Bloomtopia

Room at the Table

2012-02-13T13:37:00.000-08:00

Saffron Flower

There are experiences that you never forget.

In their newborn moment, they hold a deep significance, but as all sacred moments, their intensity fades with time.

That is, until you circle round to an unexpected happening--perhaps you are shaken a bit-- and these faded memories become dislodged and reemerge for you to gaze upon in wonder.

Memories from time past, lovingly unearthed from the vast garden of our soul, ready to let us partake of the preciousness of existence, and how it has always been weaving itself within and throughout our story.

The past links up with the present to show you how you were not, are not, and never have been, alone.

Loved ones return into your awareness as though they've been there all along, just invisible, until the spark of memory would bring them back--now that they are needed.

Moments that shine back at you, when they would carry the brightest light for your night sky...

Sitting in a quaint little home in Le Mans, France. I'd become a permanent fixture at the table by now.

I still wonder how it was that I sat among them. There was no reason I should have been there.

How was it that I had landed there, in this game of chance?

And would they ever know the full extent to which they blessed my life?

I am awed, that if one aspect of my life had been different, I may never have known these people.

I like to think that we were all hearing a beautiful song, and that it moved us--moved us to connect. Moved us to explore the landscape of one another--of Love.

A mother, a father, a sister, a brother--and this particular day, fellow Iranian friends visiting from their home in Paris.

A bottle of Pepsi to accompany the most beautiful and delectable Iranian cuisine. Feeling excited every time I recognized the soda pop's name bopping up its head now and then in a sea of Farsi, churning and bubbling back and forth across the table.

Sun shining through the window, in the same way my palate was illuminated by the Saffron in the white rice.

Mint leaves perfuming the air, and garlic and cucumber giving life to the yogurt-- lovely rich Sumac adding a sensual sweetness and a flare of burgundy to the lamb kabobs.

I was supposed to feel the foreigner, but I felt as though I had never belonged any place more.

I might just now begin to understand why...

Everyone holds their breath as the ocean of words becomes more tumultuous, as someone disturbs dark memories from the depths.

Friends shot in the street.

Loss.

And more loss.

Running for lives

Crossing borders

Far from home

But never outrunning pain.

It was the father that let his tears fall as he remembered his friends before they fell. How he had to keep running. How he had to let go.

Heads bowed.

Wanting to remember.

Wanting to forget.

Stranded there,

forever,

in memory,

of the loved.

And here it is we join

creating a circle.

My loss.

Their loss.

Their loss is mine.

My loss is theirs.

Hearts touching through time

There was enough room at the table. Even for loss. It didn't kill any of us. In fact, it connected us.

I wonder if that might be why I had the sense that I belonged, because their world had been blown wide open by loss and tragedy, and this had made them accessible. They wore no shields to keep me out, even a young American girl, who might have been outspoken, once or twice.

They wore no shields and wielded no weapons to keep anyone out,

and somehow, this let life in.

let life in.

Might I invite loss to my table too? Not sure, just yet.

Let me tell you what I most remember about these friends of mine. Despite their loss, their having to fight to exist, they embraced life! They lived well and loved well. They lived simply. They took great joy in the world.

I remember on weekends that they invited me to stay with them, I would often wake late Saturday mornings, just as they were returning with baskets full of fruits and vegetables from the market. They would fill a giant bowl with all the colors of the rainbow, and I would snack on these veritable gems all day, feeling like a princess.

I remember them taking off on a whim to go exploring. They took me with them, intent on showing me what was beautiful to them, and basking in my romance of it. They very often handed me a token of remembrance. One of my most treasured possessions is a little pot that they bought and smuggled out of a potter's store, as by that time, I was watching their every move, to catch them red-handed buying me presents. It became a game! This little pot serves as my 'God box', where I write down that which troubles me and that I want to turn over to something beyond my limited vision. Ironic, that the hands that gave me the pot, would be those who would reach right through time, to teach me.

I remember that no matter the strain and tension of relations with one another, or the pains of living, which there were-- there was always a return. Not a suppression, but a return. A return to the heart. As if nothing could take them down. After all, they knew what it was like to lose big, for life to be completely turned upside down. Perhaps it didn't interest them to spend time afraid of threats. They loved boldly and bravely. They trusted, even though they had been betrayed by life.

Oh, my dear ones. I wish I could ask you how long it took you for life to feel vibrant again after your loss. I wish I could ask you if there was ever a decision to choose strength, to decide that all that matters is love, and just what it was that helped move you forward. I wish I could ask you if courage was something you had to choose anew every day.

I have a sense that I know, however, that it was love, and only love, that got you through. I hope it still is.

I want to thank you for this memory of

Life teeming with love.

Love teeming with life.

Love being Life.

Life being Love.

'Why's' left unanswered, as incomplete cadence.

The end of an unusual song

that cannot end

Making room for all of it at the table.

Making room for me at the table.

Surrender

2012-02-07T13:26:00.000-08:00

I've been avoiding this post.

Who knows what will spill out when I open this topic? I am not afraid for you, but I am afraid for me.

Could I lose myself in this pool of sadness, not because I would drown in it, but because I might forget to stop holding my breath.

You see that quote at the top of my blog? I've decided that it would be more accurate for me, in this moment, if it read:

"Thou hast the seeds of all-embracing life within thyself--if, and only if, you, my beloved, are here--and if not with me, then, at the least, alive and well in the flesh--vibrant and joyously walking your path to peace."

Isn't that what would have been written, had the author known the experience of our love, the one that changed the entire landscape of my world in less words than it took your loved ones to honor your memory in the morning paper.

Without you here, I've lost all contact with the ground, with the past, with the present, with the future, where one day you'd come back to me. You were always coming back to me, right? Don't all roads lead to Rome? Weren't we supposed to end up there together?

I had to fight the urge to run, as I sat down next to you, the closest I've been to you since my exile--six-feet above.

That's enough for now.

Let's get to the bottom line here, the synthesis of synthesis. After so many days of grappling with being in a world where you are no longer, let me tell you about how my beliefs about God (or whatever label suits you) came so into focus, that it is like someone wrote them on the mirror.

A love like that: a first glimpse of an adoring, merciful, unconditionally loving, arms around you in any kind of weather, God

No fear, only forward, knowing and leaping

A loss like this: the power of God to crush any of us in mid-air WACK! just like a bug

A love like that: God shines a looking-glass and shows me my innate goodness, that was always there, bright and lovely

A loss like this: God gives me testimony to the evil at my core

my power to kill

did I kill you by hanging on too tight?

Was God jealous?

A love like that: a glimpse of who I really am through God's eyes--my ultra, hundred-cow worthiness

my blessedness was blessed

A loss like this: God pulls that one lose thread, unraveling and ending joy-and engages in mud-slinging

A love like that: I show God a heart bursting at the seams with faith reborn in a newborn picture of the world

he is well-pleased

A loss like this: God tells me I'm going to have to enlarge the picture

Aren't I tired of making the picture bigger and bigger to accommodate All of it?

A love like that: gifted effortless joy and presence, and I mean effortless. Have you tasted it? OMG.

Potential for so much goodness, so much co-creation of a new world in the name of love, freedom, beauty

A loss like this: epic abandonment playing itself out for all eternity, sinister laughing, other shoe dropping sonic boom

And after the storm lets up,

A love like that, a loss like this:

cancel each other out

ground zero

the ocean-- churning, arriving, receding,

nothing more,

only surrender

nothingness

waves lapping at the shore

So, all this time, were the varying degrees of pain at my core pointing to a much deeper relationship with my soul? And the final blast, your mortality--was it the white hot fire that would burn away everything obstructing true vision, so that I could finally see what eternal truths I'd accepted and carried at face value for endless time, without ever even knowing? Was it time for me to know something beyond even them? Something that promised a kind of peace I had yet to encounter?

I am announcing my new terms. I ain't interested in anything far off anymore. I'm focused right here, right now. It all might lose its significance a bit. I'm good with that. If I can't remember your name, it came from me forgetting my own.

Because, honestly, that is the only way I can even begin to see the bigger picture here.

I'm also revamping my beliefs about God. I'm losing the tasteful and distasteful. I'm losing both sides of the coin, which means no more coin.

Why does it feel like everything is gained in throwing away the coin, and letting go--perhaps the coin finds the true wishing well, the one where we throw out what we thought we wanted, needed, would die if we didn't get, would be obliterated if we lost, and we simply walk into our truest, softest, heart.

I remember when I was young, my parents would take my brothers and me boating in Lake Powell, to Tapestry Wall.

We were so dwarfed by the immensity of the wall, that my little self could barely comprehend it.

See that little white boat?

This is how dwarfed I feel by your loss, and by something more, left in its wake, that I just can't quite name yet, but that resembles a freedom I've never known, and an immensity I've never conceived of.

I can't believe you are gone. I can't believe I'll never reach out and touch you again, hear your sweet voice, and whatever poetry you sing out onto the wind.

In and out of reality, feeling like I am fading in and out of different worlds.

Nothing solid at the moment, but don't think I am not noticing how losing you has the most potential to date, to blow my concept of reality apart for good, so that I can no longer look out upon my surroundings and interpret them at all.

And hasn't that been the point all along. To let go enough, that I let something else finally teach me how to see.

I have no idea where to go from here, so I guess I'm good to let something else take the lead.

And if my eyes are just a sliver open, I can tell you that I am standing in between a stronger heart, radiating peace and release, and one that is shattered and dying--but in this center place, there is a hell of a lot less in the way of loving, or even of screaming how hard this is, with no fucking apologies, and mostly affirming in each breath, that, goddammit, I am alive.

And I know I'm not going to die.

At least, not from this.

Clear

2012-01-30T12:17:00.000-08:00

Image by Fantasy Art 3D Wallpapers, digital art pictures gallery.

The urge to clear, move, and purge is very strong right now. I've finally decided that I am worth it, to create beauty and flow in my life all over the place! This in itself is so new. I'm pushing myself to do more. I am holding myself accountable.

And yet, I am understanding that leaning too far this way just becomes another vice grip of wanting control that dams the flow just as leaning too far into allowing yourself to do nothing begins to lose vitality.

