing awareness. It can be uncomfortable, even painful—especially when coupled with acceptance, allowing what we discover to exist without trying to change it.

Perhaps a more accurate description of awareness would be "practicing living with discomfort long enough to hear its wisdom." That has been my journey these past weeks: sitting with discomfort while paying attention to my feelings and noticing how they shape my actions.

What am I noticing?

• I feel an almost constant weight on my chest, making deep breaths difficult as I try to stay engaged with what's happening nationally and in my community. Fear arises from deep uncertainty about both short-term events and their long-term effects on the world my children will inherit.

• I catch myself seeking relief through unhealthy coping mechanisms—shutting down emotionally or mindlessly scrolling social media for fleeting dopamine hits.

• I observe anxiety propelling my internal "never enough" narrative, watching as I continue accumulating responsibilities in an attempt to make things better. I sense the approaching overwhelm without translating that awareness into establishing boundaries and saying no.

• My writing and launching TIMBo groups consistently fall to the bottom of my ever-growing to-do list.

In truth, I’ve felt conflicted about offering TIMBo groups partly because I know healing often gets more painful before it gets easier. Healing is hard work! When I first took TIMBo, I would spend ninety minutes practicing awareness and presence. I would finish exhausted like I'd done heavy labor and return to my family drained, receiving puzzled looks from my husband: "You just went to a yoga class, right? Why do you look worse for wear?"

That's the thing about awareness—it's painful. If it were easy, we'd practice it more often. It can be deeply uncomfortable, and I wasn't raised with the tools to stay with discomfort. I was conditioned to tune it out, turn it down, escape, avoid, and when all else failed, to beat myself up. In this new life I'm building daily, I consciously choose to face it. To stay with it. To hold the discomfort long enough to understand its origins, to witness without judgment, and when possible, to make different choices.

Sitting in the TIMBo circle, we are doing the hard work of healing. We're witnessing our pain together, doing what we thought impossible: facing internalized patterns and messages while saying, "I hear you, it hurts, and I still love you."

The choice to do this work is deeply personal. Of course, not all awareness brings pain—that's the reward. Part of my recent awareness is recognizing that I grip so tightly because there's so much to lose. This life brims with gifts! Each moment is precious, I’m grateful to have the choice to move courageously in the world and not let fear drive the bus!

On that note, If you are ready to do this work together- I'm also so excited to launch my first online TIMBo group on Wednesday mornings at 9 am starting on April 23rd. My wonderful partner Mo and I have practiced TIMBo together since 2020 and we are thrilled to offer these groups. We've set rates that we hope make this work accessible, but please don’t let the fee stop you. Reach out if the cost is prohibitive.

I invite you wholeheartedly to courageously join me! Or if you are not yet ready, that's ok too. I will have more groups in the future and the in person group in Jaffrey will be launching in the fall. There is also a Thursday evening group starting in a month by good friends who were in the cohort with me. Reach out to me to reserve your spot or for connection to the other group.

Thank you for your patience as we embark on this new journey. It feels remarkable to acknowledge this transition into facilitation and the time it took to arrive here.

With deepest gratitude,

Hannah B

There are some scripts that can get stuck on repeat. They show up in different forms, disguised as different challenges, yet underneath, they carry the same familiar weight. I’ve seen this play out on Saturday mornings, when the weekend arrives full of possibility yet often turns to tension. I’ve seen it in my writing, where a simple newsletter draft sat untouched for weeks, weighed down by avoidance and self-doubt. These moments, while uncomfortable, have also been some of my greatest teachers.

That Saturday Feeling: The Anxiety of Limited Time

Yesterday, on the first beautiful, sunny Saturday of the year, I was reminded of what I used to call "that Saturday feeling." I remember it best from the years when I was home with the kids full-time, often feeling trapped in the cycle of care. With Dan working long hours, I’d hold everything together during the week. When Saturday arrived, I wanted to do everything—rest, garden, fix the sink, plan the next home project. All at once, in a mad rush, desperate to make the most of that sliver of time.

Dan and I would often find ourselves at odds, each holding our own unspoken expectations for the day. Communication wasn’t always easy. What should have been an opportunity for connection and shared work would often dissolve into tension.

I felt afraid and ashamed by my overwhelm, unsure how to handle the tidal wave of urgency I carried into the weekend. It ruined so many beautiful days.

Eventually, as I progressed in my own journey of healing, we learned to have Saturday morning meetings—to name what we each wanted, to make a plan, to create structure from the chaos. It didn’t always work perfectly, but that communication gave me a sense of grounding.

Even now, I recognize the remnants of that old feeling, that itch for movement, the urge to scan the horizon for what “should” be done. But I don’t let it consume me. I call it "that Spring feeling" now—the energy of possibility awoke by the animating world rather than the panic of scarcity. I’m grateful that now I have so many more tools to move from stuckness to choice.

That same feeling of stuckness crept in again with this newsletter. I had a solid start weeks ago—something that could have been polished and sent. But something stopped me.

A gnawing sense of not quite good enough lodged itself in my chest. Maybe I didn’t know what I was talking about. Maybe I just didn’t want to be seen as weak and insecure. Rather than face those doubts, I avoided my writing. I busied myself with everything else—checking off tasks, clearing my inbox—yet this one thing remained undone, growing heavier with every passing day.

This isn’t new for me. I’ve often been paralyzed by an unanswered email, an unresolved conversation, an unfinished project. The longer I avoid it, the worse it feels, until finally, I push through, send the email, finish the task—and the weight lifts.

Of course, the real work isn’t in the email or the newsletter. It’s in recognizing the internal block—the fear of exposure, the discomfort of imperfection. It's sitting with that feeling instead of running from it.

The Path Forward: Tools for Moving Through

I’ve learned that moving through stuckness isn’t about forcing action—it’s about creating enough space for a new choice to emerge. Here’s what helps me:

• I go for a walk.

• I write, even if it’s messy.

• I ask for help.

• I breathe, notice, and coach myself forward.

• And sometimes, I allow myself to be stuck, without judgment, knowing that awareness itself is a step.

In Buddhism, there’s a concept called the second dart—the idea that life’s unavoidable struggles are the first dart, but the second dart is the pain we add on top of it through self-judgment, blame and anger. Learning to move through stuckness has been, for me, a practice in dropping that second dart—releasing the shame and urgency, and instead, choosing self-compassion and presence.

Time still feels precious. I know there will never be enough of it, and that it passes without my permission. But I am more grateful than ever to enjoy it—to let my Saturdays unfold in a mix of projects, people, activity, and stillness. To give myself permission for the undone: the messy yard, the unplanted garden, the unfinished to-do list. To recognize that the gift isn’t in finishing, but in being alive and engaged in this moment.

