In Still of Surrender

It has been a while since I have written. In a way I was stuck in the liminal space of summer and fall. Maybe the prolonged warmer temperatures in mid-September left me longing for next summer already. Or maybe I was left nostalgic for Lochearn Pool, my childhood summer haven up the street from where my family would swim from dawn to dusk until Labor Day. And sometimes, we got a few extra days if the sticky heat lingered into the first few days of the new school year.

Perhaps the transition into the final days of summer and the autumnal equinox left me nervous about what would be on the other side. How the shifting sands in politics, philanthropy, and everyday life about the value and worthiness of Black humanity and women’s rights would continue to place me on the defensive.

I wondered, as I honored and celebrated the progress, wins, and lessons of the year so far, “What shoe might drop?” “What more can I be doing — producing?” “What seeds of mine might bloom this fall? What does it mean about my leadership if the seeds do not bloom?”

I stayed quiet, drifting through much of September and into October unwilling to surrender to the change in seasons.

Nature doesn’t really have a choice about surrendering to the change in seasons. I imagine surrender’s cycle — of planting a seed into blackness and releasing control of whether it will bloom or not to shedding in order to grow to dying for the benefit of the ecosystem — as being deeply embodied by nature.

I watched this embodied surrender unfold in the weeks before the autumnal equinox in Central Park. Shakespeare’s Garden had two or more cycles of blooms — almost super bloom-like in vibrancy. The lilies, bees, and monarchs prepared for major transitions. I watched the remaining core of the lilies prepare for an eventual release of their seeds as a final act before going dormant for winter in hopes for the expansion of their lineage. The bees and monarchs were still hard at work, constantly moving flower to flower to complete final acts of pollination. Adorable and watercolor-painted warblers began their migration back through the park and eventual to the South.

My favorite part of these final weeks of summer in the park remains the return of the hummingbirds. And this year, they did not disappoint - traveling in duos and buzzing through the final blooms gathering nectar and energy. But this season, something was different. The hummingbirds sat still.

Yes, you read that correctly They sat still. For minutes at a time…in the middle of one of the busiest cities in the world.

The first week I thought I was seeing things. So I’d find myself creating space to sit and watch them for 30 or 60 minutes at a time. I found myself stepping outside in between calls to see if they were still there.

But then, week two rolled around — and they were still there. Taking pauses on the branches, much to the delight of the Central Park Birders.

At the end of the third week, on the other side of the autumnal equinox — there they were. And they were not just sitting still in Central Park. A trip the following week to the NY Botanical Gardens would put into focus yet another set of hummingbirds who would sit still close to me and my family.

As I tried to make meaning of my observations, I (sub)consciously increased the pressure on myself to publicly step confidently into the new season. I felt myself trying to force shedding and preparations for wintering. I struggled to trust that the seeds I planted earlier in the year and in years prior were nourished enough to bloom, and eventually harvest. I resisted trusting that even if some seeds did not bloom, there would still be a transformation, a lesson, or progress. I again asked myself, “what more can I be doing — producing — right now?”

My coach offered up a question in response to hearing my resistance to the surrender weaved into my stories about the hummingbirds. “So many of these creatures can choose if they want to be seen — what do they want you to see?”

To answer her question, I’d first have to ask myself: “What did my previous seasons of surrender show me?”

I think about my previous seasons of surrender in four flashbulb like moments. The first as post-grad school through the launch of THP — a time period where school openings would produce what felt like an obligated surrender to fire drills until June and frenetic actions. It would embody grind culture that would eventual force me to surrender due to burnout.

The second flashbulb is my career transition in 2020. The transition would truly turn up the volume on my leadership, vision, and growth edges — against the backdrop of surrendering to the isolation of the pandemic. I surrendered into isolation, often facing weeks of questioning why I left stability as the world’s cracks were expanded and uncertainty about the pandemic’s ending loomed. And at the same time, like every founder and entrepreneur, I surrendered into having a fire in my gut that something different could be imagined — even if the end result never saw the light of day.

I would find myself surrendering to what it means to live an aligned legacy with my friend circle in 2022. In the third flashbulb moment, I would face the end of three close relationships — two that were those work relationships that we refer to as “work family.” The other, one of the longest friendships of my lifetime so far. All three were hard in their own ways, but each held common themes: the space in between the ending of each relationship and beginning of what would be next produced a lot of self doubt, nostalgia, and a (temporary) loss of safety.