In this control mind, there is a want to fix and rearrange and clear, and there is an angry and judgmental energy that wants to get up and push people and things out of the way to get it done. It resists the flow, pushing the ability to allow the flow into some unnamed moment in the future, when the path is spic and span.

This morning I felt restricted choosing my clothes, feeling ready to bag them all away for charity, and run out to buy new ones, because I deserved to feel good, dammit! But simultaneously, I could fast forward into the future, when the novelty of the clothes wore off, and knew that any feeling of release would be so fleeting.

Yet, I wanted to do something about it! How did I know if I should bag and go, or just accept?! I didn't want to sit down and cry about my constriction, which made me want to take action, but I didn't want to become a monster that wasn't available to life until everything was perfect. I didn't want to give into an energy that preyed on the weak. I knew I needed balance.

I couldn't suppress my story down and just forget it. The story had to be honored. Something very quiet whispered that there was a gem hidden somewhere, and it was worth exploring.

I sat down to write out what was going on for myself in a notebook, because actually having to form the words on paper, slows down for me the energy of MUST CONQUER THIS NOW!

I realized as I began writing that there was a whole running list in my head of things and situations that needed to be changed, rearranged, renovated, and made-over NOW!

From my notebook:

If I rush and growl, and stomp, I feel strong, but I create pain. And when the stomping is over, I wonder why I let it possess me. When I do war to get what I want, I sit down, and there is no satisfaction. There is still loss. I move to the next problem, because I am focused on fixing. I am just playing out an energy of continuous and ultimate devastation. I get trapped, until I return to my senses.

I don't want to keep looping in this cycle.

Yet, there is a desire for movement forward. How do I differentiate between creating beauty that brings lasting peace, and following powerful urges for change and clarity?

When do I know when to fix, and when to accept?

And as the pen often does, it began to answer.

TURN IT OVER. Let in the flow. Allow an unfolding energy. Use your big imaginary scissors to cut yourself from cord that connects you to this constriction, to this old pattern, and see what clarity rushes in. Let the falling in love energy return. Join the moment in joy and move from that space. Break down the walls of your control, and let something else eddy within you, pooling in your heart center.

The peace that settles within you in this quiet release is real. It doesn't come from a manic energy of having conquered, that requires problems traveling down the conveyor belt at breakneck speed, keeping you in constricted patterns of shutting out life until problems are solved, as even when they are solved, the moment of resolution is short lived, as another problem steps in from the endless line of them.

Living fully is not going down road after road, chasing after something.

Living fully is running through a finish line because each step feels good and right and part of something bigger, but not because you need to prove your self-worth.

Living fully and clearly is not buying into the illusion, which puts you into a mode of being a machine, disconnected, and forever working to get results, forever shutting out life-force.

Living fully is settling into the journey as the destination, instead of running behind the gingergread genie that taunts, 'catch me if you can and you can have it all!'

I felt the walls coming down. I recognized this, as true release in my heart and power center, when the flow returned, I felt a rush of love for all. I felt held and supported. I began to fall in love again. I looked around and everything had the potential for magic and light.

The need to flee, purge, clear and avoid, melted away, and in its place rose up so much gratitude.

I found the right clothes, and I could hear their story, all they'd lived through with me. I knew they'd be happy to move on in time, and that something fresh would be welcomed, at the perfect time.

I was free from the mess in my mind, which freed me from the mess in my house. It brought me to the piano, playing Chopin, and I could hear the music and feel it under my hands, and I could feel how there was nothing in the way of the music, the experiencing of it in my body and soul.

As I played, I realized how invisible my children had been to me this weekend, as I held the stance of needing to conquer their chaotic child energy. I saw how I had been avoiding and shutting out my softness, as their messes and noise became mountains.

But in the release, I knew I'd see them again--that I'd see my whole big beautiful world again, because I could see it now, and it was so easy to return to the heart. And that is what I am most worthy of. That is what I truly desire.

And each joyful step will bring its own transformation of my life, but will not be limited to a Photoshopped and squeaky clean version of it.

Experiencing Life Differently

2012-01-27T13:19:00.000-08:00

Image by Moonchilde

In this moment, there is a familiar stirring. It comes from a clear place, a place of gratitude, love and acceptance, and it is telling me that it is okay to fall head over heels in love with all of who I am. It speaks of the possibility, if for no other reason than as a huge, indulgent gift to me--no need to earn it, to justify a reward. It is for free.

And there is nothing selfish about it, although, I know there are those who condemn this putting yourself first-- and heaven forbid falling in love with yourself. Yet, there are so many who do not condemn it, and I think they are becoming the rule more than the exception.

There are many who bless this process, because they see first hand, how their fear of putting themselves first, shut out life for them and their families, and in the end shut out life for everyone around them. It was a struggle to keep the candle lit, and it wore on everyone. They saw first hand how putting themselves in a place to be adored and expanded began to lead them to a place of having everything to give. Not just the appearance of giving as a martyr, and feeling as though no one really appreciates what you offer, but as a pure energy of joy. I am seeing everyday more and more, that when you give from a place wholeness, outside of the fear and restraints of a controlled way of loving and giving, it is received with a spacious joy! I think it is because you are giving the most beautiful gift you could possibly give-- blessed permission for others to feel, receive, and inherit joy!

This energy of falling in love with myself is so powerful to me, because this is the energy that stirs around me when I begin to see everything differently. I see how we are all pure love, just wanting to let go and be carried, wanting to share what we love, and what makes us tick, and to share our creations. I did this gratuitously in my birthday post!! which when I read, reminds me of the sweetness of who I am, when I am in love with my life--without all the trying to be somebody better, more professional, more intellectual, or more apologetic! Blah! Yuck. Can't do that. I'd rather just admit that I don't know anything, because everyday I learn something new, and I've found that, often, answers contradict. I'd rather aim for doing the best we can, and enjoying it a whole lot more by taking it step by step, instead of fighting over who is right. I love being wrong, because there is nothing to protect.

I had an experience recently where someone was talking to me in a passionate way. I felt the pull of them wanting me to agree, or wanting something from me. I imagined a pair of huge scissors cutting the cord from my power region to theirs, and then I expressed that I felt that they needed something from me. They said they didn't. Then, feeling free, I listened, and you know what? When I didn't feel threatened, I heard their point, and more than that, it made sense! They also heard me.

I could see how we could build on this.

Fear breads war. Release breads connection and collaboration.

This falling in love same energy is the same feeling I begin to feel when I drop everything in the way of loving someone. There they are. They are so worth loving. There was never anything that could keep us separate. There is no way I could believe what the mind wants to tell me. There is no way I could let a problem keep us warring. It doesn't mean we have to spend all our time together, but there is always a gem there, hidden, and in my experience, any pain is always a reflection of what is going on inside of me. It would be there, even if they weren't there to expose it to me!

This is important, because it is giving me the courage to love boldly. Like my daughter, when she is afraid, it is knowing how to speak to her in a clear space, and not let my fear and her fear hang out together for destruction. It is asking her hard questions. Like when will she let go? It is letting go all along side her.

She comes to me for help with this from time to time now, because she wants to be relieved of all this human suffering. It is a beautiful thing when she tells me, 'mommy, I love talking to you about this, because you help me feel better!' HELLO! Can you believe this? This was my daughter who was wanting to run away from me! (Thinking back, I would have wanted to run away too from my lack of clarity, my need for control, my race against the clock, my inability to flow with the goodness of life!) She seeks me out, because she feels freer. I can support her without my fear getting in the way, and if I can't fight my fear, I can just simply tell her if my fear is in the way! HUGE CLARITY THERE! WHEW! FINALLY!

This falling in love is important, because it is making me step out of my comfort zone-- to sit with a random stranger at the restaurant, and watch them become a cherished friend. That was fun! She and I still laugh about it.

This falling in love energy is important because it allows me to enter into the more poetic realms, to really hear the hearts of others. To partake of what others are willing to share, be it their music, their words, their art, their heart. I can see it, and I can see their soul displayed in their work. I can also feel their vulnerability as they speak about their work. Like the guitarist who thanked me for coming to hear his music, when it was I, who want to thank him for giving me the opportunity to receive his work. That was harder for him to receive. Why is it so hard to receive our own amazingness from others?! Mental note: make it my personal quest, to make people feel uncomfortable, by not side-stepping the honoring, until they can receive the light that they shine!

It isn't living until you can give and receive!

With less and less in the way, it is the way that my body opens to partake of sensations in experiencing--the music that I've never heard in that way, that lands right in my heart center and feels more like a complete physical experience, than just an singularly auditory experience. It connects me to the player, and to what his/her heart is singing in that moment. Chamber music this past year was like hearing something for the first time. It is effortless to engage, because everything feels new and rich, and like you've never tasted it before.

This place of deep love, stops me in my tracks to see what is around me, what is splendid. It gives me more wisdom of where things or people (including myself) are in their process of development, and it is okay wherever we are. It is a deep commitment to seeing the heart of the moment, but really, you are just shown, because you've decided to let go of all the usual limited filters that deaden what you see.

It is important, because it makes me willing and ready to listen to a friend's take on me, without feeling threatened. I don't care about being right, because again, any defense is an opportunity to explore what is at work within me.

Freedom isn't just a cool attribute, it is a beautiful rendering of love and life to be actually received within us, to be able to dwell within us--like we flip on receptors that have not been being used before that conduct new energies and create spectacular displays of light and color! It affects us in all ways and always, and this shifts perception and opens up experience to see more than what we can with the naked eye.

It is forever knowing that we are sacred and joined and all of one heart, and nothing else matters. All the surface stuff is where we focus, but it is really underneath that we find the magic.

In that moment when we know that we are released, that there was never anyone watching us at all, judging us, waiting for us to get it right, to make the right choice. It is when we release and are released, and life rushes in, no matter what it looks like, and there is this stirring that it is all good, just as it has been. That our love has been pure, even if we have had grave doubts all the time.

None of this is a passing fancy. Our hearts are yearning to share this with one another. I am learning that the biggest barriers to this are where this opening to experiencing life in a different way is desired most. When there is much to protect, there is much fear.