I haven’t wasted a Saturday in anxiety and shame in a long time. I don’t let avoidance steal my voice forever. I’ve learned to name the feeling, to communicate with my body that I am safe despite my struggles, despite my unfinished projects and delayed newsletters, despite my imperfections. And in doing so, I’ve found my way to something new: spaciousness.

Speaking of movement—I’m thrilled to share that I am now an official, licensed TIMBo facilitator and will soon be offering my own TIMBo groups! If you or someone you know might be interested in joining a circle, I’d love to hear from you. I’m getting online group preferences, if you are interested, take this survey to indicate time preferences and name and questions you may be carrying.

And if you have your own practice for getting unstuck, I’d love to learn from you. Thanks, as always, for walking this journey with me, for your patience, and for being part of this unfolding process—moving forward, at the speed of trust. I’m reminded of a favorite saying “Poco a poco, se va lejos” little by little, we go far.

With gratitude,
Hannah

Here are some pictures of a perfect, beautiful, busy, messy and spacious Saturday while we did our first boil of the sugaring season. Thank you Sabrina, Nancy and Jim for the wonderful visit and photos capturing the day.

Hearing her speak in person was no less powerful. Loretta calls us to build bridges, not sit in silos of virtue. She also acknowledges that unresolved trauma often blocks our capacity for compassionate accountability. Her step by step guide to calling in is a road map to taking fractals of hope into the world of social change.

1. Start with the self- The very foundation of fractals of hope. She says “the first thing to do is put yourself on pause. Your heart may be beating fast, and you may experience a feeling of danger. But if we have been working on ourselves, we can recognize what's happening and we can recognize that there is a choice standing between our emotions and our actions.”

2. Calibrate the conflict- Find the curiosity that complicates the conflict. What is at stake here? Is the situation safe enough to move forward? What lies below the surface of this conflict?

3. Lead with love- She offers simple prompts like “I know you, and I know you’re a kind person. But this phrase felt off when I heard you say it.” She talks about creating the cognitive dissonance that makes the actions of the person incongruous with the values this person might hold about themselves.

4. Accepting the reaction and reaching resolution- True change is hard and it takes time–longer than a single conversation. A conversation gets a lot easier–for all parties–if it’s running on an obvious agenda of empathy and respect. Calling in is less thrilling than the condemnation that is created when you call people out, but the change is stronger and builds rather than destroys.

It sounds simple. It’s not. I thought about my work here, and the work that is required to keep the autonomic nervous system from running the show. I know firsthand how painful being called out can be—especially by someone you care about.

That truth hit home later in the week. I was cooking crepes for dinner, phone on the counter beside me. I saw it ping and I opened an unkind and critical email from someone I’ve worked hard to build a relationship with. My body reacted instantly: shaking hands, dry throat, a pounding heart. Hurt flooded in, quickly followed by anger. How dare they? My mind raced with retorts and public defenses. I wanted to strike back. In fact, I stayed there for a good while composing messages of retort in my head, imagining who I might cc to expose this person.

Then I remembered Loretta’s words. The great irony! Here I was creating an imaginary call out when I still had her book sitting on my counter. Heart racing, I sat down and opened her book. Her reminder: real change requires coalition, not division. Scorn may feel powerful, but it fractures movements and isolates us. Reading her words, I felt a familiar ache—this wasn’t just about the email. It tapped into old wounds, moments when people with power had cut me down, leaving me feeling small and defenseless. Shaming, I realized, is the weapon of the powerless, and eventually turns into deep resentment.

Breathing deeply, I paused to feel the activation in my body. Was I truly in danger? What did my best self want to do? I recognized the young part of me that just wanted to feel safe, and I felt compassion for her. I could also see that this email—though hurtful—likely came from the sender’s own pain. We are, as Loretta might say, problematic allies: aligned on many things but snagged on our differences. It’s those slivers of disagreement that can feel the most threatening, especially when reputation feels at stake.

Yet reputation is built on many actions, not one email exchange. Retaliation wouldn’t serve my values or the community I care about. Calling them out would have been self-serving, a fleeting relief that undermined my larger intention: connection and coalition. Loretta’s work reminds me that before calling anyone in, I must first call myself in—tending to my emotions and grounding in my purpose.

Loretta says:

So, where does that leave me? Breathing. Reflecting. Grateful for the real-time example of this week's theme of resentment and compassion. Today I am choosing compassion—for myself, for them, for the messy work of being human together. I plan to reach out to them, when I’m ready, without expectation. In the meantime, I’ve signed up for Loretta’s online course, eager to walk a longer journey with her wisdom.

Thanks, as always, for being with me through this wild journey of life! If you’re curious about her work, I’d love for you to join me there too—whether it’s through her book, a podcast, or the class.

These practices of awareness, acceptance, and space are how we move beyond reactivity and step into real power, not power over but power with, the kind that can transform not just ourselves, but our world.

Gratefully,

Hannah B

Do you remember when you were a kid and acted on instinct? When you just did what felt right without that nagging fear that you were somehow getting it all wrong?

I have a memory that resurfaces frequently—a small moment, yet one that refuses to fade.

I was in second grade at an all-school assembly, sitting in the gym with hundreds of other kids. The presenters asked for volunteers to act out a scene, something about the ocean. I shot my hand up and was chosen. I was on stage!

I was given the role of a sea creature—maybe a plankton?—and I dove in headfirst. I waved my arms, pulsed with the imaginary current, fully embodying my tiny oceanic self. And I loved it. I was sure I was the best plankton on that stage. I walked off feeling alive, electric, proud.

Later, I found my brother, expecting him to be impressed.

In this memory, he looked at me with absolute disgust. Why did you have to act so weird? You were so embarrassing, Hannah. Can’t you just be normal? What is wrong with you?

Gut punch. Instant devastation. Every time I recall this moment, I can still feel the full body crash, like the wind being taken out of me.

How could I have been so wrong? How did I not see it? What I thought was joyful and right was, in fact, wrong. I felt the weight of shame settle in.

Shame is different from guilt. Guilt is I did something wrong. Shame is I am wrong. It sticks, seeps in, lingers. It’s the voice that tells you that you are no good- for your own good.

There is a reason why that memory continues to resurface. At that moment, I was small and fragile, navigating an uncertain world while my family was in the midst of upheaval. Now, from an adult's vantage point, I have so much compassion for that little girl, who was just trying to figure out how to be. I also have compassion for my brother doing what so many of us do to feel secure: stay small, stay unnoticed, stay careful.

That day, I learned a lesson. The risk just wasn’t worth it. I could not trust my own instinct to keep me safe. I needed to be more vigilant. I needed to stay off that stage. That memory is there to remind me.