2017 is the final flashbulb. My Septembers will forever hold the sense of possibility, joy, and immense grief after 2017, when we traveled to Ojai with Jeanette for her birthday. None of us knew it at the time, but it would be our last birthday with her. The weekend held close knowing she was in the fight for her life, wanting to celebrate her reaching this birthday milestone, and hoping with each birthday candle she blew out that she would still be here today. We surrounded her in Ojai with love and joy, and surrendered into deep presence.

Looking back, my experiences in surrender were deeply rooted in grind culture, loss, and grief. The excavation of these moments highlight for me my definition of surrender as losing something and subsequently experiencing a painful void. These moments shine a light on for me an anxiety about the constant questioning about what proverbial shoe might drop next. There’s only glimpses of possibility in surrender that I experienced - and even that is a generous observation.

If my previous seasons of surrender were largely rooted in a scarcity mindset, what did this season of nature unfolding what me to see?

Surrender: Reminders from the Natural World
Honor the halfway point: be still. The hummingbird migration from North to South through Central Park is a moment of restoration, healing the miles traveled to date, and preparing for the final miles ahead. The turn into fall is also that halfway point. Pause. Celebrate. Rest. Nourish. Be still.
Be present in the beauty of the transition. There’s something about turning up your senses to savor moments like the final blooms of summer. About putting aside the camera and video to take in the beauty of an ending — from the final push of the sunflowers to the gliding of the monarchs in their final moments. Transition doesn’t have to be feared; they can be met with beauty, grace, and presence. Remember — “it has already been written.” These poetic words of Octavia Raheem linger in the natural world.
It all comes down to relationships. “The biggest thing that I’ve learned from nature is the importance of relationships. E.g., an ecosystem isn’t just a list of living things (squirrel, tree, bee, flower); it’s a set of relationships *between* those living things (the squirrel lives *in* the tree, the been *pollinates* the flower).” - Farhad Ebrahimi, Emergent Strategy

I’m writing this on a return flight home from a reunion with OYATE. The chosen family that a year ago gave me the confidence to begin this blog. The cohort that met me eight years ago - and lived through hearing my sadness, angst, and anxiety about surrendering to the freneticism of new school years, leaving a stable job to begin anew, relationship endings, and losses.

In nearly every gathering prior, I’d hold my breath for the weeks leading up to seeing them again, waiting for our first meal and night around the fire to surrender to my tears to the collective. Surrender in those previous years to me felt embarrassingly heavy and not expansive. I trusted they’d understand - and they did.

“I want more of my life to feel this interdependent, this of community and humanity. I love knowing how incredible it feels to have a need met, to be loved and cared for, and also know how incredible it feels to meet an authentic need. It’s data, all this learning. Tender data.“ - adrienne maree brown, Emergent Strategy

But this weekend felt different. As I listened to us share what has changed since we saw each other last over the last few days, I heard a collective settling into an empowered and expansive surrender against the backdrop of mountains, countless changing trees, and the annular eclipse.

I heard a settling into

Shedding.

Valuing our personal wellness and well-being.

Centering our presence — for ourselves and each other.

I felt us move through

Transitions.

Celebrations.

Grief.

Laughter.

The Unknown.

Change.

All while learning, increasingly, our worth and deservedness.

I heard stories of patience.

Patience to just be still.

Patience to just observe and ask: “what patterns can I actually disrupt to move through change with growth, integrity, safety, and community?”

I felt a collective will to surrender to change, but perhaps unlike my personal experiences in the past, with a high level of

Intentionality.

Hope.

Possibility.

I heard a surrender into stepping into who we are becoming

Aunties.

Fathers.

Survivors.

Our true selves.

Our most Beloved selves.

Our multitudes.

I’m on the other side of the liminal space now, settling into fall — even if a few weeks late. This “settling in” is really a surrender that centers perhaps the greatest reminder from the natural world:

“Patience. The slow painful patience. The one that reminders you to be humble and nimble. The one that reminds you how much existence relates on our ability to remember our connection to earth. We are nature. Not separate or disconnected.” - Patrice Cullors, Emergent Strategy

I’m on the other side of the liminal space now, stepping into surrender.

In still of surrender,

Gabrielle

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