In my world, I have become an energetic opener. I can't let elephants stand in the room without being noticed, and what joy when we begin to see them together. Sometimes this is spoken, sometimes it is just felt. Sometimes we squirm, but we don't suppress life. We open to it together.

I am forever looking at the ways I am suppressing life, and so thankful for the little pokes and prods from those around me, who see my limits or painful stories, or who are working through the same process, who help me to move more and more out of my comfort zone, until it feels comfortable.

I can't wait to share some of the moments where my comfort zone is being expanded. I can feel new life brewing!

Thriving Words

2012-01-25T14:29:00.000-08:00

Photo by Michael Haber

My power words for the year!

Engage. As in engage in life. No more standing by. No more waiting for a better, braver day-- for anything.

The past couple years I found my spirit dying, because even though I had woken up in the past several years to new possibilities, I came to a point where I could no longer engage in life, because in letting go, so much was released and changed, but the applications of any of the changes were still so new and challenging, and with increased awareness, there were those daunting core challenges brought up for clearing that were the source of most of the blocking. Ouch!

As depths were probed, big chunks needed to be broken off, and landscapes needed to be rearranged. In the middle of it all, it was a mess, and I was hanging on for dear life! It seemed impossible for the old and the new to co-exist in a peaceful way. Yet, I let myself want more. And life dangled a whole new set of possibilities, which showed me that I couldn't go backward, but I still couldn't go forward either! I was too weak, and too steeped in old paradigms of thinking to 'see'.

I let myself burn in the fire of my own mind, and fully feel all the pain of existence, of a mind that worked from a template of lack, wanting, and fear. I became my own martyr and walked my path of pain with eyes half open, becoming so inward, that I might have lost myself in there--if I hadn't been so supported by the seen and the unseen. But as perhaps with every path of thorns, I knew that I couldn't be lost, and weakly, that this was a transformative process--and I held out for this. But the truth is, I had to let myself die as much as I could, to begin to live.

In the dying, I hadn't yet fully recognized that part of me that streamed pure life-force, and held eternal reserves of sustenance--a part of me that was alive and well, and waiting for me to reemerge from the depths, to move from being a newborn, to reborn.

My perception is moving closer to seeing this life-force as more constant, as I indulge less in disappearing.

It isn't that I think this process is over, by any means, but I can say that I have arrived somewhere! I'm open to the possibility it will be easier from here on out though!

This act of reemerging is changing everything for me. When in the throws of feeling as though I had no choice but to choose death, because I just couldn't live if life was going to be the same, (and if it wasn't a literal death, it is maybe worse--living as though you are dead!) I heard with my being the softest whisper, that choosing life, didn't mean choosing the old life, but rather a new one. And that this new life would be greatly supported, because of what I had released of the old.

And since reemerging in bits this winter, a new way of life has been highly reinforced. I know I am not alone. I do feel supported. As I wrote about in Birthing the Self, the pain, anguish and depression, forced me to step outside of myself and to see and use my world in a very different way, to ask for things I would never have asked for before.

Life is feeling different, because I am different. This seems to be the key. I can't do things the same way. Therefore, it goes without saying that things would be different.

The main difference is that I can't ask for little and settle for even less. In many moments when I'm feeling a pull toward the old, I take steps to shake it up--even if it means wandering aimlessly for a while, just to break the pattern of checking out!

My second word is Leap. As in jump into the middle of the river, and start swimming actively, letting the flow carry me, but doing my part to stay afloat, to be sure to take in all that wonderful oxygen. I am noticing how when you jump right in and finally do something, even if your mind has no clue if it is right or wrong, (because your heart always knows, but it is hard to trust its quiet way) how it opens doors you could have never seen before without having made the jump! (An example of this was changing the name of this blog again. It took a lot of courage to do it, but as soon as I did, there were so many ideas and energy for moving differently! And it is all about moving differently, and seeing yourself through new eyes--somehow, having it revealed that you were always so beautiful in your unique way. It helps you see how beautiful everyone else is too. I find myself loving so much more abundantly! I am realizing that when you take a leap of faith, and land in a new place, you realize that you always knew that you had to take the leap. You were just waiting for your courage and bravery to catch up with you--for when you were really ready-- and would have the endurance to swim. I've decided I am calling Leaps of Faith, Leaps of Knowing, because we know.

On some level, we always know.

And my final word is Impeccable.

There was a time when I did everything to the best of my ability, because I took pride in what I was doing. I was excited by the call of the future! I remember this in my dreamier days of my teens, when I was sure that life was worth living. But alas, this was both a curse and a blessing. My desire to be thorough became a way to seek approval, and when I was met with criticism, mine or another's, the fire easily went out. And when life presented challenges, there was no fuel for doing anything anymore. It all felt meaningless and not worth the trouble, as I indulged in that more cynical view of the world.

And let's just say that I lived through a lot of years of criticism, and eventually the fire to do things impeccably was completely gone, and life became heavy, like walking through quicksand. It isn't to say that I stopped doing things, but I did stop taking pride, because I was seeking mine and other's approval, and wasn't getting it--or even open to it. I did the best I could, but couldn't find any beauty in movement. I perceived my life from harsh inner and outer judgement that had taken over as a jumble of noise, and I became blind to what was lovely, and uninspired to move forward.

It was so painful, it lead me into my first rebellion, at 30ish, which was way too late! I had to throw out all the rules, break down all the structures, yell out about all the hypocrisy of this crazy world, and call its bluff, and then begin the arduous journey of building myself all over again from the ground up, in a world that didn't make any sense and wasn't supportive--at least at first glance.

In my experience this is a developmental process we all seem to undertake at some point, and we either go with it, suppress it, think it is indulgent, irresponsible, maybe even cut off our ear, or resist it. It is that inner war I spoke of in my last and one of my favorite posts to write:). So much judgement around this process, from ourselves, from others who want us to get our shit together! Don't they see that we are doing just that? I see it as the curse of the artist born after so many great artists and thinkers before us. We don't realize that we all have to start from scratch, and that it is okay. It is okay for it to take time.

Anyway, in that lawless place, (or at least as lawless as I could get, being a mommy still enforcing the rules), I began to see the noise for what it was. But I still wasn't free. Throwing out the rules just made you floating by the way side, watching it all go by, still stuck in the same patterns, and not understanding how you could still be at their mercy, when you didn't buy into it--or did you?

It is a cold day when you wake up and realize nobody gives a shit if you've thrown out the rule book. It is your issue to contend with.

So, here is when an important choice was made. Live or die?

But choosing to live is when I woke up, and found that I've spent all this time in the ravaging fire that was supposed to consume me, and I am still here! This is when you notice that you have a warrior spirit, and instead of indulging in the mess, you are ready to get up and walk out of the old dream and into a new one. You leave the messes to be cleaned up by others, and start working the 'wax on, wax off' in your own tiny space. But it is new. There isn't some great prize ahead, something to prove, or something to conquer. It is all about impeccability. Hence, my new word and world to explore this year!

This is when tasks begin to take on a sacred quality. This is when you value clarity, because clarity has became a living virtue, no just something splendid to throw around.

This is when you realize that you are at the mercy of chaotic forces, and because you don't know which way they will swing on any given day, as mainly gentle or with a destructive vengeance, that all you can do is focus on doing your very best in each moment--but not because you have to, or because you should, but because you've chosen to exist right where you are.

This is when I bring the focus back to a small circle around myself, when I become curious and thorough. This is coming back to life, to engage and leap and be impeccable at it, on my terms, which strangely do not seem to conflict as much as I would have thought, with what is already in existence.

This is freedom to believe in magic again, but not needing it to measure mythical proportions. It is quiet. I see it small scale right around me, in the doing of the daily tasks, in the taking care of my body, and heart, in having the courage to do all of it all differently. And to be available to love so big, because nothing is in the way; to be loved so big, because nothing is in the way--and you can actually let it be what it is in each moment, while still using the full spectrum of humanness to be as colorful as the paint on a canvas, and you celebrate this freedom together!

Today as I touched the piano, which has been a largely neglected friend, I felt impeccability. I felt it in my patience to execute the notes clearly and accurately. I felt the fullness of depressing each key to achieve a desired sound. I felt it in the way my body opened up to express and receive the music. I felt it in the way I became part of the life, instead of resisting it. I felt it in the way I didn't attach to my playing, as the great union of lovers, but as something as passing as the phases of the moon. And it was good either way. I felt it as balance.

That is what it is, I guess--becoming part of the machine, but not in a dull way, rather, in a vibrant, allowing kind of way. Letting yourself be a part of all of it, without getting stuck in the extreme high's or extreme low's.

And impeccability is the highest order of waking up, realizing you are here, and that taking pride in all that you do, is all that you can do. And that it is important, not because you care what people think, but because you somehow care about life. And this caring supports life. This caring supports thriving.

M.I.A.

2012-01-21T20:35:00.000-08:00

Woman Kissing Soldier Goodbye JC Leyendecker
May 19, 1917

I wrote them another letter today. They are getting simpler and simpler. I've got it down to a few sentences now. It isn't that my heart isn't in it. It's just that something tells me that they don't open my letters anymore.

You've been gone for so long now...

Well, le'ts not focus on that. Perhaps you'd appreciate hearing the simplicity of the letter I sent them. I know you always found me a little over the top--perhaps even a little melodramatic. So, listen to the efficiency in this!

Dear Sirs, and perhaps a Madam or two,

I am writing you to find out if you have any information pertaining to my missing soldier. He's been reported M.I.A. for sometime now. Realistically, is there any hope that he's coming back? And if it isn't in the cards, how do I even begin to go on, after. all. this. time.

And just so I know, and can help you spread the word like a good citizen, do you know when this war will end? If you don't have an exact date, could you give me the month--even the year? Ballpark figure would be just fine.

Sincerely,

Good, isn't it? Can you feel a little semblance of the acceptance of my fate. Isn't that great? I liked the part about being a good citizen. I think that could get my letter a second glance, don't you? I get the sense that these men in power like to help us ladies do good. Well, we all have to do our part. It's war, you know, and we all have to sacrifice. We all have to accept that there will be casualties. Apparently, it's supposed to be quite natural.