It comes back wherever I consider letting down my guard. When I think about trusting myself. When I am on the verge of taking a risk, to be seen, to experience the kind of unbridled joy I once embodied.

It’s a lesson that I have to consciously override over and over again.

As I feel the gut punch of that tiny child, I use the critical TIMBo tools of awareness, acceptance and space to recalibrate. I take deep breaths, notice where the sensations show up in my body. I look around and feel the full height and strength that I carry as an adult. I remind myself of the deep connections that I have built. No matter how much I might embarrass myself, I am safe, I am connected, I am strong.

I can breathe through that memory and make a new one–to honor that little girl. The one who existed before that moment. Before she started scanning the room to see how she should behave. Before she questioned herself.

That girl was confident, creative, messy, and wonderful.

She’s still there.

I think that’s why I dance. For her. To move with trust. To let her lead. To quiet the shame and just be.

This past weekend, I went dancing. There was this orchestral number, and I looked around to see other women making big graceful movements. Suddenly, I had the beautiful image of each woman dancing with her own inner little girl. Letting her lead. Letting her stay in that world of perfect confidence and clarity. I nearly cried with gratitude to be in a space that was safe for them again.

This week was a hard week to write about. There is no way of writing about shame without exposure. I kept wanting to just skip it. When my Sunday deadline passed, I considered just letting this week slip by. But that memory lingered long enough to be written and then rewritten. I’m grateful for it all. Grateful for the brilliance of my body, how it remembers lessons–and how it allows me to build new ones.

Also, grateful for you. For the reminders of the connections and the stories that we share. Thank you for being with me and sharing your beautiful creative confidence. I’m glad to be together.

Gratefully,

Hannah

It’s January, which means illness. No surprise there. This week, my youngest has the flu. I’ve been struck by how singularly focused it has made me on her. I feel so grateful to have the space to stop and be fully present. I watch her—my baby—burning up, her breath small and labored, and I feel overwhelmingly protective. I want to do everything in my power to keep her safe.

It’s easier to notice these feelings when they show up outside of me. But honestly, I think the same thing is happening inside me, too. This week, I’ve felt like a monster. Judgments come fast and easy, at myself and others. I’m quick to flare, and I’m easily wounded. I feel fragile.

Protective.

That word emerged as a simple truth while I was bear-hugging Charlotte, trying to help her rest. I feel protective—and not just of my children. Part of the work of TIMBo is recognizing that we all have an inner child, a part of us that expresses fear, weakness, and insecurity. How we respond to that part of ourselves—that is our adaptation. It’s the behavior behind the reaction.

This week in TIMBo we turned the page to talk about Guilt and Creativity. Sometimes, as we move ahead, climbing the emotional pyramid, I think, Wait. I'm not ready. I'm still down here, rutted in fear. I want so much to be moving upward, "rebuilding our house," as we say in TIMBo. And yet, I find myself still sitting on that foundation, questioning just how strong it really is.

I think this is where creativity comes in.

This week, as I felt the ricochet of guilt and judgment come hurtling toward me, I made some mental space for something else alongside it. I recognized that if I could listen carefully enough a quieter voice was beneath the noise. A small one.

Today I heard it loud and clear.

I feel scared.

Of course, I do.

We are all living under an onslaught of threats—to our sense of self, our sense of community, our sense of nation. The news alone is enough to send me into a tailspin. Add in the layers of family, relationships, and personal struggles, and—of course I feel scared.

It takes creativity to recognize that something else exists beyond fear. To step aside the clear assignment of guilt. Because that old voice is loud. It divides the world into moral certainty. This is your fault. This is their fault. More often than not, mine whispers something even more painful:

You are alone. You will always be alone.

I stayed there for a moment. After writing this, I had my hand on my heart and was breathing in that truth. Suddenly, from the next room Charlotte called me to tell me something she had noticed. In her voice, I can hear her strength returning. Before long, she’ll be back to full health, asserting herself in the world again.

And there is the movement–that river of life. She took me out of that small moment into a bigger one. This weekend, I will be stepping into a larger circle. I can allow myself to feel the safety of the community, and to know, for better or worse, I am never alone.

Writing often provides me with a creative space of new possibility. It allows me the perspective to find comfort in impermanence. If I can release into this moment—if I can stop taking everything so seriously and gripping so hard—soon enough, I’ll be in a different place. It will feel different. And that, in itself, can be remarkably healing.

Thank you, as always, for the notes and for the real time reminders that this space is valuable to you. It’s valuable to me too, and I appreciate this space for connection. Indeed, we are never alone. You are all brave and wonderful.

In great gratitude

Hannah Rae

I began to move, but I kept finding myself holding back—in small movements, in stillness. The room erupted, but I felt like a stone rooted to the corner, not able to join. Frustration bubbled up: I don’t get this space often enough. This moment is fleeting, and I’m missing it. What is wrong with me?

Instead of amplifying that frustration, I chose to be curious. What was there? I felt worn down. I didn’t have the reserves for the kind of wild expression I so enjoy. I wanted to curl inward and save what precious energy I had for the long winter ahead. Deep down, I felt fear: fear that I didn’t have it in me, fear that I wouldn’t be able to keep going. Beneath that fear was exhaustion—a deep truth within me that I couldn’t ignore.

That morning, I let my guide be the same in-breath and out-breath that sustains all things. I honored the part of me that was tired, in need of rest and care, and used the space for small movements, stretching and releasing. I kept my eyes open for occasional invitations to remain with the community of dancers. I didn’t spiral into shame (why is there always something wrong with me?) but instead accepted that this too shall pass. At that moment, I wasn't ready to shine. I felt protective of my inner flame and I curled inward around its warmth.

Fear, Impermanence, and Perspective

That morning stayed with me because it revealed something deeper about fear and perspective. Fear often emerges in moments of transition or uncertainty, urging us to play small, to hold back, to try to control what we can. It thrives on our need for stability and predictability when life feels chaotic. Perspective allows us to listen for the truth in that fear without becoming too attached and to release into life’s impermanence.

I’ve been thinking about impermanence and how much it aligns with the universal triggers of stress—uncertainty, lack of control, and lack of information. These conditions can send us scrambling to create anchors. For those of us whose bodies have been sensitized by trauma, impermanence can feel deeply unsafe. If this too shall pass, what is next? How can I make sense of it? How do I get my hands on the wheel to make sure the next thing is something I can handle?

In those moments, we often tighten our grip. We map out scenarios, prepare for the worst, and try to steer toward a sense of control. Often, for me it can mean spinning up an old story of not being good enough. This creates its own kind of predictability. But this approach can keep us from noticing the beauty in impermanence itself. If we’re always bracing for what’s next, we miss the gifts of the present moment—even if those gifts are small, like the chance to rest, reflect, or simply be.

