Monday Motivation 1/5/25 - Harmony & Humanity

Monday Motivation

Happy New Year and welcome to 2025. Let’s begin this year, this week, this chapter with a Monday Motivation featuring singer, songwriter and multi-instrumentalist Jacob Collier, Chris Martin of Coldplay and the voices of a London audience.

Collier is working his way to purpose and calling in his music career with what he refers to as the audience choir experiment. He uses the voices of humanity gathered in an arena, trusts them with a starting point, a note as directed, and then conducts with universally understood motion to create harmony, giving voices the permission to start, to contribute and unite. He calls on the best, like Chris Martin, to get a bit uncomfortable with even their own music, share the harmony and trust the process. Collier has started to take samplings of the audience voices, their universal harmonies, and use them in his own music and albums.

Beyond beautiful harmony, innovation and profound music, here’s what I see.

I see Collier taking steps to align his talent, creativity, passion and trust in humanity to emblazon his own trail.
His guiding force is the belief that every person on the planet has a voice, compounded by the realization that when voices come together, beautiful things happen.
When given a starting note, voices create a pathway, a gravitational pull, underscoring that harmony doesn't happen when everyone sings the same note.
It’s not only the sound, but the experience, the value of the moment the unity happens, that’s the real magic.
Each voice, each of our voices, is magnified by the people around us. When we work together, create harmony, connect in that way, great things happen.

The work of Collier is a beautiful analogy for the work we do each day, for and with our business, patients and each other in this #OneBeautifulLife.

So to Collier’s innovation, Martin’s trust in the process and the power of harmonized human voices, let’s raise our Monday morning coffee mugs to 2025, have a listen and let it fix you. Make it a great week for our business, patients and each other.

Collier, Martin & London

Her Trips, My Trip

 As her memory leaves her, I open the journal titled ‘My Trip’ with their initials in gold, C & MM combined, like mine, their manuscript of travels beginning in 1969, pages of places traveled with people who have left us, of home addresses built by but no longer filled by them, stories of places and adventure they loved.

She gave it to me nonchalantly in an ordinary moment, as she kept it on the small table by her chair until the time she chose, after all this time, the passing of a travel time capsule, to me. It’s time to read it, but it feels anything but ordinary. Her travels her muse, her love. Where do all the memories go, I always wonder? If written, they time travel, the universe answers. So I read, and am called always, to write. Her trip now becomes mine. #OneBeautifulLife

For Mary Oliver and the Women

 For Mary Oliver and the Women

We sat down for a quiet cup of coffee, at the wooden table reserved for creating things. It is white, old, made of wood from 1792, wise and battered, painted over and repaired time and time again, like the women who gathered around it. A relief came in through the channel of simple words read aloud in our corner of the universe that removes time and space as a requirement for the art of connection, the words of Mary Oliver, which have been recent travelers with me, in high frequency. I believe this is how she would want it to be, to have written words, that remove time and space from the natural order of things, and drop them into new constellations.

“I tell you this to break your heart, by which I mean only that it break open and never close again to the rest of the world.” I hear you Mary. We hear you.

The relief washes over me, my brokenness, reframed, for the heart to sever in two and to welcome the burn, the ache, the light that gets in even in traveling low to the ground with the river of tears, tossed in the flood, caught in the rainstorm that has gone on too long with no wipers capable of clearing the line of sight, the flickering in then of the sunbeam prisms brought forward in a complete washing over of her, of me, of us, the women. 

It’s beautiful to be broken as everything makes you feel it so deeply, in your soul, all at once so that the flood water is now in your eyes and fills in the corners and must flow somewhere, causing the young child to ask, “Are your eyes leaking, Mommy?” And you smile at the purest beauty you’ve ever heard, in the most simple question you’ve ever been asked, right in the very moment where you couldn’t see even yourself. The overflow must go somewhere, dear child.

The soup, the view, the cup of coffee, the sunset, the fireplace, the smile, the good company, the dog, the voices of the angels, and a time traveler that whispers to you,” You deserve it, this thing, this life,” then leaves you. What do I deserve, I whisper to the air chasing their ghost? Tell me again, it was lost on me. I’ve never thought of deserving anything? But to be broken, and to feel all things with grace, acceptance and love, with a broken heart to make it better. I can deserve that and welcome it with gratitude. All of it. 

All of this one beautiful life

And in the breaking

You, I, we will find it all, every ounce of it, more beautiful.