Why all these letters to you, written on the wind, with no destination? No more deliverable than letters to the North Pole?

Yes, I know it's silly.

Well, here's the thing--'cause it still feels like just yesterday, that in your eyes, I saw another world, when your touch brought me home, when it felt like someone finally turned on the lights.

And then you were gone to fight for peace.

And you were gone.

I can't stay angry, not when I know that you never had a choice, but to go and fight. What else could you do? How could you live with yourself any other way? And getting lost out there, well, it was a risk.

I want to let you know that you are in good company here, as I have discovered a whole lot of people missing in action, the only difference between you and them, is that they never left home. That's right. They didn't even have to go to war!

Seems war or not, you find yourself buried in the trenches, in eternal wandering, even left for dead. I dare say that actual war is just the playing out of what we are all cursed with deep down in the first place!

Yup, I've learned a thing or two. Nobody escapes war, and I mean nobody.

I'll tell you this too. It just might be easier to have the blasts and the high adrenaline combat missions, than to be left at home, where the explosions are much more subtle, but just as dangerous, where it is easier to be right there and missing all at the same time. In all truth, I think we become missing in action long before you do. Not to mention all the quiet. And we can't justify the tricks you take for granted for dispersing tensions--no dirty jokes, naked boobies, or heroic pens burning with the saliency of long distant love, sent to sure-fire destinations.

Instead each moment is heavy laden with words that might never be exchanged, especially the urgent ones scribbled madly in a letter and delivered to the post, while, rather unsuccessfully, suppressing the vision of a slow motion blast blowing the letter right out of your hands, just as you've torn a corner.

But you act natural as you give the postman tender for your postage. You tip with a friendly smile, because everything is just fine, and it is up to you to be the frosting on a Styrofoam disk that passes for a cake.

You walk home right past the reminders of life experiences unrealized, and watch years pass in a holding pattern-- keeping you grasping for a potency that is clearly lighting up the city, but that has left you in the dark. And yet, everything looks exactly the same, feels the same, has the same markers. Sometimes I think that we all secretly want to burn it all down, so, that we can find a reason for it to feel so differently, when everything is so exactly the same.

Well, the good news is that I know our poet souls. I know that whatever blasts, embedded shrapnel, terrifying runs for cover that we are experiencing literally or figuratively, or, any journey back home that we may be on, whether to the here or beyond-- that there are moments where we find ourselves out of the fire, in that happy place, sitting on a soft grassy knoll and leaning up against a big leafy green tree-- words spinning themselves together faster than we can pen them, their golden elixir leaving a path of radiance, as the words are digested by something greater within us that we have only come to know, by extracting the sweet nectar from all of our experiences, even the war.

Birthing the Self

2012-01-17T13:50:00.000-08:00

The Birth of Venus Sandro Botticelli

Recently I had a dream that I was very, very pregnant and going into labor. The labor pains were real and vivid, exactly how I'd experienced them in my waking life. If you have been in labor, you know what I am talking about. There is nothing that I have experienced physically, that approximates the pains of labor in the body. So, it was very interesting to experience them in my dream, almost seven years after last having a child. I'd completely forgotten the sensations.

In the dream I was hailing a taxi, and none of them were stopping. Finally a woman stopped, and helped me into the car. She didn't drive me to the hospital, however. She drove me to some sort of show, and pointed out a spectacle of a woman moving around in a spiral labyrinth.

Every time I had a contraction, I found myself leaning into perfect strangers--holding an arm for support, steadying myself by leaning into a body for stability--closing my eyes, but aware that I needed help, and not hesitating to ask for it. I had no choice when the pain became so intolerable. I needed help and I reached for it.

In between wake and sleep, the words came to me, you are birthing the Self. I sat up in bed, taking in the richness of having been swollen again with life in my dream. Only, this time, this birth was about the Life within me, that was me.

This dream's significance was easily recognizable, and has deepened in importance as I have reflected on my waking state.

For a long time now, I have been saying to anyone who will listen, we can't do this life alone, and perhaps we were never meant to.

A while ago, I had a thought come to me, that felt so profound and earth shattering to my world, that I wrote it down and hung it up where I could look at it daily. It reads: Maybe there are certain things we need others to give us, not in a needy kind of way, but in a letting in love beyond measure kind of way.

This thought showed me another world, where it wasn't just up to me to shape my experience, running myself ragged with trying to get it right. In fact, it might not have even been possible all along. I just might not have all the keys to the Kingdom by myself.

But something inside of me had to learn how to let others in--to let them see my naked fears, my shame, my vulnerabilities without me slamming shut as soon as they saw a peek--and not only my fears, but, my joys, my epiphanies, my triumphs, my clarity! How often had I apologized-- felt guilty or immodest for sharing the good parts?

I found that I could no longer exist in a perpetual mode of hiding either side of the coin. If I couldn't stand the sight of my vulnerabilities, then they held me captive. And if I couldn't share my joys, what was the point?!

Somehow in showing others my monsters, they became less scary and mostly laughable. And sharing my joys just got easier and easier, as it allowed everyone to come to the party! And the best part is I now had someones to laugh silly about my fears with me, and someones to voyage with into a new and vibant world with me.

Hands down, the most surprising thing is when we find out that we are loved despite our being imperfect, and when our experience is honored-- when we are told how magical, beautiful, and lovable we are.

It humbles me that I have needed something as painful as labor pains in my waking life, to open up my experience, to force me into opening up to others, and accessing a very different part of my experience--one where I reach out to be a part of something greater, instead of playing it safe behind safe familiar barriers, (which really just kept me slowly dying to life). These labor pains have forced me to connect with those around me in more than just a superficial way--in a real way. To create fertile ground together, for our new selves to flourish. These deeper connections have helped me to get clearer about who I am, what I want, and the what I can ask for. And they have cheered on the asking!

We've shown up together without all the answers, but with a whole lot of stories unique to us, and newborn faith, even weak hope--which has become stronger. We have been allowed by our togetherness, to hold our experience a little looser, cradled by the love surrounding our sharing, until we absorb what we need into our awareness, and we can let our stories transform--let it tell us secrets about ourselves, our desires, our purpose, our unique blue print, and what beauty within us that wants to be erected. And there is a wild celebration when the first brick is laid.

Or maybe we simply let our stories go--FINALLY! A natural letting go that comes from a surrender, a willingness to hold hands and focus into something new and possible.

In letting go there has been no loss, because something has long taken its place--and all the time we were birthing new eyes, so that we could actually see--and of course, it was there in front of us all the time.

I realize that without the pain, I wouldn't have had to stretch myself in new ways, learning to yield to parts of myself wanting to become braver--bypassing the parts that have begged to stay small and alone. I realize that without the pain, stretching me into new shapes, I would have remained blind and stuck in the womb.

Pain has this amazing ability to move us toward finding that which will most help us to thrive.

Bloomtopia

2012-01-09T10:30:00.000-08:00

So much exists in the realm of feeling.

To be understood, one has to be met with one who understands. Then the communication has a landing place in another, which gives it vibrant life.

Communion, like I never knew could exist. Not just a story to share, but a joining, reverberating in the body.

All the places I've found safe landing... All those who have spoken to me of finding home...

How transformation has triumphed!

How the floodgates have been burst open, and change has manifest everywhere, defying gravity in the most splendid ways.

Those who have traveled with me, or tenderly in my heart, circling round and round to the same moments in time, finding healing, finding a precious bud of hope, spiraling round and round until the bud becomes evergreen faith, watching down on us from such heights,

And in the valley, we experience ourselves simultaneously as the bud and the tree.

All it was ever about, was learning to hear the testimony of new life, always there, as limitless potential,

To receive the song in your body, and to let it dance within you.

It's so real, that the question of its existence, is no longer relevant.

The mind takes a back seat. What else can it do? It is an old and lonely strain of time gone by, an empire that has lost its strike.

Something else reigns. That much is clear.

There is no place to begin anew. It becomes timeless and perfect.

It's like another world.

I should like to think of a name to christen it, because even though it has superimposed itself right over this world, it clearly resembles something new and vibrant and possible...how about Bloomtopia.

Happy New Year! 2012!

2011-12-31T13:28:00.000-08:00

Can't believe it is almost 2012! 2011 just flew by!

If you are local, come and celebrate at Bombs Away with very talented local musicians ushering in the new year, audiophilia. I can't wait to hear them again!

This is going to be a good year! I can feel it!

Sending love!

Happy Holidays, and some thoughts that I didn't intend to write, but that I'm glad I did.

2011-12-26T16:57:00.000-08:00

Happy Holidays!

If you haven't seen the movie, Finding Joe, you might want to treat yourself for an after Christmas present. Especially if your interest is peaked by the work of the great Joseph Campbell. (For those of you local, you can find it playing at the Darkside Cinema (not for too much longer)). Worth taking a trip out, to learn about and delve deeper into the hero's journey. You can also watch it online, but call me old fashioned, there is something about actually leaving the house to enjoy a work of art!

Also, I loved this Ted talk. http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=7tu9nJmr4Xs I think this talk speaks to bigger picture thinking, and perhaps looking at all variables as we heal our lives, our bodies, and our hearts.

Here are some of my culminating thoughts at the end of this year:

IT IS ALL ABOUT BEING ABLE TO CONNECT WITH ONE ANOTHER, SO THAT WHAT LIFE WE DO LIVE, IS EXPERIENCED WITH SUPPORT, RICHNESS, HONORING-- WITH AN ABILITY TO LOVE AND RECEIVE LOVE, THAT IS ORGANIC FEELING IN NATURE.

IT IS ABOUT MOVING TOWARD EASE IN OUR RELATIONSHIPS, BY TRANSFORMING THEM, OR LETTING THEM GO, SO THAT WE MAY HAVE THE EXPERIENCE OF FEELING LIKE WE HAVE RETURNED TO OUR VERY OWN PLANET, SO THAT WE MAY GROW WHO WE ARE, SO THAT WE MAY BECOME STRONG ENOUGH TO VISIT OTHER PLANETS AND NOT LOSE OURSELVES THERE.

