Breathe, Allow, Witness & Show Up for the Banana Bread!
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“Don’t just do something. Sit there.”
That quote stops me in my tracks every single time.
And today, it’s the perfect medicine—because a few days ago I headed out for a walk in a beautiful forest on an unusually warm fifty-degree January day. It was the kind of day that felt like a small miracle in the middle of winter.
I was also feeling a little exhausted—and I knew I needed to get my blood pumping, my lymph moving, and my body supported to most effectively detox. It always feels good to hit the reset button and recalibrate my immune system. The older I get, the more I enjoy taking care of myself.
I find it interesting how, when I was younger, self-care was taken for granted… or at the very least, it was an afterthought. Something I only showed up for once the busyness crashed down on my head and turned into illness, stress, or anxiety.
And even now, I can still get so caught up in trying to achieve my goals and do all the things that feel important to me that a lot gets left on the sidelines.
So the first question in my head as I hiked a few days ago was simple:
How do I create my Thursday blog content authentically through this walk—without trying to force it?
I walked quietly, letting my thoughts unspool. And what started to arrive for me was the simple idea of allowing guidance to arrive.
Sitting with that is… a big one for me.
Because when I am left to my own devices, I am a doer with a capital D—a never-sit-stiller, a go-go-goer. If there were one action-oriented adjective to describe me, it would be: creating.
I love to move, to dance, to get people, situations, and projects moving forward. Initiating. Building. Dreaming my reality into being. It’s what I do.
To say I’m highly productive is an understatement. Sometimes my husband will literally shake his head and laugh—just a little maniacally—at the absurdity of how much I can get done in a single day.
I’m not sure where it all started. I don’t know if there was one pivotal moment that catapulted me into action. I only know that I’ve always been highly motivated, full of ideas, carrying a plethora of wildly imaginative dreams and visions I want to see made manifest in the world. And if I have anything to say about it, they will come into fruition.
I know how to push forward. I like change—I embrace it and meet it with a twinkle in my eye. I’ve discovered that problem-solving can be fun. I love thinking outside the proverbial box, pushing my own edges, and discovering how far I can stretch. I value unlearning what no longer serves me, and I choose, again and again, to stay open to changing my mind. I am always learning and growing into the most authentic version of myself.
And when I feel stressed, anxious, or fearful?
Action is often my antidote.
I know how to keep the momentum going. I know how to stay aligned with my heart, my breath, and intuit my way forward.
At the same time, I burn out if I don’t get enough alone time—enough hiking, wandering, and time in nature. If I don’t make space for self-care, meditation (visualizing my dreams), and writing, then all my “creating” starts coming out… less than how I envisioned it.
What I am not always good at is allowing things to arrive.
And believe me, I understand divine timing. The stories I could tell you about how divine timing has revealed itself in my life—and the miracles it has instigated—would blow your mind. I know that allowing space for divine timing is just as important as being proactive.
Because allowing honors what has already arrived.
What is right here.
What is asking to be noticed.
When we are rushing, we miss these subtle gifts. Being present enough to notice what has arrived is just as important as allowing what we need to arise—especially when we don’t yet know exactly what it is that we’re needing.
Allowing myself to slow down, to breathe, to get present enough to notice what’s moving beneath the surface—that is the work.
When I was hiking a few days ago, recording what I thought would become this blog, that quote kept echoing in my head as I walked and talked. Little did I realize how apt it would be.
This morning I woke in the wee hours—as I tend to do lately, sigh—and I opened Insight Timer.
And there it was again.
That exact quote.
“Don’t just do something. Sit there.”
Of course.
An invitation to do the opposite of what we are trained to do. To stop producing. To stop forcing clarity. To stop over-processing and over-everything-ing.
And to trust that in the stillness, there is nuance, subtlety, and real magic quietly brewing—waiting to be discovered.
I wrote this blog once already.
Or rather, I spoke it aloud a few days back.
I was walking in the woods, hiking through winter trees, letting myself be quiet enough to listen for what might arise. I recorded it aloud, trusting the moment, trusting the witness of the device in my hand.
And then it was gone.
Just like that—poof.
The words—beautiful, meandering, true to the moment—were simply gone when I went back for them.
So here I am again.
A little frustrated.
A little annoyed at my phone.
But showing up anyway—because I am still deeply committed.
The first thing that popped into my head almost immediately was how often I hold my breath… and how important it is to breathe.