I learned this lesson vividly during a season of my life spent on the Big Island of Hawaii. At 21, I’d gone there to work on an organic farm, only to discover it was a tax scam. I decided to leave. Suddenly untethered, I set out on my own, thumbing my way around the island with little more than a backpack and a sense of adventure. What followed was one of the most terrifying and electrifying chapters of my life.

I quickly discovered that there were many dangers to navigate in a location which harbored some of the best and worst parts of humanity. I had to rely on the kindness of strangers to keep me safe, and I had to stay both vigilant and open to what comes next. I’d jettison from one extreme to another: camping alone in the jungle, afraid of the wild pigs rummaging nearby, and then my luck would change and I’d be basking in natural hot springs, eating mangos, and listening to musician’s soundtrack the steamy jungle. One day felt like pure survival; the next, like paradise. I took to saying, “This is your life right now,” as a way of grounding myself in the stream of impermanence. I needed to approach each day with a sense of possibility and not stay stuck in an impossible story. I remembered to savor the wonderful moments and tolerate the terrible. It was a reminder that life’s current would carry me forward, no matter how turbulent the water seemed.

I am grateful that I moved through that chapter of my life with some good stories and a deeper understanding of my own resilience. I wish I could say that mantra seamlessly carried into the rest of my life, but it didn’t. Even now, I catch myself wanting to stay in the frightening jungle, bracing for disaster, clinging to a certainty that feels safer than the vulnerability of staying open to what comes next. But I keep trying. I keep saying, “This is your life right now,” trusting that as the hard moments pass, so too will the good ones. The trick is to hold them lightly, to breathe them in deeply, without trying to control their lifespan.

Learning to Dance with Impermanence

That morning on the dance floor, I felt the same lesson unfold. By leaning into the truth of where I was—exhausted, protective, and not yet ready to shine—I found a different kind of grace. I didn’t need to push myself into the wild expression I’d imagined. I could let my movements be small, my presence quiet, and still belong to the shared joy of the room.

Learning to live with impermanence means finding balance between surrender and participation. It means trusting that moments of fear, resistance, or exhaustion aren’t permanent and also hold deeper truths about boundaries and limits. Neither are moments of ease and elation permanent. This realization isn’t about defeat; it’s about grace—the grace to flow with life’s changes, to honor where we are, and to stay open to the gifts hidden in each season of our lives.

As I step into the new year, I’m carrying this lesson with me: This is your life right now. Whether I’m dancing wildly or curling inward around a small, flickering flame, I’m learning to trust that each moment is part of the larger rhythm. And that rhythm, messy and unpredictable as it may be, is its own kind of beauty.

Thanks friends, as always for being with me. Its good to be back. I am trying to hold these notes lightly too, and allow for this weekly ritual to be a place of gentle connection. As always I love to hear from you.

With love and appreciation,

Hannah Rae

On this morning in the middle of a long overdue laundry task, I felt the warmth of the sun through the windows. Even though I was far from finished with my work, I know enough about this season to grab the moment–I threw on my boots, hat, and coat and took the dog out into the woods.

It was a warm day after a streak of cold ones. The ice on the pond was starting to give, and the recent rain caused a spillover into the vernal pools. My head was full of questions and tasks, of lists and thoughts. I was tempted to use this time to solve something, but I remembered: it is in exactly these moments when I am best served to notice. To listen to the sound of the wind through the trees. To breathe in the scent of pine. To feel the soft give of the ground as I stepped over a particularly lush bed of moss. To notice the way the evergreens sparkled in the sunlight.

My walk slowed. My breath slowed. And so did my thoughts.

I gave myself the goal to just notice this morning—not solve. My problems would still be there when I returned. I watched my dog lope through the woods, covering familiar ground and seeking out new scents. I greeted the familiar forest with fresh eyes, greeting the trees and stumps on this well worn path as old friends. I noticed the jagged stand of young beeches, clustered together in community. I remembered the many conversations I’ve had with my grandmother in this very spot.

All the while, the beauty of the forest kept catching my breath. I would look up and feel a rush of gratitude for the sense of new life emerging. Something about the damp earth and the verdant green made me feel like it was spring again. I could see life rushing back.

And yet, on this day it was December 17th. We were mere days away from the solstice, the shortest day of the year. The so-called first day of winter.

On the Sunday previous, at Quaker Meeting, one of the attendees shared that she had been thinking of the song Julian of Norwich, while moving into the darkness and cold of winter. She asked if we could sing it, and before I knew it, the room was filled with its sweet call:

“Ring out, bells of Norwich, and let the winter come and go.
All shall be well again, I know.”

It has been echoing through my head and heart ever since—this song of impermanence and hope.

After the election, I picked up When Things Fall Apart by Pema Chödrön again. I wondered what to do when it felt like all was lost, when everything I had worked so hard to build felt destroyed.

I’ve been trying my best to sit with the sense of wonder that sometimes comes when everything feels blasted apart. That feeling when you are lying on the ground, flat on your back and able to notice the great expanse of sky above. All the work, all the effort toward the change we were going to make in the state—it feels like it has been razed to the ground. I feel as though I’m laying there, staring up at the sky, trying so hard to keep my heart and head open to listen for what comes next.

And it has not been easy. Moving into this season of darkness has brought forth some shadows. I hear the old adaptations come marching in—the ones that say I must be doing something wrong. The ones that tell me there are things to fix or correct. The ones that feel deeply unsafe.

But then, there are other moments. Moments that bring with them the sights, sounds, and smells of springtime—of new beginnings. And I am reminded that impermanence is something to celebrate. The sense that this too shall pass, that we are not stuck in any one moment forever, is a gift.

Which is all to say that I am interested in what comes next. One piece of work I am thrilled to share is that I am heading into the final module, the home stretch, of my training as a TIMBo facilitator. Just 8 more weeks and I will be officially a licensed practitioner. What a journey it has been!

I have a wonderful partner in this work locally, and I anticipate that by late March, we will be offering a group. I also expect to develop a virtual offering.

I’ve been quiet on this platform for the last few months as I focused on the political work I signed up to do. But now, I am grateful to have space again to dedicate to sharing this journey. As I move through this final stretch of my training, I am committing to, once again, sharing out about this journey and work.

I invite you to come along with me. If you’re interested in joining a group, let me know. As I find my virtual partner, we’ll finalize plans, and if you have timing or other preferences, I’d love to hear them.

Otherwise, I remain so grateful to be on this journey with you—in its beautiful impermanence.

Ring out, bells of Norwich and let the winter come and go. All will be well again I know.

Gratefully,

Hannah B

A footnote with some upcoming TIMBo opportunities:

• Sue is running another year and a half long TIMBo training cohort. If you are interested in learning more the link is here

• There is also a 5 day Kriplau program happening in a few weeks. If you would like more information the link is here. Last I saw there were even some scholarship openings.