IT IS ABOUT PUTTING ON OUR OWN OXYGEN MASKS FIRST, SO THAT WE MIGHT BE ABLE TO HELP OTHERS WITH THEIRS.

Okay, losing the all caps. Although, that was fun.

It is about bridging schools of thought. I don't think any of us can exist in this world any more separating ourselves into different camps. I notice that when we let go of what we think we know, our bullshit meter sharpens, but so does our ability to speak clearly, lovingly, and to come together to create goodness. Or maybe it looks like speaking FIRMLY and PASSIONATELY to someone who has always talked down to you, or treated you less than. They may not see you or hear you, but maybe you'll begin to see your unique and amazing self!

It becomes evident when we, or another, is speaking from fear, or old pain, or trying to protect dying beliefs, and evident when we are speaking to creation and possibility. You feel it. You feel it in conversation. You expand or you contract with one another.

Tell the truth, even if your vulnerability exposes you as hoarding your pain. This is the beginning of connecting and opening to support and supporting. It is okay to hoard your pain. We all do it, and we all hide that we do.

When you are clear, you love and you have compassion, but you do not compromise yourself for the fear or pain, or the well-versed guilt/victim identity of another. You let it be theirs, and let go of you upholding it with your own. You stop the parasitic relationships. You let you and them be valued enough to not be a victim of victim identity, yours or theirs. You focus on rising up and out of the old patterns. Sometimes this process can be ugly.

I am finding no more excuses for not becoming clear or for remaining a victim. I've used all of them, and they don't hold water. But I don't always know if I am doing it right--but what is right? Was right really bowing my head in submission while being told to submit, when I was being told to be ashamed of not being something completely different?

My biggest realization, is that victimhood is there in me to teach me/force me into a choice: to die inside, or to reach out to my brother, but not in a needy way, but in a 'hey, I have this aspect of my experience that isn't working for me, I could use some support, some perspective, some unconditional love for where I am at right now.' Victimhood is there to teach me to be heard. If not by one, then another. The more I have spoken out, the more the right person has begun to hear. There is something about feeling heard and seen in this life that helps you to learn a new language called LOVE.

It is not about pretending I am fine, when I am not. Take a risk. Ask. Ask for more. Not to do it all on my own, but to say, fuck, I don't know what the hell I am doing. I need help, and I am sick of pretending, and I need arms around me and some support here. And to ask, and to see how just that expression of despair doesn't make you pathetic, but starts to set you free from something you CAN NEVER BECOME FREE FROM ALL ON YOUR OWN. THE POINT IS WE ARE ALL IN THIS TOGETHER. WE CANNOT DO IT ALONE.

Do you know what I am saying, however, about this not being a needy energy? That comes from clarity. That comes from wise loved ones calling us on our stories, because they see that we need the truth more than we need to strengthen our victim defense. This might be different for different personalities. Those who never ask for anything, who are sure they have to do it on their own, may find themselves being given to for the first time. Those who rely too heavily on others with a needy energy, might be forced to stand on our own two feet, and be told no! or to get lost! Either way, the truth breaks up the patterns and shows us ourselves reflected in our experience.

Reaching out has brought arms around me that I'd not imagined could be there, it has allowed me to wrap my arms around those who can receive what I have to give. It has also shown me others who cannot give, because they are too steeped in their own pain. It has shown me very clearly that we are often a reflection of one another at that time. But instead of wasting time upholding the dysfunction of a relationship that isn't giving or able to receive by either of us, I am gravitating more and more towards putting energy relationships that can be more functional, that can help me practice this collaboration of being supported and supporting. This is where the effortlessness comes in. I notice in these functional relationships, everything is reciprocal. The giver is the receiver, the receiver is the giver--all at the same time. In Buddhism, this is called Dana.

I am finding that these relationships are a safe place for opening up and expressing, for feeling loved unconditionally, for feeling equal, but unique, and this seems to expand for all involved.

Here is what I will remind myself of in every moment this new year:

There is nothing to protect.

Everything happening outside of me is a mirror for what exists inside.

Loving yourself has protective properties.

Bravely move in the direction of your joy.

Let in all experience and do not judge it.

Let go of enabling people to treat you poorly.

Stand in your power, and stop asking for less than the bare minimum, even if it feels like you are a horrible person and selfish. You aren't. Ask for the scenic view always!!!! You are worthy.

Let yourself feel. Let yourself express. But own that whatever is outside of you exists within you--but, so what! Do not judge it. Let it play itself out to take you to the other side of it.

Let anger burn through to movement, change and growth. Trust the process that will lead you home, even if it looks or feels rocky. Sometimes it isn't pretty, but it is clarifying. It happens of its own accord in the perfect situations.

Let go of holding onto old regimes at the expense of living or protecting your fear or others' fear.

Choose life, better yet, let life choose you. Let it move you. Let it start the fire under your ass.

Love yourself more than you ever thought you could, because it will open up a world of truly loving and experiencing love, and you will see that the rest was all just an act. That the way you loved was taught to you by people who knew nothing of love, through no fault of their own. That this appearance of love was about fearing yourself and your weakness in this world, and protecting the weakness of those around you. You believed if they lost your protection they would die. Bullshit. If I have learned one thing, is that none of us are weak. None of us need anything. None of us need to be protected. This protection enables victimhood. When we buy into this way of thinking, our love is all about saving others, and nothing about experiencing love together. We are tethered to one another, instead of free-floating, and we move only if others allow it. We are in bondage by our brother.

When we stop protecting, we stop enabling and we begin to move from deeper reaches within ourselves, and we actually MOVE. And we free those around us, who have been kept comfortably paralyzed by our paralysis-- by our own self- imprisonment.

It is loving to let go and let people clean up their own shit. It is loving to clean up our own shit and stop worrying about that of others.

Take a leap of faith, even if you are scared shitless, and watch how you begin to sprout wings you never knew you had. And watch how the people you thought you had to hold up surprise you. They either find the same difficult patterns elsewhere in life, until they can't stand it anymore, and have to do things differently-- but you aren't a supportive role in their drama-- or they transform themselves!! and they never needed you like you thought they did!

And our children. Wow, this has been the most freeing thing for me. They are here to teach us. They do not need our protection. They need our fully living. My daughters need me to fully love myself and live a life that is rich and full. They need me not to pretend it is all good, they need me to know for myself that it is all good. They do not need me to be a victim of my life. My setting myself free, sets them free. It doesn't make sense, but they smell my fear miles away, and it kills their spirits slowly (not that there is anything to protect, but it strengthens their own victim-identity). But they see my courage and light and they move toward it like moths to a flame, and it warms them and holds them steady and shows them that they are not victims of this big bad world, and that they are worth asking for more than suffering in this life.

The most shocking thing I have discovered is that letting myself feel emotions, (even scary ones like anger), and allowing myself to express myself, has helped me to let go of really old shit and to move forward. Letting my kids express their anger and disappointment helps them to let go too. Why would it be any different?

Letting myself be human, imperfect, and awesome just as I am, has helped me to ask for things that I never even considered I could ask for. It has changed what characteristics I value in myself and others. It is freeing me from a victim identity and from seeing others as victims. I would have thought that this way of being would have shut off my empathy and compassion, but it has only magnified them, made them stronger and truer, because they aren't based on fear of the world, but on those golden threads that connect us.

Okay, big stuff. Didn't intend to write all this, but guess it is a preview of what I've been discovering-- those gold nuggets that indicate you've found the motherload.

Who knows what the new year will bring?! I am curious where my writing will go. Feeling like it doesn't end at self-help, but at creation. It has been a little quiet here, mostly because new worlds of thought have been opening to me, and I'm not sure how to distill it all into words, although, I intend to make a go of it, if just to report on my hero's journey. According to Campbell, it is the only identity we have! What will we do with it?

Seems as if I am being whispered to almost daily--sometimes shouted at, certain truths--little snippets of wisdom that are slowly chipping away at all the walls I believe are standing between me and fully experiencing life and engaging with it. Seeing how letting go of the old, makes way for the new--and with it comes newborn eyes! Which means it is hard to know how to synthesize any of it.

The walls are coming down, and I realize that it is only I who puts a limit on how much light I can let in. Sometimes the light has been staggeringly bright, and I've had to shut down and turn off the lights--most literally. Check out for a while and bring back some darkness, some ancient pain, until I am stronger--until I can trust the light.

Very curious where all this will go, because I truly have no idea. I do know that I have turned a corner in my life. No more living to protect others or myself, which is all I lived for before.

Nothing more to protect. What would that look like?

I know that the boldest and bravest steps I have taken thus far in my life, no matter how much I've looked like a bull in a China shop (thanks for this analogy, Carie)--have changed everything, and there is no going back. This world is begging for us weaklings, with so much love to be freely given, to be bulls.

The Epic Interview Part 3

2011-12-22T00:01:00.000-08:00

And the conclusion!

Many thanks to readers, and to author, Elizabeth Cunningham, for sharing herself here. If you haven't picked up her book, Red-Robed Priestess, hopefully this interview has peaked your curiosity.

Brooke: Maeve has moments where she can't remember things, or is a little lost about where she is. Do you think this has more to do with her aging, or her feeling her freedom from the past? Do you think there is a difference? Do you think genuinely forgetting is a necessary part of living in peace?

Elizabeth Cunningham.: When she rides west to return to Mona, Maeve experiences a sort of loosening of identity. She is radically alone, no one’s mother, lover, or friend. She says when she lived in her hermit cave she felt the company of the dead and living from her past, but for a time even this orientation falls away. When she lives on Dwynwyn’s Isle, taking her place, their identity is temporarily merged. The story doesn’t offer an absolute explanation. It is partly age, but her loss of self is intermittent. She remembers everything when disaster calls her back. I don’t know if forgetting or remembering brings peace, per se. In his dementia, my father was often agitated, trying to work things out in a way he could not as his conscious self. Yet he was oddly more accessible. My mother-in-law remembers very little with any consistency. She is quite content, pleased with herself even, but then she always has been. It is interesting to me how much themselves people still are without memory. I also have a feeling that at some point or points even that identity falls away. But I don’t really know yet. I am almost Maeve’s age, and I am having an identity meltdown myself now that I have completed twenty years of research and writing.