And this isn’t new information by any means. It’s something I’ve been in practice with for—gosh—at least the last fifteen years. Pretty much since I started doing yoga and meditating, I began noticing in my body how often I hold my breath.
It’s such a world of difference when we consciously breathe.
So I consciously breathed for a while.
In and out with each step—
and I let my breath be enough.
The next intuitive hit that came through was:
What does it mean to be the witness?
What does it mean to witness, or to have somebody—or something—witness our experience?
When we witness our own experience, we step outside of our agency for a moment. We observe. We notice. We see what comes up.
But when I have someone else witnessing me in process… I’ll be honest, it’s harder for me. I have a harder time staying in alignment. A harder time being present with what’s real, what’s authentic, what’s actually arising in that moment.
Even when the witness is only a device.
In my late teens and early twenties, I carried a small tape recorder everywhere. I loved writing poetry, but it always seemed to arrive at the most inconvenient moments—while running through the woods, driving to work, or moving through daily life when there was nowhere for the words to land.
I learned quickly that the moment I pressed “record,” my mind would sometimes go completely blank—as if all the thoughts had been sucked out of my brain. Often, I would simply speak the truth of that moment instead:
I had something to say. I pressed record. And now it’s gone.
Sometimes fragments would return. Sometimes they wouldn’t.
What I see now is that the recorder itself became a witness—not me, not another person, but something quietly present, holding space whether or not the words arrived.
Walking in the woods again years later, recording once more, I became aware of that same dynamic: witnessing my own process, being witnessed, and noticing what changes when something is listening.
I’m writing from a place of authenticity, reaching toward connection.
This is at the heart of why I’m here, writing this blog.
I don’t want this writing space to come from obligation. I want it to come from presence—from my center, and from what inspires me.
And I don’t want it to be a one-way transmission of me speaking into the ethers, into the unknown.
I want this to become an ongoing conversation.
I invite dialogue.
I encourage engagement.
I truly want to hear what stirs in you when you read something here—what it mirrors in your own life, what opens, what questions arise, what reflection is offered back.
If something I share brings something up for you, I want to know.
For a long time now, I’ve been craving deeper community—a real weaving of heart-centered connection. Amidst the inevitable transitions of life, my heart longs for more genuine belonging. I refuse to participate in divisiveness. Instead, I honor our shared humanity—and the complexity of what it takes to be human on earth at this time.
It’s easy to get lost in the noise: the politics, the judgments, the endless commentary. But that isn’t what’s real.
This blog is not just a writing practice.
It’s the beginning threads of a growing tapestry.
An invitation to weave something heartfelt, vulnerable, and deeply human together—slowly, honestly, with care.
This practice is first a commitment to my own process.
And then an opening of the door—an offering to each of you who come across these words.
What’s also true today is that I’m frustrated.
I don’t have endless time to write. I have to carve it out intentionally. So when something meaningful disappears after I’ve given it my attention and care, it stings.
There’s grief in that loss.
And surrender.
This post isn’t the one I wrote in the woods… but it is the one that exists now.
And these words matter.
This weekly practice is also deeply connected to a book I’ve been writing since 2021—a story that begins with a child and follows them across a lifetime, tracing how intuition, imagination, and magic inform, challenge, and change us as we grow.
This blog helps me build the discipline to sit with the work. To let ideas settle in instead of rushing them. To trust that what wants to come through will come—if I keep showing up.
And so today, showing up looks like this:
Breathing.
Witnessing.
Letting go of what was lost.
Offering what remains.
And now, I’m going to bake.
Sourdough discard banana bread—with dried cherries, toasted walnuts, white chocolate chips, and just a whisper of bergamot.
The oven will warm my space, and my little house on wheels will smell delicious. My hands will create something comforting and familiar after a morning that asked a lot of me.
This, too, is part of the practice.
Showing up and using what’s already here.
Letting something nourishing come from what remains.
When life feels bananas, make banana bread!
I’ll see you next week—from wherever I happen to be, with whatever wants to be shared.
An Invitation, If You Feel Called...
This is a living practice—one of noticing, listening, and allowing what is true to be named.
If something here stirred in you—a memory, a question, a quiet recognition—you’re warmly invited to share.
This space isn’t meant to be a monologue or, goddess forbid, a diatribe, lol.
It’s a thread of experience, offered with intention.
If you feel called, leave a comment, send a note, or simply sit with what arose.
All is perfect. This too shall pass. The only constant is change.
So remember to breathe.
Community begins this way—one honest thread at a time, breath by breath.
All my love,
The Rose Witch