There’s something incredible about listening to someone, really listening, and finding that even behind opposing views, there’s often a place of deep care. Even when the conversation gets tough or heated, if I stay with someone long enough, we can often find that place together. Door-knocking isn’t easy work. You never know what’s waiting down a driveway, behind a door, or across a conversational fence, but I love doing it. There’s a certain alchemy in breaking through what feels like intractable differences and finding ourselves connected.

On Saturday, we knocked on a door looking for a woman who expressed support. After a brief chat, she warned us not to engage with her husband—he had strong feelings. Despite her warning, as he was walking up the driveway, I did engage. I asked him what was important to him heading into the election. He asked me if I am a Democrat. I answered and that was enough to spark a heated exchange. He had plenty to say about his feelings toward Democrats, and it wasn’t easy to hear. His anger was palpable, and it felt like I represented everything wrong with the world to him.

I listened. I pushed back where I could. I stayed with him, breathing and listening for that deeper story.

Throughout this intense conversation, my daughter Charlotte was by my side, quietly observing. Eventually, she grew tired and asked to be held. I picked her up, swaying with her as the man continued to voice his frustrations. His passion was real, especially about abortion, and he held firm to his beliefs about the immorality of terminating a pregnancy after a heartbeat. We spoke about difficult questions—rape, incest, the health of the mother—which he conceded exceptions for.

Then I asked: If we’re forcing women to give birth, how do we, as a society, support them? What happens to children born into a world without the resources, opportunities, or love they need? He didn’t have children, but he had supported single mothers before, and I acknowledged the care and kindness in that.

And slowly, the conversation shifted. We moved from a heated debate to a genuine exchange about the challenges of raising children, the responsibilities of society, and the need for a world where men are also held accountable for their part in these decisions. We even talked about the broader sense of chaos in today’s world and the longing for peace.

This is why it is so important to make peace right here, I told him. That's the choice we have, and that is the work that is in front of us.

At some point, he offered me a seat and commented on how well Charlotte had behaved during our long conversation. As I held her, I realized that throughout the entire exchange, her hand had been resting on my heart, grounding me in the place of love and abundance that is so natural to her. It reminded me of how, even as a toddler, she’d come over to me during moments of frustration, placing her tiny hand on my leg, helping me recalibrate.

My daughters are the greatest gifts I’ve ever received. I can’t imagine my life without them constantly reminding me to stay on the path of love and patience. But I also know how close I came to letting unresolved pain and trauma blow us all off that path. How can we, as a society, talk about legislating such personal decisions for others?

Later that evening, reflecting on the day, I remembered an old adage I learned through community-building: Great conflict often stems from great love. The deeper the hurt and disagreement, the more likely it’s rooted in love and loss. That conversation on Saturday turned into something meaningful. We didn’t change each other’s minds, but we reached a place of mutual respect. By staying present, listening, and searching for connection, we made something different possible. As I left, the man shook my hand and told me that I was doing a good thing. 

It’s not easy work, but it’s worth it. I resolved this year, that I wouldn’t just do this work for my children, I would do it with them. I am reminded today how much I carry their spirit with me as I do this incredibly difficult work.

Grateful for this journey and for the chance to share this moment with you. I miss having the time to write from the heart in this space. I am hopeful to return, but I’m not sure when. Probably after November.

In peace and faith,

Hannah

Two weeks ago we gathered in honor of my grandfather Bill Berardi. Ahead of the event, my family asked me to speak on his behalf. I, of course, was honored and also daunted. How would I be able to speak about such a man? How would I be able to capture so much life in a short speech? Was I even the best qualified for the job? For weeks I stumbled around, trying to think about the framework and how I would be able to capture it all. Then the week before the event came and I needed to get to work. I wrote so much. I also cried a lot. It was hard. Spending this time with his life made me miss him dearly. I tried to think about what makes a good memorial and really, a good story. I picked one memory, making marinara sauce with him and a theme, generous abundance. I worked hard to find the details to get us back in his kitchen with him. I wanted to get it all right–the smells, the talk, the love–so we could all be with him for that moment.

The day came and I was ready. I wrestled my girls into nice outfits and brushed their tangled messes. It was so great to see so many people who were connected to the family. I gave my speech and sat back down. Almost immediately I felt a pang of regret for all the things I didn't say. I should have said more about how much he loved his great grandchildren, his soft spot for dogs, the trips, etc.! I just used my chance, and I know I missed so many things.

After the ceremony, people came up to me and thanked me for my work. They said I did a good job. I thanked them, told them it was a daunting task and then held my tongue when I felt myself brewing an apology that it wasn't more than that. I felt terrible that there were details that I missed and aspects of him that I didn't capture. I could have talked for hours and still wouldn't have done it.

Afterwards, in the quiet of the morning, I sat with that feeling in my chest, the weight pressing down, and realized how much I wanted to be able to fix it. To somehow make our collective loss less painful.

Of course nothing I could have said would have changed the fact that he is gone. Sitting with the compassionate awareness of that impossible task I had set for myself. I breathed. I found myself loosening that gripping sense of responsibility, and created a little more space.

I'm so grateful that I can stay with that feeling, the one that opens up in my heart and feels downright cavernous. I am grateful to be able to cry, to grieve and to acknowledge that there is loss. I can stay with it and in turn stay with him. Of course he is not gone, he lives in our hearts and his spirit will stay with us forever. I'm so grateful for that, and for him.

So without further ado, I want to share with you my tribute to Bill Berardi. May he rest in peace. 

My name is Hannah Bissex. I’m here because I was lucky enough to be born into this great family and call Bill Berardi my grandpa. Grandpa was an amazing man, he lived his life with intention and purpose. While his passing leaves a great hole for so many, the seeds he planted throughout his life ensure that his spirit lives on. It is now up to us to continue to tend that garden, harvest the fruits, and cook up the feast of life that he was so well known for.

Grandpa made everything with a deep sense of love and abiding presence for his family. Together with Charlotte they modeled a community rooted in connection, support, and togetherness that lives on through my parents, aunts, uncles, cousins, and everyone they touched. Grandpa showed us that no problem was too great that it couldn't be solved over a bowl of hot pasta, fresh bread, and veggies from the garden. There was always room at the table, because there was always enough food. So often I would ask grandpa his secret to the delicious meal that we were eating, and he would reply with a wink that it all started with a jar of marinara sauce. 