B: Jesus comes in very subtly in this book and is such a comforting presence. In my opinion his presence is powerful because he is not there all the time giving Maeve or anyone answers. Was there ever any temptation to have him be more of a savior in this book?

E.C.: No. In the earlier novels Maeve saves Jesus more frequently than he saves her. In this book, Jesus is not there to save but to give a different way of seeing human tragedy, as in Maeve’s vision of him when she returns to Mona. She sees him standing under the tree of life and he invites her to stand with him. “There’s nothing to fear, Maeve,” he tells her. And in that moment she knows his words are true, even though she also knows she and her combrogos face grave and unavoidable danger.

B: I was so comforted by Lithben meeting Jesus. She was no longer afraid, and I felt like I could let go of what had happened to her, because she seemed healed by her encounter with him. Was this an important story thread for you to come to terms with the rape of a child too?

E.C.: As I recall now, Lithben’s meeting with Jesus took me by surprise. I don’t remember planning it. It just happened. But it comforted me, too, and transformed Lithben from a mere child into a child with a huge soul, able to embrace all the contradictions in her anguished mother’s character. Lithben was traumatized not only by her own rape but by the atrocities her mother commits in revenge.

B: Now to the battles. I was blown away by the battle scenes, because they were completely not how I was expecting to experience them. They were interrupted by profound dreams and visions and Maeve's perception of the battles allowed the reader to experience the gore both right up front, and from a literal bird's-eye view, which created a poetic veil over the suffering. Did this help you to write such difficult scenes?

E.C.: The battle scenes were challenging to write, as you can imagine. I did lots of research, so that they would be as accurate as possible. But it just occurred to me: the best sex scenes are evocative rather than simply graphic. I didn’t want merely to write a blow by blow description. Maeve has shifted into a dove’s shape since the beginning of the series. It seemed appropriate for her to take that form in the battle scene on Mona. In the final battle Maeve is between the worlds and between life and death. This state allows her what Keats called “negative capability.” She can not only see from every point of view; she becomes each moment, each person, the very air itself.

B: I have to say that your depiction of the waiting for the battles terrified me!!! Perhaps more than the battles themselves! The way that you described the light, the earth, the time in between the action, where there was solid ground, but complete groundlessness. How do you account for having such a powerful understanding of this?

E.C. I don’t know how to account for it. I have a good imagination. And because I am human and share with all other humans the same basic, primal emotions, I can imagine things I have not directly experienced. I think this imaginative stretching is why people turn to stories, in print or film, fictional or not. It enlarges their experience; it encourages empathy.

B: Your description of the earth being just as much a victim in the battles as the people was powerful. In reading all The Maeve Chronicles, one could argue that you feature the earth as an important character in your books. Is this conscious of you?

E.C.: I don’t think it’s conscious—as in thought out ahead—or unconscious. It’s just how I have always experienced the earth—as alive. Certainly the Celts did, and maybe most people in most times have. People didn’t used to live at such a remove from the earth as the source of all life. A friend of mine who grew up in Pakistan said of her childhood there, “if you wanted butter, you had to have a buffalo and a way to feed the buffalo. You did not go to the supermarket.”

B: The relationship with the general, and the subsequent shape-shifting into hawk and dove was genius. I'm curious if there is a story about how this idea surfaced?

E.C.: As noted before, Maeve has shape-shifted into a dove from way back. And the general is naturally and inevitably a hawk. It might even be a bit of a cliché—except that Maeve really is a dove, in the same lineage as Asherah and Aphrodite. And this particular general really is a hawk. More on that below.

B: I could write an entire interview just about the relationship between Maeve and the General. It is the relationship that has stuck with me the most, because of the inherent complexities: the love that was clearly there, their mystical connection, and the fact that Maeve had met her match in so many ways. I loved how Maeve interacted with the General. I was very interested by the part when she was momentarily flummoxed by him shooting down her sense of the miraculous, and how she let go--without needing to convince him. As if she understood that she couldn't. Yet, she never lost footing with him. She let her power come forth to match his, in a kind of dance with him. She never let go of trying to bridge the gap, but she seemed to accept him and understand that he wouldn't back down from his duties or what he believed. She seemed to see him as herself. There was this mutual respect, and yet, an apparent incompatibility for them to be able to be at peace, as what they needed from the other was not possible for either to give. What does this complex relationship between Maeve and the General mean to you? Has Maeve met her match?

E.C.: Maeve’s match is Jesus, the one she loves “from before and beyond time in all the worlds.” But the general, who is fascinated by Maeve’s account of Jesus, is (perhaps literally) his brother. He has a presence as intense as Jesus’s, though his talents and path could not be more different.

The book is dedicated to Hawksbrother, my martial arts teacher. If you read the acknowledgments, you will note that it was his idea that Maeve and the general be lovers—something that might not have occurred to me otherwise. Hawksbrother loves military history and felt that General Suetonius had gotten a bad rap. He also insisted that Suetonius should come of Etruscan stock and understand such magic as shape-shifting. Though Hawksbrother and I only see each other in the classroom, over the years we have gotten to know each other quite well as sparring partners and have some of the same sort of respectful antagonism and affection as Maeve and the general. I am glad you find that relationship compelling.

B: I couldn't help but feel the divide that exists between Maeve and the General, exists between male and female energy on this planet, on some many levels. Would you agree with this statement? Is it necessary to heal this divide? Is it possible?

E.C: I don’t think Maeve and the general are not quite so iconic. They are not only male and female but both are caught between two world views that you could also call the indigenous (de-centralized, tribal) and the imperial. The general represents Rome and yet he admires the tribes he is paid to subdue. Maeve takes her stand with the Celts, but reminds her daughter Sarah that things are not simple. The Roman way of life is seductive and oppressive in much the way the American way of life is—or has been. Neither is sustainable.

Earlier we were both talking about embracing contradictions. I think reconciling male and female, global and local, progress and preservation—and so many other things seemingly at odds—is imperative. Is it possible? Who knows? Like many people, I am on the edge of my seat, waiting to see what will happen next. I am praying that I will play my part, big or small, with courage and grace.

B: One of my favorite parts is when Dwynwyn joins Maeve in her head. I found it so hilarious! Where did you come up with those pet names, like 'cabbage' and 'pigeon pie'? With everything else you do, have you thought of doing standup comedy?

E.C.: Dwynwyn is one of those characters—like Miriam of Nazareth—who arrives full blown (from who knows where?) and takes center stage. Starting with Magdalen Rising Dwynwyn was fixated on food. From Dwynwyn in Magdalen Rising comes one of my favorite quotations from The Maeve Chronicles:

“All hearts are hard till they’re broken. Then they’re a bloody mess, though not bad tasting if you cook and season them properly.”

In answer to your other question, I have never thought of pursuing stand-up comedy as a career. But on tour when I have given performances, talks, and taken questions from the audience, I have gotten to experience what it might be like (minus any additional pressure). It was fun and satisfying in the moment, but not something I need to take further.

B: A couple phrases that stuck with. What do they mean to you?

"You don't need to see me, just take my hand."

E.C.: In that scene, it was dark. Again, Dwynwyn is speaking to Maeve. Is she there literally? Who knows? But Maeve is comforted and guided by Dwynwyn’s hand as she walks into the nightmare landscape of a battle’s aftermath.

Maybe we are guided and comforted that way in our worst moments. We don’t need to see (understand) just trust.

"You will know what to do. For this you were born. For this you came into the world."

Those words, which Maeve speaks to her daughter Sarah as she comes to terms with her part in war, echo words from The Passion of Mary Magdalen. When Jesus leaves Maeve (again) to begin his ministry, she watches him call the first disciples, and hears those words for him: For this you were born.

They echo Jesus’s words in the Gospel of John: “For this I was born, and for this I came into the world, to bear witness to the truth.”

Sarah is facing her moment of truth and Maeve is speaking prophetically. Perhaps we all come to a moment like this one when we know, in the largest sense, why we’re here, what we must do.

B: Question, just for fun. There are a lot of women in this book. What do you think The Maeve Chronicles would have been like if Maeve were a man, and all the main women were replaced with men? Would a story like this have even been possible?

E.C.: An answer just for fun. A story like that was told, starring Jesus and his disciples! It was time for the other side of the story, don’t you think? Maeve does!

B: And last question, do you write with the intention of your writing as having healing properties for others?

E.C. I have witnessed with an awe that humbles me that these stories do have healing properties for many people. Grace is amazing! I don’t sit down with the intent to heal anyone. My intent is to tell a story, to listen for the story, to allow myself to be turned upside down and inside out. When you give yourself to a story like Maeve’s, you are bound to be brought face to face with your fears, your wounds, your deepest longings, your joy. There is healing in that. Many readers enter into the story just as deeply as I have, and so it becomes their story, too.

B: Thank you so much for taking the time to answer these questions! I hope it was as fun for you as it has been for me to formulate these questions! This has been such a gift, to get to probe deeper into the content of the book, to synthesize it for myself, to ponder what has stayed with me and resonated deeply with me--and then to have the opportunity to ask questions!

E.C.: Thank you, Brooke, for your generous and passionate reading—and writing! Your questions were great fun to answer and more than fun. They gave me a chance to reflect on my journey with Maeve in a way that is helpful and healing as I prepare to go on, not without her (lo! she is always with us!), but into whatever adventures await. Thank you from my heart, dear soul friend!

Elizabeth Cunningham is the author of The Maeve Chronicles, a series of four novels featuring a Celtic Magdalen, including her latest, Red-Robed Priestess. The first three in the series areMagdalen Rising, Passion of Mary Magdalen, and Bright Dark Madonna.

