Passing Notes

A quiet invitation and the whispers of change

I leaned forward in my chair, my right hand stretching forward in a diagonal line as I wrapped my fingers around the folded object. A hot rush waved through my body as I quickly resumed my original upright position, eyes darting around to be sure the teacher hadn't seen me. I tucked in and quietly unfolded the lined paper, which, at this point, was soft from being manipulated and touched by multiple sets of hands. It was like a journey through the past week. Previous messages had been crossed out, and new ones appeared with each magical transfer. This time, the corners of my mouth curled up into a smile as I read the words: Will you be my best friend?

It's been a long time since my days of passing notes in school. Technology has all but replaced old-fashioned, long-hand note-writing (although I still send hand-written cards and notes as often as I can). The excitement of receiving messages from across the room (or perhaps an entire chain of hands) or even through the mailbox has been lost in the shuffle of vibrations and sounds, which now seem to create a dangerous numbing-trigger cycle within our systems. The speed of connection breeds a sharper disconnection, simultaneously resulting in a distance. Out of this growing gulf emerges a slow-rising silo, one where I find myself precariously balanced. I am inexplicably isolated. High on my perch, there are moments when I can barely see (or feel) through the darkness and think, Is anyone actually out there?

Are you afraid of the dark?

Although I was never afraid of the dark, I didn’t exactly like it. I’d simply find myself frozen, unable (or perhaps unwilling) to move until I had regained some comfort in the fact that I could finally see what was ahead. After all, there’s no denying that it can be disorienting when we can’t perceive what’s ahead.

And yet, perhaps there’s another way to “see” the dark. Out of the dark, fertile soil comes new life, and out of the sheltered enclosure of a chrysalis comes a transformed caterpillar, more commonly known as a butterfly.

Today, the Lunar New Year and the New Moon coincide. We enter the year of the Wood Snake, representing wisdom, transformation, and personal growth (the Wood element lending flexibility and renewal), at the same time, we honor the New Moon - the depth of darkness in the Moon’s cycle, ripe for planting seeds and celebrating new beginnings.

Of course, there is also the reminder of the regular shedding necessary in our process of transformation. At regular intervals, the snake sheds its skin, and for a period of time during the shedding process (and before the new skin has fully formed), the snake is left temporarily blind. Unable to see, it leans on its other senses, namely the way it hears the Earth through its internal organs. As it senses vibrations in the ground, it tunes in further to discern the next urging along its path.

Tuning in with our bodies

Hearing the invitations available to us - feeling the whispers of change - are like notes being passed from the Universe. They are available all around us, if we are able to tune in to listen. But of course, this is easier said than done. As a child, I remember crying at night, being unable to “turn off” my brain. It was a chaotic ticker-tape of thoughts that lit me up brighter than Times Square.

Even as an adult, the noise seems deafening - persistent - and at times still makes me feel like the walls are slowly closing in. So I do the only thing I can. I come back to my body. My eyes softly close, and I breathe. The air comes in and out, first like a panicked rush, then settles into gentle waves. The sounds begin to muffle and I tune into my senses. A fleeting sensation, like a soft breeze, washes across my skin. I remember what it's like to hear the leaves rustling in the fall or feel the sun's warmth as it clears its path through the trees, landing deftly on my skin. I finally land and feel my hands fall to the ground, fingers slowly digging into the cool, wet soil. It feels ripe with life, even though an innocent onlooker might just see dirt.

I decide I could sit here all day.

And then, suddenly and surprisingly, I hear it: an almost imperceptible whisper that delivers an invitation straight to my core. I rest tenderly in the mix of fear and excitement it awakens, the familiar rush of a note being passed that holds a message just for me, asking if I want to be friends…

The true whispers of change never roar; they float softly in and out, leaving messages for us to reach out and grasp. They are easy to miss if we aren't listening. So we look and look again, for with each passing wave, messages are swept away, and new ones softly emerge. Beckoning us, above all, to reconnect, quiet down, and remain open. In those moments, when we reach out our hands, what might we find?

Reflect, release, receive.

Lately, the pace of change has been startling, arriving less like a gently passed note through the quick transfer of adept hands and more like a wrecking ball crashing into a building. But it's not the end of the story. (It's never the end of the story.) As we reimagine what it means to connect, we are asked to show up with courage and vulnerability. As we carve new paths and tune into our bodies, we receive messages. As we welcome these fresh ideas, sometimes we encounter unfamiliar territory. The unknown is just that - unknown - but also full of possibilities.

Questions for your reflection:

How can we create space for the whispers to reach us?

Are there quiet invitations - notes waiting to be passed -

even amidst the chaos?

What messages are ready for you, ushering in the mysteries of change in your outstretched hand?

What if the darkness isn’t something to fear? Reach out: you’ve just been passed a folded piece of paper marked with your name. Go ahead, open it. It's been waiting for you.