In 2019 I came down to visit grandpa with 50 pounds of tomatoes and bags of homegrown onions, garlic and peppers. I came to learn this foundational recipe. Walking up to the house I could smell the kitchen even before I heard the gentle whir of the exhaust fan spilling the smell of sauce onto the sidewalk. Grandpa opened the door and gave me a quick peck on the cheek. With his kitchen towel slung over his shoulder he was holding court in his domain, the kitchen.  At 90, grandpa was still a force in that space. Even as an adult, I still had some trepidation crossing the threshold after so many years of being shooed away. 

This time, I was invited in after he had taken the time to arrange everything and we got to work. His pace was steady, dedicated and precise. It was also unhurried and graceful. I had to remember not to get too excited and let him lead. I took notes along the way. His amounts translated to glugs and pinches, but I managed to get a recipe out of him. My favorite part was learning grandpa's secret of the skins. To can tomatoes you need to first blanch them in hot water to loosen the skins. Done correctly the meaty cloth of the fruit slips into your hand. It's a trick I have done for my whole life. However, grandpa didn't stop there. He showed me how to take the skins, along with a few whole tomatoes, some onion, parsley and salt and cook them down. Then we pureed the mixture and put it through a food mill. The result is a delicious tomato paste perfect for thickening and adding that extra bit of tomato to a dish. It is brilliant. A pile of waste turned into a delicious product. 

I love this recipe as I have certainly inherited my grandpa's judicious use of resources. He had a way of turning a little into a lot. A way of saving scraps or weeds and transforming them into a better version of themselves and somehow creating a reality that was more abundant. Grandpa was a particular mix of frugal and generous that feels like the answer we need in this world. He practiced a careful use of resources and worked at that diligent and unhurried pace in order to cultivate abundance so there was always enough to share.

As always, I left that weekend with my carefully packed brown paper bag full of jars of hot sauce, jelly plus frozen vegetables, and of course my cases of preserved sauce. 

There was always space at the Berardi table, and I'm sure many of you have stories about being welcomed in that space. I've always said that Grandpa expressed his love through food, but you could easily say that he expressed his food through love. It was the secret ingredient. Everyone was welcome because the idea of family wasn't fixed- it was always growing and always well fed.

A week after he passed, I was in the kitchen cutting up onions and garlic from the garden and working over my favorite big pot. It was a batch of lentil soup to feed the neighborhood for a skate party that Juniper dreamed up. I cracked open a can of marinara sauce and there was grandpa right there with me.. 

Grandpa lives on in this family and all the lives of all those that he fed. His legacy is his commitment to service and to the feast of life that brings us all together. Whenever we were together, he would tell me how proud he was of this family. When I saw him witness his family, I think he knew he was setting the table for the future.  

So how fitting that we move from this space to a place of food and family. I look forward to filling out plates, our cups and our hearts in honor of this great man.

I’ll leave you with one final thing: grandpa’s recipe for marinara sauce 

30 pounds of tomatoes- started from seed, planted, pruned, fed, and picked. The result of the daily work of life in the garden.  

5 onions- You might cry a little when you are cutting them up. It is ok. Let it out and move on, it’s part of what makes up human.

5 peppers- cut into large chunks-  a perfect mix of sweetness and bite that makes for a healthy life

A handful of basil and parsley- picked fresh and fragrant with the reminder to engage the senses and stay present to the gift of this moment

5 bulbs of garlic planted in the fall from the saved seed from the prior years harvest.  The legacy of what has come before and the future planning for the next years abundance.

A pinch of salt and some pepper because perseverance takes some grit 

A glub of olive oil- only the best because it is the richness of life that brings us meaning

Cook together and process in a hot water bath. This recipe will make plenty to serve as the foundation for many meals together surrounded with family and loved ones through the winter and beyond. 

Thank you Grandpa, for all that you have given us. I can feel you proudly looking down with a twinkle in your eye saying

Salute and Mangia.

A post script: I left out a few key details of this recipe in the speech. Here is a card I made a few years ago in an effort to make the recipe into some kind of art to give to him. I didn’t finish because I couldn’t get it right. I missed being able to give it to him, so, now, I give it to you. Also, there is a picture of the family at our wedding in 2012.

What's changed?

I am officially running for state representative. After deep deliberation I decided to put my name in to run in the larger district for which I have a real chance of winning. I looked up and saw this as aligned to my north star of purpose. It was with a clear heart that I declared this intention. Then, I looked down at the ground and wondered, where will this new path lead? How do I navigate the obstacles in front of me and stay true to this work? How will I engage in this work of publishing writing while exposing myself to a political system which can feel so inhumane? How will I be a part of a different kind of politic?

In truth, I still don't know. Thus, I am waiting. I am listening. I am grateful for the faith that with time, my truth will emerge. I went dancing the other night and Alex instructed us to "move with the speed of trust." What a wild concept. To define a dynamic speed that is tuned into the energy of my body and spirit.

Pace has certainly been a part of the muse I am listening to. Allowing for life to unfold in the way that it needs without trying to force it. I think about that when I see my kids, raring to go and ready to be who they are. Part of my job as their mother is to slow them down, to let their roots develop a foundation of strength so that they can continue to express their true self through the harsh winds of the world. Slowing down can be a radical act in the midst of a culture speeding up out of fear and fueling a system of disconnection. 

How do we collectively move with the speed of trust? How do we allow ourselves to cultivate the kind of patient faith that creates trust in a world which constantly messages crisis, fear, and immediacy? How do we resist the temptation to shut down and tune it all out?

Staying present with others, listening and understanding continues to be critical to my political message. It’s also the work I’ve been doing here with you. How do we practice building awareness, acceptance and space in the field of politics?

I encourage you to stay with me (however infrequently) as I search to find out. I will try to continue to use this space to hold some of the deeper questions and ideas that emerge through this new work in the world, and try to find a path forward. If you need some reading I am close to finishing a wonderful book by Gabor Maté called The Myth of Normal. It is a wonderful treatise on this work and how it interfaces with the society that we live in. I highly recommend it.

Thanks all. I promise to stay brave and committed to sharing my story with you all. I know that this work, too, is a part of my north star.

Gratefully,

Hannah B

I should also mention that I am also officially in phase 2 of my training to be a TIMBo facilitator. I am taking turns leading an all star cast of TIMBo ladies who signed up to support my cohort through this training. It is really wonderful, and a whole new opportunity to practice awareness. There have been moments through this work that I wanted it to move faster, but this, again, is a moment to celebrate pace. The strength and confidence that I have now could not have been rushed. It also means that in 10 months, I’ll actually be ready to sign up my own groups! If you have been reading along and wondering when that will be, look out for spring of 2025 for my very first TIMBo offering. I’ll likely offer a discount to fractals of hope subscribers who have been following along on the journey this whole time. If you’ve joined recently and want to catch up. Here is the introduction to this work and then a collection of the writing in the organizational format of the program.