Elizabeth is the direct descendant of nine generations of Episcopal priests. When she was not in church or school, she read fairytales and fantasy novels or wandered in the enchanted wood of an overgrown, abandoned estate next door to the rectory. Her religious background, the magic of fairytales, and the numinous experience of nature continue to inform her work. Cunningham also authored many individual books as well, such as The Wild Mother; The Return of the Goddess, a Divine Comedy; How to Spin Gold, a Woman’s Tale; Small Bird, and Wild Mercy, and a recently released album, MaevenSong.

Although Cunningham managed to avoid becoming an Episcopal priest, she graduated from The New Seminary in 1997 and was ordained as an interfaith minister and counselor. Both The Maeve Chronicles and her interfaith ministry express Cunningham’s profound desire to reconcile her Christian roots with her call to explore the divine feminine.

Since her ordination, Cunningham has been in private practice as a counselor and maintains that the reading and writing of novels has been has been as important to this work as her seminary training.

She is also the director of the Center at High Valley where she leads singing and poetry circles as well rituals celebrating the Celtic Cross Quarter Days. The mother of grown children, Cunningham lives with her husband in a sacred grove in New York State’s Hudson Valley.

If you are interested in purchasing any of Elizabeth Cunningham's books, you can contact your local bookseller or support independent booksellers and order online through this link: http://www.indiebound.org/book/9780982324691 .

The Epic Interview Part 2

2011-12-15T00:01:00.000-08:00

Hello all! Here is part 2 of the epic interview with author Elizabeth Cunningham, kicking off her new novel Red-Robed Priestess! Enjoy!

Brooke: One aspect that pervades Maeve's journey is a sacred quality of being present in the moment. As I read, I have the sense that Maeve is at home wherever she is, even though she is almost always traveling, even though she doesn't necessarily know where home is anymore. I am aware of her being intimately aware of her surroundings at all times. One of my favorite moments is when Maeve is journeying on her horse, Macha, when Maeve merges with the Whole of her surroundings.

"Macha plunged forward, a warm-blooded ship, riding her own waves. And I felt something tightly coiled loosen in me, unravel and stream behind me on the wind, till it became a high cloud, not even mine anymore, just a part of a sky that was always changing."

How is it possible that Maeve is able to stop and smell the roses, so to speak--feel the softness of nature around her, or merge with all that is, despite her harrowing, high-adrenaline happenings? Can you talk about where this might come from in her or in your experience?

Elizabeth Cunningham: As you note, Maeve spends a lot of time travelling, especially in Red-Robed Priestess. Much of her life was lived without more shelter than a wattle and daub hut, and often not even that. Although Rome is grand and relatively luxurious (she lives first in an upscale brothel and then in the house of the wealthy Paulina) Maeve is least at home there. She feels positively claustrophobic confined within walls and walking on pavement. Here is a passage from The Passion of Mary Magdalen that describes how she feels when she travels with Paulina outside the city for the first time since she was enslaved.

“I could breathe again. That’s what it felt like to me. I know everyone breathes all the time without thinking about it. The cerebral cortex takes care of it. We all eat, too, if we can. And if there’s only stale bread and stagnant water, we’ll swallow it willingly to stay alive. That’s the way I had been breathing in Rome. Now, as the Appian Way took us further and further from Rome, my breathing became like feasting. The air had texture, scent, color—a blue that shimmered in my throat, the taste of things growing in dark dirt. And sound. I breathed in birdsong; I breathed in the whisper of the wind in trees. Even the sounds of our ridiculous over-burdened caravan—wagons creaking, slaves shouting—gave me pleasure. The human world seemed in the right scale: small.

I could breathe again. But breath brings more than bliss. Pain that I had numbed came alive again, too. Buried longing thrust toward light, as fiercely as green shoots in spring. Tears that had gone underground gathered and rose. Out of long habit, I found myself holding my breath again—or trying to. But it didn’t want to be held back anymore. So, I let it out, a huge storm. If tears came with it, so be it.”

Maeve draws strength and life and sustenance from the earth itself. I suppose that is something I share with her. The outdoors always felt safer to me than the indoors, despite wind and weather and potential natural danger.

B: I notice that wisdom for Maeve arrives in the moment, but doesn't hold itself over to be exalted. In fact, if the same wisdom appears later on, it is often a subtle, simple, but poignant message. One instance of this is the hazelnut analogy. Did this simplicity and the quietness of the wisdom in this book surprise you at all when you were writing this story, which simultaneously holds such waves of terror? Is this something you ascribe to your own spirituality?

E.C. The story always surprises me. Although I work very hard at my craft and do not at all think of myself as a channeling in any literal sense, I do live in the story. It unfolds. I trust it. I trust the story and the process of writing more than I trust life outside the story. (My next and ongoing huge challenge: to live with the same kind of trust that I bring to writing). I don’t really know how to separate my spirituality from this story at this point. I have spent the last twenty years, as a friend observed, re-writing the New Testament. Maybe wisdom, however it comes to you, is simple and quiet as in: “Be still and know that I am God.”

B: I love that Maeve is an old gray hag when this book begins. I love that she is a series of contradictions through the entire book-- old and young, weak and strong, wise and clueless, sure and uncertain, a warrior and a healer. I love that her overarching title is lover of the world, and how this plays into all of her relationships. I love that she lives like a nomad, but craves and partakes of luxuries and creature comforts when she can. I love that she doesn't seem to have qualms with any of these contradictions. She presents these apparent contradictions with such nonchalance, aware of them, but seemingly unhindered by them. Can you comment on this phenomenon in her character? Is this something you embody as well? Has the acceptance of self that Maeve seems to have so organically changed the way you view the world or yourself, or in how you counsel other people?

E.C.:I like contradictions. I always have. Maybe it’s because I am a Libra, always seeing from at least two sides. Maybe it’s because I grew up in a churchyard next to door to an enchanted wood. I’ve always walked between the worlds, and all my work reflects that embrace of seeming opposites, starting with my very first novel The Wild Mother. When I began exploring the Divine Feminine aka the Goddess, many pagans insisted that you couldn’t be a pagan if you believe in Jesus and Christians equally held that you could not be a Christian and consort with goddesses. I have always resisted any person or institution that insisted I must choose one view of reality (theirs) and eschew another. My rather long answer to that way of thinking is The Maeve Chronicles. I like to give Maeve ample credit, but the truth is I am a novelist because it gives me the freedom to embrace contradiction. Reading and writing novels informs my work as a counselor as much as any formal training I received.

B: One of the most powerful aspects of this book is the mother daughter relationship. I was fascinated by the delicate balance that Maeve strives to navigate with her daughters. She has so much insight into her daughters and intuits with each how best to act--whether to remain silent or to speak. Or in the case with Sarah (one of my favorite parts) where Maeve gives Sarah what she needed, but what she could never give her--a slap in the face! In the end, despite the challenges in communicating, there is such unconditional love represented. I remark how Maeve doesn't overpower her children, let them overpower her, or lose herself in her fears for or of them. I feel like this is where I am arriving with my two daughters--learning about this delicate balance, after finally abandoning my need to be right, as well as all throwing out the parenting books. Did your ability to navigate these relationships in your writing come from your own parenting, or has writing about these relationships affected your relationships with your children?

E.C.: I think both Maeve and I, like all mothers, learned the hard way, making many mistakes along the way. In Bright Dark Madonna, Maeve is indeed clueless about adolescent Sarah (especially in Sarah’s opinion) and Sarah runs away from home. My daughter did not run away in any literal sense, but there was certainly a time (not always clearly in the past) when I could do no right.

BTW Brooke, some of my favorites among your posts are about your daughters, how you struggle towards wisdom and joy together, how you teach each other. I often wish I had had your grace and intuition when my kids were younger.

My children are both grown and independent now, so maybe something went right. Both my kids have read The Passion of Mary Magdalen but not the later ones. When I said something to my daughter Maeve’s daughter being a pirate, she said “My how autobiographical,” which made me smile.

Maeve’s song “Ave Matres” from Bright Dark Madonna is a tribute to all mothers. I’d like to share it here.

Hail all mothers

graceful or not

god or goddess is with you, believe it or not.

Blessed are all women

and blessed are the fruits of our wombs

whatever names, ridiculous or not, we choose for them

and even when they’re acting rotten.

O mothers

holy human mothers

all our children are divine.

Long after they leave us

they will curse us and pray to us

now and in the hour of our death

now and in the hour of their need.

B: I love how Maeve becomes a geyser of divine speech at times and then brings it back down to a simmer in the next beat, saying to the reader, how she added this or that for good measure, or for essentially dramatic flare. I so loved this aspect of the book!! Because it always made Maeve's human parts so real and her divine parts digestible as well. There is one point where she is sought for her counsel by the Druids. Maeve says to the reader: "They wanted, the young man said, the benefit of my wisdom. I don't know if he understood why I laughed." I felt this authentic response of Maeve downplaying her wisdom, and your light treatment of the divine made it more believable and more accessible. Do you feel that bringing the divine down to earth is an important attribute in Maeve's character evolution? in our own evolution?

E.C.: Absolutely! I am an incarnationist all the way. One impetus for writing The Maeve Chronicles was a longing for the divine feminine incarnate. The Goddess in the abstract, even mythic particular goddesses, just weren’t cutting it for me. In Jesus, Christians have God incarnate as a fully human being, someone who walked on this earth, ate and drank, quarreled and loved. I wanted a goddess like that, a goddess with feet! So now I have Maeve. Here is what Maeve has to say about incarnation from The Passion of Mary Magdalen:

“My beloved, (my Bridegroom and yours), is often thought of as a mediator, as if we need someone to make our case to his terrible god, to stand between divine wrath and human wickedness. Why not imagine instead a tree, mediating earth and sky? The roots know the mystery of the depths, the dark, the taste of earth and the leaves know the mystery of the heights, the light, the taste of sun. Both are good. In the heart of the tree, where Isis found Osiris, the mysteries meet. They meet in your heart, too.

We are all mediators of divine and human nature. As we drank and danced and embraced at the wedding, we glimpsed each other’s radiance, saw our own reflected. The next day, remarkably rested and fit, considering, we saw our differences again, our annoying traits, our conflicting wills. But I am not here to condemn human nature or to exalt the divine. It’s all good, the grit in the oyster, the stone in the shoe. Stop to shake out the stone. Take a moment to wonder at this place you find yourself: between earth and sky.”