That is it we whispered at the antique table holding the gathering of women. We are better now, deeper, more sensitive, intuitive, cracked wide open walking in a world of closed people, who think themselves unbroken.

I give up the strength and accept to remain broken

To feel all of it

And let all the light in.

I was, we were, never in control of any of it anyway, child, girl, woman, mother, wife, friend.

I’m not meant to stay, unbroken, we acknowledge in unison

And that is the greatest relief we can carry forward.

So we take a sip of coffee, and we carry on with hearts never to close again to the rest of the world, just as Mary asked us to do, removing time and space as a requirement for the art of connection, living broken in the places we chose to make beautiful. 

-Courtney Michener Miller #OneBeautifulLife

She Rises

 She Rises

What a gift, a sun that is setting.

Just before she carries herself to another place,

She sets herself on fire, instructs the clouds to rise,

And shows her true colors for only the mystical souls,

The few patient enough to remain captivated by her,

even in her time of departure, demise, rest.

Yet determined, after revealing, reflecting her inner most colors,

Only to surrender them to darkness,

She rises, once more, waking us all to hope,

and the prospect of bringing, of being, the light.

What a gift, a sun that is setting.

What a triumph, she rises again.

-CMM

(Southern Chester County, PA - 10.4.24

I Remember my Grandfather..

 I was asked to write to the prompt - “I remember my grandfather.” The timing uncanny, as if the universe was conspiring to consolidate a train of thought needed the most, that had been locked far away in long term memory, surfacing in small snippets, in synchronicities unplanned, in dreams unrealized, in needs unmet. “Write to the edge, no editing, just see what surfaces.” I did and here is what surfaced. I’ll edit endlessly from here, but I share candidly for those connections who knew him, my Pop Pop Courtie, as all of these words will resonate, and for anyone else that needs to prompt the memory of their grandfather. Here is your reminder from the universe.

Courtland Michener

I remember my grandfather… in a hug, he gave the best ones.

He had four fingers on one hand, a machinery injury childhood folklore is made of, but it didn’t impact his firm hold, only made it stronger, more mystical, authentically his.

I remember him in a cup of tea, and a joke from the end of the dining room table, and each time a tractor passes by. In every corn field. In every diner where breakfast is served. In storytelling.

I remember him in every sarcastic joke and his boyish grin. He held the quickest wit.

He is in a base guitar, and a band, the jitter bug and my love for dancing.

He is in a chorus and all music.

He is in every big white laundry room farm sink, and large back deck for iced tea, and dog, and work boots and landscaping in front of bay windows, in long driveways.

I remember him in the vast yard on the hill by their sign - Quaker Acres - his tall, lanky framed silhouette moving through the yard, by the barn.

I remember him in work, hard work, family work, farm work, yard work, God’s work.

I remember him pulling the tin squares out of the barn to the yard, those that would transform to baseball bases, as the vast yard turned into the diamond, set by the cornfield, as the fireflies danced, and so too did our childhood bliss, as even the adults would join in on the game.

I remember my grandfather in every gas tank and the smell of gasoline.

I remember him in every willow tree. In every breezeway, holiday, and fireplace conversation surrounded by family. At every snack table.

I remember him as pure, protective, joyous, hilarious. My grandfather was love, gentle, patient, kind, strong love.

I remember my grandfather, each time someone says my name, his Court, Courtie, and Courtland.

I remember how he loved the picture I made, that I gave to him as he laid sick in the bed. I remember how I wanted to mend him. I remember the night we rang in a new year and Dad came home late, alone. I remember how the door sounded closing, announcing his leaving. My Dad lost his best friend and I would never be able to fix it. I remembered writing then and my childhood words still sit in the journal, waiting to be revisited. This is the day there would only be the remembering. I remember how I couldn’t breathe at the thought of no more Pop Pop hugs, no more grandfathers. I remembered, by calling to me his memory, that even then, I was writing to survive.

He was salt of the earth he tended so well. He was known by all, his gregarious energy drawing in everyone he ever met, one of the many gifts he passed to my father. He was loved by all. I remember my grandfather… and am thankful my writing journey had me pull him from the constellation of my memory this week, perhaps when I needed him the most.