TIMB0 1.0

1.1 Perspective Into the unknown

1.2 Creativity The inner knowing

1.3 Confidence Making Space

1.4 Compassion When Trauma comes a knocking

1.5 Communication How to answer the door

1.6 Awareness The ties that hold

1.7 Faith On faith

TIMBo 2.0

1.2 Perspective/Fear An old feeling with a new name

2.2 Creativity/Guilt Transforming guilt

3.2 Confidence/Shame Shedding Shame

4.2 Compassion/Resentment Releasing Anger

5.2 Communication/Feeling Stuck Tunneling through traps

6.2 Awareness Living with awareness

7.2 Faith Patience as a kind of faith

All week long, in the quiet moments, I have heard this line echoing through my mind, like the trill of the wood thrush through the evening woods. “You must do the thing you think you cannot do.” I knew it was from the TIMBo workbook, but I searched it online and found this

I have seen and been inspired by these words many times. However this is the first time I have seen the line "You are able to say to yourself, I have lived through this horror. I can take the next thing that comes along" 

I have to say, this is NOT always my instinct. In fact, many of my adaptations are designed to keep me from re-experiencing the difficult or painful things that happened to me. I am well equipped to say "that was horrible- let's never do that, or anything resembling that, again." 

When I started writing Fractals of Hope nine months ago it was in some way the thing I thought I could not do. I felt a powerful call to look fear in the face and rise up: to write publicly about this hard and personal work, to shine light on the shame that I have carried around for so long. There were moments when it made me feel physically ill. I remember walking the woods and working on staying with this feeling that my life could actually be in danger. It was real fear that I was holding, and it was real courage that I was harnessing. I knew that there was good work here. Sharing my story gives me new perspective and strength. It also serves to connect others towards the work. Each week, as Elenor predicted, I gain strength, courage and confidence. 

This week, I'm feeling that same push towards courage in the face of fear for another reason.

Two years ago, I was asked to run for an “unwinnable” state representative seat. I was told that no one else would do it because the odds were so thin. I felt called to start a conversation in our town about how we build and maintain community through difference. Deep in my heart was a powerful “yes” that radiated throughout a difficult campaign. I worked hard and learned a lot. I also found that my strengths were well suited to the work, and there was a message that I felt uniquely called to share through that platform. I think we miss each other, and the confidence I built in staying centered through conflict allowed me to build trust with people from diverse political backgrounds.

Looking back at that work, I am amazed that I did it. There were so many fears that I overcame. It was also hard, painful work, and when it was all over I was left feeling exhausted and depleted. There is a piece of me that says "I have been through that horror and I'm done.”

I like to say that the difference between right action and wrong action has to do with the source of energy behind it. Is that choice coming from a constricted place of fear? Or does it come from an abundant place of love? The action can be the same, but the place that drives that action can create very different outcomes. In many ways, this is the basis behind Fractals of Hope. The energy behind the decision sets the foundation for the work. Developing an awareness of how my emotions are present in my body has been a good indicator of the source motivation, and a place I put heavy emphasis when I weigh decisions.

These last few weeks, I’ve been paying close attention to how this choice feels. Time is the ultimate scarcity, and making decisions on where I spend my time and energy is important. Additionally, becoming a candidate does challenge some of my most fundamental early adaptations: staying small and disconnected as a way of protecting myself. Running for office at this point in my life also represents a kind of radical authenticity because of the choices I have made to write publicly in this blog. It scares me and in the past few weeks I found myself looking for every possible way to convince myself to not do it.

This is a time when I can put witnessing my “little” into practice. My “little” is my adaptive self who has been working all my life to keep me safe. I see her trying to protect me from going through all of that again. This makes sense. That is a learned behavior from a time when I was young and didn't have the kinds of resources that I have now. I believed that hard things could be damaging and life threatening because I was too little to bear the burden I carried.

This act of witnessing also gives me a chance to calibrate to my present moment. I am no longer that little girl. I am stronger, more capable with greater recourse. This is a different moment, and noticing all of this allows me to tell her that I don't need to be protected in this way. I can acknowledge her worries but also notice something else about her.

When I imagine looking into the eyes of my younger self I see a spark in her eyes. I see a shining light of purpose. The best part of this practice of healing is breaking down the walls that I built that kept that spark hidden. I can then say to her that I won't let fear hold her back from doing the work she was meant to do. I am ready to take that torch.

So while this is not my official announcement of my candidacy for house of representatives, it is an update. When I sit with the “yes” to doing this work, it comes from an expansive place of purpose and spirit. I don't know how this writing will shift according to this new path that is opening up, but I do know that I am excited to continue to hone and share the truth that comes from that inner spark. Thanks, as always, for being with me.

Gratefully,

Hannah Rae

My children have this book called "what good luck, what bad luck" by Remy Charlip. In it, a boy runs through a series of fortunate and unfortunate events which (spoiler alert) eventually leads to his surprise birthday party. I often think that all of life's great lessons lie somewhere inside a well written children's story. This morning, while dancing, I thought of that book. I thought about a situation in my life right now that feels poised for danger. I have witnessed myself begin to brace for the bad luck and see it all toppling into a disastrous ending. After dipping into that space of sorrow, I turned my attention back to the dance. Supposedly, this morning was the last of the season until July. I was feeling disheartened about losing this important space (what bad luck!) At the same time, it was such a good dance (what good luck!) I marveled at how with no more opportunities in sight it seemed that everyone came ready to throw it all on the dance floor. It was glorious.

Of course, I thought about TIMBo, and the tools that allow me to breathe instead of brace through hard times. I am able to do this because I can now bring awareness to my body as it calls forth the urgency of fear based action. I can also do this because I have scheduled a weekly opportunity to be with uncomfortable sensations. After years of dedicated practice, I am learning how to sit with those feelings instead of reacting to them. 

A great gift of this work is to see that often, just like in the book, on the other side of bad luck is good luck. Something I am inclined to miss if I spring into action and forget to turn the page. I thought of a few possible blessings that could come from this difficult situation with my friend. I also realized that it might be time for me to find a way to host my own dance. The brilliant and beautiful Alex Walker shouldn't have the pressure of fulfilling my need to dance in a collective all the time. I saw an image of friends coming out to a field and dancing through the springtime!

I have a quote, supposedly from the Dalai Lama, that says "sometimes not getting what you want is a wonderful stroke of luck.” It is true. I think back to the greatest times of change in my life. Mostly, they came from incredibly hard and uncomfortable moments. I think about some of the great disappointments that forced me to adapt, change, and got me to where I am today.

For too long, I spent so much time focusing on the bad luck that I missed half of the book! How many birthday parties have I missed! 

Well not anymore. Here I have found the perfect segway for a public thank you for a private video. Last week I had the unveiling of a birthday video my husband coordinated for my 40th birthday. In it, a dozen or so friends and family answered the question "to me, Hannah is." What a wonderful gift. It was both humbling and inspiring to hear from so many of the people I care about with their own messages of care. I am repeating myself, but as I wrote last time, I spent too long deflecting the honest feedback of others, particularly if it was positive. It just felt too dangerous to allow myself to hear it. Last post I shared a resolution to let the kindness seep in like spring rain. Friends, watching that video felt like a garden blossoming with gratitude and hope. Thank you so much. I realize that for some, it is a big ask to speak into a camera in that way, and for that I am so grateful. I woke up the next morning with the big idea to write personal thank you notes, but I’ll just start here in case life gets in the way. 

Thank you. Thank you for being with me in this journey of life. In it’s complicated assortment of events. I know having a connected community of friends and family is indeed such good luck. Let me know if you want to dance in the sunshine with me this springtime 🙂

Love, 

Hannah B

Sometimes I do. The simple answer is that it is in the process of a transformation. I have a piece that I have been working on for weeks. It all feels so tender right now. When that is true, these days, I tend to give a lot of breathing space. If I have learned anything from the process of training to be a facilitator, it is to force someone into an action before they are ready is not the work of healing. My instinct is to push myself and those around me into facing their adaptations and into "growth." Unfortunately, this just doesn't work. Life unfolds at its own pace.

Therein lies the paradox of healing. The best way to move a block is to love and accept it as it is. Once the fight is over, once one stops pushing and takes a seat a way around it emerges.

I thought I would come on, check in, and offer a piece from the archives with a present day reflection. Yesterday I turned 40. It's a moment that, for me, had a lot of lead up. I thought about the way in which I wanted to shape the next decade. I thought about how to hold this moment of transition with intention and care.

Honestly, I am thrilled to embrace this next chapter of my life. This past 10 years has been so transformative. On my 30th birthday, I was newly pregnant with my first child. The labor of growing my three children caused my body and soul to undergo a brilliant transformation for which I will be forever changed. Moving through those moments of growth was never easy. It was often dark and painful. I lost the ability to continue to define myself in one way and was forced to let go of so much that I thought was essential.

Amongst it all is a brilliant and beautiful spark of life. I found a way back into that sense of inner purpose that fueled the push to move forward. I now hold a deep reverence for the bright fire, and I know that to live this life is to honor that sense of inner truth.

I am so grateful, and ready to embrace a new story that will carry me forward into the work of the next decade. I suspect that I am ready to move outward and into the world in a new way. My children, while not grown, are emerging into really beautiful humans with an inner fire of their own.

Living into this new story has allowed me to see how much abundance and grace exists around me. I can still get caught in the eddy of an old story, but then I look up and realize that if I release into the flow, soon enough I will remerge in a new place often filled with love. It's amazing.

I had started out this piece thinking I would share some old writing. It is from my 38th birthday. I found it yesterday and I felt so grateful for the reminder of the long arc of this work. It is hard to believe that it was just two years ago. It was during a time when I had already done a lot of work, and a new opportunity for growth had presented itself. I had missed so much of the care, support and generosity of the community around me because I was unable to hear anything different. I sent out this post on facebook and received an outpouring of kind words. It was really beautiful.

Today is my birthday and part of my personal celebration was to buy the book "bittersweet" by Susan Cain. I listened to an interview the other day and just fell in love with her and the idea that we can celebrate the bittersweet people among us. In part, because I am one. I can't tell you how easy it is for me to cry from joy or sorrow, and the line between the two always feels pretty tight. In moments of beauty, I find myself giving alms for the impermanence of it all. In moments of sadness, I find myself feeling grateful that my heart has enough room to love and then to lose.

To be honest, I felt a little like that today. It is possible that I feel like that every birthday. I am so grateful for this life, my life. I look around and I feel so full of love and abundance. I feel rooted and strong in this place, and am frequently appreciating the growth that I have experienced over the years. While I am grateful for the years I have lived, I have almost never experienced a desire to move backward. Forwards has always seemed like the direction of greatest grace and that is where I am aiming.

And yet- there are so many bits back there that stay with me, and I have only recently opened up my body enough to experience the full suite of emotions. I have only recently found enough space to fully grieve the places of loss that, at the time, I only knew how to move forward. Sometimes, birthdays feel like a chapter point to look back and see what this book of life is shaping up as. Maybe it is a moment to cry from joy or sorrow.

One big learning for me this year is that I have recently realized that there is a significant gap between who I tell myself I am and how others experience me. It came the other day, when a former student of mine said "you were a great teacher" and I heard myself say yeah...well... and it just hit me. People have been saying nice things all this time, and internally I have been just shooting them down like clay pigeons. I see this wall of facebook memories of people telling me that I am important in their lives- and to be honest. I think I missed a lot of that.

So this year, I am making a resolution that in this chapter of life I will bring more awareness to that instinct and try to let those acts of kindness seep in like spring rain. I am ready to let go of an old defense mechanism that says it is a little dangerous to let myself feel too good. This, year, as every year, I am looking forward to the growth that comes, often from struggle.

So in that long note. I want to say I had an everything kind of birthday. I felt loved by my children yes but I also almost flipped my lid when glenda and charlotte decided to empty every bottle of detangler on the floor, I went out to the garden with goats and kids and soaked up the spring sun, and I also felt lonely and disconnected from the kind of joyful celebration with good friends in years past. I had an everything kind of day which capped off an everything kind of year, that I wouldn't trade for anything. Looking forward to a good book, and maybe a late-night sauna tonight. Thanks so much for all the wishes and kind words. I am working on listening to all those big and small messages of love and I hope to spend the next year sending them right back.

Yesterday, when I found it online I was struck by two things. First, I realized that I can now listen to people say all kinds of things about me. I have to. I am a parent, a wife, a friend, a community member, and sometimes a public figure. It comes in all forms. Some of it is good and some of it is hard, but I no longer feel the need to block it out of fear. This is such a grace, and I am grateful to be able to listen to the truth that others carry without needing to protect myself from it. The second is that after so many bittersweet birthdays, this past one just felt sweet. I asked for what I needed, received so many gifts in the form of quality time, love and affection, and personal space. I had one moment where I was struck by that old feeling. The one where I felt like I was alone and destined to be alone. I heard that old story and felt the desire to stay in its protective certainty. Then I smiled, saw the rain had cleared and went for a nice walk. Not only did I feel cleansed and inspired by the damp spring evening, I ran into an old friend who took me to a beautiful river.

And life continues to unfold.

Thanks, friends. I think I will be back to weekly writing, although I have decided to break from the format which has served me for the last 9 months. I am birthing anew, and I am so grateful to have you all with me.

Gratefully,

Hannah B