Jack gets his License

 “On the night you were born the night wind whispered life would never be the same, for there had never been anyone like you ever in the world, and there never would be, not ever again” Moms swoon for the lyrical nature of this book, myself included.  I received it at a baby shower, from my Mom, and still have it on the bookshelf in my hallway, 16 years later. I’ve read it incessantly to all of the kids.  

I remember rocking Jack, just a few days old, crying my eyes out on his perfect skin, as the sunlight reached in his nursery window onto my ravaged body and raging hormones, and reading this book to him for the first time.  Life would never be the same, not after you feel the love that accompanies the title of mother, that’s for sure. You have no idea what you are signing up for as you dream of motherhood, but when it arrives, it is not usually in the form of night winds whispering. The nights are long, and loud, roaring rather, at times.  Jack dealt roaring nights the best from the first night he arrived, and most thereafter, my son who held on the longest to my core, nested so close to my heart he didn’t want to leave, and he stayed grumpy and colicky about it for 8 months thereafter.  Unless in my arms, he screamed.  Even in my arms, sometimes, he screamed.  And then, in time, we figured it all out.  Kindred souls, learning the ways of soothing each other and, well, we’ve been doing it ever since. 

His anxiety was high in his younger years.  He screamed at the thought of leaving me more often than I like to recall.  He wouldn’t go into the daycare, get on the bus without an epic battle, …or be away at all, without panic attacks. They were tragic, all encompassing and soul ripping for him, for me, and anyone in the vicinity of us.  We learned self soothing, and mind tricks, and talking our brains out of the darkness, together, arm in arm, side by side, rocking, grounding, and with love.  He would beg me to stay for one more minute each night at bedtime, and I did.  His curiosity insatiable, his needs clearly stated, his jokes ridiculous, his safety provided in good, safe company.  

And slowly, he transformed, as children do, on their own time, with simply my unconditional, all encompassing love, my extreme patience, his creative genius, his love of learning, his grit, quiet soul, quick wit and most loving nature of any human soul to walk the earth. He is gentle, kind, incredibly humble, too smart for most revelry, and the world tosses him around, as it does all of us, and I worry.  But, each day now, I stand on my tippy toes to hug his ever growing 6’3” frame and he steals my breath, as he has all he needs in his arsenal now, and everyday he shows me this.  He keeps me steady, his curiosity still insatiable, his reading of me and the ways of the world uncanny, his conversation still the absolute best. 

So, we raise our kids to fly and we know this, yet each chapter, each milestone, each moment of mothering, something new hits me right in my core, the reminder that in doing it right, there is an elixir of joyful agony in the…letting go. The timekeeper appears in the background unexpectedly, the one we know so well, that greeted us with motherhood, the one who looked over me as a young first time mother and whispered, “Savor this, enjoy this, bottle it up, you will miss it, the years will fly by”…he paid me a visit today.  He sat on my shoulder for a bit, in a parking lot, and with my Mom by my side, we looked on. The time marched. The car pulled away and then the driver's license was granted.  The road trip is officially in his hands.  

The time keeper was there to remind me of the journey Jack and I have been on in this #OneBeautifulLife for 16 years.  He reminded me that he has transformed into an awe-inspiring young man and in the…letting go, there is so much agonizing beauty.  Trust the journey in this #OneBeautifulLife my Jack.  There is no one like you in the world.  The night winds will whisper, and roar, and you’ll handle them.  Cheers to the new found freedom of an open road. 

Keep showing me how to be a Mom, the superpower of my first born son.  I’ll be here loving you with my whole heart, always.  

And so it goes, as the time keeper marches on.

Leo is 7

 Leo is 7. Last year I wrote that I’ve studied Leo closely. I'm still studying! As he continues to grow, he continues to display a command for attention. This year he celebrates 7 with two missing front teeth, full of questions about ALL the things, having had his first kid birthday party at the bowling alley, eagerly awaiting baseball season, a bit too into video games, testing any limit put before him and always ready to run out the door to play with friends. He's made 1st grade friends and crushes - I'm convinced these are the one's that always live on in your heart - has lots of questions about Travis Kelce and Taylor Swift and he's very serious about eating and has turned into a connoisseur of meats on the grill! He remains incredibly challenging, then ridiculously sweet, in a matter of minutes. He has always done things in his own time, almost commanding the way he captivates time, cadence, hearts, of those around him. This remains more true today then ever. He's got the world in the palm of his hand. Happy 7th Birthday to our Leo the Lion. Go get 'um lil man. Keep shining your light like only you can.