B: I love how you talk about Maeve and the Druids in the dark, getting ready to deliberate their fate and movement with the Romans ready to attack, as having the feeling of being a bunch of children, playing a game in the dark. I love how one of the most poignant moments with Maeve and Sarah, consist of Maeve giving her an acorn, for no real reason. You are on to something here, merging childhood with the gravity of a grown up world. What does this mean to you?

E.C.: When we are children, even if a grownup is willing to play with us, we see him or her as grownup. Period. We believe that one day we will be grown up. We might long for that state or dread it, but most of us don’t guess that when we attain it, we won’t always feel very grown up. Our child self will still be with us, for better or worse, whether we know it or not.

Maeve may be particularly aware of the presence of everyone’s younger self in the scenes on Mona. She was exiled when she was fifteen and has a hard time conceiving of her former classmates as the authority figures they have become. She was never terribly reverent towards authority to begin with, but now she can’t manage it at all. It makes her laugh. There is a sweetness and tenderness in this reunion, too.

Thank you again, Elizabeth, for such wonderful answers!

Stay tuned for part 3 where we get into the battle scenes and the complex relationship between Maeve and the General, and Jesus might show up in a question or two!

Had to include this wonderful footage of Ms. Cunningham doin' it right! I just love this!

The Epic Interview with Elizabeth Cunningham! Part 1 of 3

2011-12-07T21:33:00.000-08:00

Here it is folks! The epic interview with author Elizabeth Cunningham, which will be posted here in three parts, the following two, which will appear next and the following Thursday on this blog.

It was such fun to be able to formulate meaningful questions relevant to my journey, and to have the opportunity to delve deeper into Elizabeth Cunningham's powerful conclusion to The Maeve Chronicles, Red-Robed Priestess, and into the character of Maeve Rhuad, the feisty, Celtic Mary Magdalen.

I am sure you will adore reading Elizabeth's responses as much as I did. I found myself underlining and starring them as much as I did her book! Enjoy!

If you want a play by play of this tour, scroll to the end of this post for details. Be sure to friend Maeve Rhuad on Facebook, or head to Elizabeth and Maeve's blog. You'll find a treasure trove for fans of The Maeve Chronicles, as well as beautiful details and insight from the author Elizabeth Cunningham-- enriching content for readers and writers alike.

Brooke: Dear Elizabeth--To begin, I must tell you what an honor it is to interview you, and to be a part of this virtual book tour, unveiling your book Red-Robed Priestess. I was so excited to be asked! Readers of my blog know that The Maeve Chronicles have meant much to me and my journey, on so many levels. The 4th book, Red-Robed Priestess has been no exception. In fact, this book might have had the most impact on me, because of what Maeve has to go through and to witness, because of the kind of decisions she has to make in the moment, because of how she walks through them, and because of her coming full-circle with her experiences and relationships.

I find your story of Maeve a powerful parable for walking through my own life. Because I read it as such, there are certain moments and teachings that stand out for me. I'll focus on many of those here.

I can't begin without telling you how beautiful your book was to read. It was so alive. There was never a dull moment. It either took my breath away with beauty and resonance, made me laugh, made me remember Maeve's rich journey in the first three books, suspended me in poetry-- transporting me and strengthening my own connection with the divine, or made me think deeply about bigger questions. For selfish reasons, I hope this gorgeous ending marks a beginning for you in some way. I honor your creator heart. I put you in the center of a circle, with your gentle spirit that has touched me, along with what has flowed through your pen, and proclaim, "Here now is the center of the world!"

I'm just going to say it. I feel as though you have given the encoding in your book for the ultimate divine human. In other words, you have made a role model that I can jive with. I love Maeve precisely because she is fully slave to the human condition, subject to human dramas, and carries a divine aspect of herself all at once, but doesn't walk on water--in fact if I recall correctly, she literally couldn't in this book!

I would dare say that you have created the ultimate model for women, one who can embrace all of her contrasting, contradicting parts, and as a result find herself made whole-- freed up and open to a life being lived and acted upon in different and surprising ways, harnessing all her power. Do you believe it is possible for women of today to walk in this world like Maeve? What do you think about me saying that this embracing our contradictions could have been perhaps the most vital, but missing link of the feminist movement?

Elizabeth Cunningham: I do believe it is possible for women of today to walk in this world like Maeve, because what that means is to walk in this world as yourself. As you know from your own travels, Brooke, that is quite a journey. I don’t think it has ever been easy for men or women to counter conventional ways or wisdom for their own wisdom—or folly. Saints and mystics were often persecuted as heretics in their own time, visionaries as lunatics. Maeve had the advantage of having eight mothers who thought she hung the moon, but she went forth into a world where she encountered violence, betrayal, slavery, and oppression. Not so different from our world today. So just keep walking, sisters!

Embracing our contradictions sounds like a good prescription for any movement. There was a time when I, like many, believed or wanted to believe in women’s inherent moral superiority. I had reason personally and politically to be angry with men and with patriarchal religions and systems. I’ve come to feel that exalting women in that way is a trap. What is exalted can be debased. I want to deal with men face to face. We have different biology and different experiences based on gender, but we are all human, all subject to various delusions and pitfalls, all vulnerable. That said, there is no denying that women still do not have an equal share in political or economic power. Injustice and inequality is rampant between the sexes and must be addressed. I also want to add that cultural notions of masculine and feminine in any age strike me as oppressive and distorting. They also leave out people who identify across gender lines. Don’t know if that answers your question. But here is to that wide embrace!

B: What struck me in Red-Robed Priestess is Maeve's ability to keep moving, no matter what. She may have the worst possible scenarios happening, but she never stops for longer than needed to eat, relieve herself, sleep--plus, she takes time to smell the roses. Yet she doesn't come across as having rose-colored glasses either. She never gives up. She just keeps moving and moving, often covering large distances. She is entirely aimless and aimed at the same time. Can you tell us what this means to you? Can Maeve give us real world advice for how in the world she has all that energy to keep moving without just wanting to curl up in a fetal position and throw in the towel?

E.C: I love how you describe her as aimless and aimed at the same time. Great turn of phrase, Brooke. Poor old sixty-something Maeve does have quite a time of it in Red-Robed Priestess. She keeps moving partly because she has no choice. Her rather dire circumstances dictate it. Her time in the cave in Southern France where she had a lovely restful hermitage (see Bright Dark Madonna) was all too brief. She travels back and forth across Britain carrying warnings, so she does have a sense of urgency. She doesn’t have to throw in the towel. It’s getting thrown in for her in by the war-torn world around her. Her plight is both personal and way beyond personal.

As for advice, I think Maeve might say go ahead and curl up in that fetal position when you need to, or have a hissy fit and rage at fate. Breakdown and breakthrough are two sides of one thing. Also stillness is essential. Movement rises from it, and must return to rest in it. Maybe that’s what Maeve is doing when she takes time to smell the roses. That’s a good thing to do in crisis. In my own much less dramatic way, I’ve been in chronic crisis for a year now, lots of movement, literally. What’s gotten me through is getting up to watch the sunrise every day.

B: Maeve doesn't spend much time deliberating--often her decisions are split-second, and yet I never sense that she carries a lot of doubt. Even when she makes difficult decisions, she moves fully with whatever she has decided. Can you comment on this? To what do you attribute her certainty?

E.C: Again I would say that in many cases she does not have time to deliberate. In the first chapter when the general mistakes her for his lost beloved, she must decide then and there whether to meet him in what is a kind of dream or insist that he is making a mistake. She finds him compelling for the same reason, although she is more conscious of the strangeness of the juxtaposition. She is a risk taker, so she almost always chooses the more risky path—as much a fault as a virtue. As mentioned above, I think her confidence comes from having been an adored child of eight warrior-witch mothers. She did not have to second guess herself or them. She did not have to strive to please or appease, as so many of us did and still do. As Maeve notes in Magdalen Rising she is cunt-sure of herself! (as opposed to cock).

B: Do you think Maeve would differentiate between acting from her intuition or acting on impulse?

E.C: I don’t know if Maeve would differentiate, but perhaps there is a difference. When Maeve commandeers a boat at the Isis festival (The Passion of Mary Magdalen) in an ill-fated attempt to escape slavery, that act is impulsive –and desperate. In the long process of coming to understand Paulina, her oppressor and later benefactress, she relies on intuition and dream as well as plain old detective work. I am not quite as bold as Maeve, but I can be foolishly impulsive. For me intuition feels different. It is quieter; it seems to come from another place, beyond as well as within. It often confounds or contradicts my habitual thinking. Impulse may be related at times, but it is unripe, like trying to force open a flower instead of letting it unfold. Thankfully, since grace is amazing, those impulsive mistakes can be woven into the pattern and become part of a mysterious whole. Maeve’s rash escape attempt—which lands her in Paulina’s awful household, much worse off than she was before—ultimately and strangely leads her to her vocation as priestess and healer and finally to freedom from slavery.

B: It seems to me that whatever is put before Maeve, she is able to act upon, because she doesn't carry a heavy victim identity, but she doesn't suppress what has happened to her either, trying to make it palatable for herself or others. She accepts it as it is. She doesn't spend time making excuses or extracting end-all wisdom from her experiences. She just lives and moves from point a to point b. At the same time she lets herself feel all of it deeply. Do you think Maeve thinks about the meaning of life? If so, what would she say it is?

E.C: I don’t know if Maeve thinks about the meaning of life in the abstract. She thinks in terms of story—her story. Although that story is more beautiful and difficult than she is able to conceive as a twelve-year old when she first glimpses her beloved in the well of wisdom on her mother’s isle, she remains wedded to the story of” the lovers of the world” through her long exile, brief reunion, and even longer widowhood. I just remembered something Maeve says in Magdalen Rising that may be apropos:

“Here is the heart of the mystery: that moment when our own inner force meets forces beyond our control. That moment when the plot thickens or falls apart completely."

B: Your rendition of Maeve had me breaking down constructs. It had me turning my thinking upside down and finding a right side up in the process. For instance, at one point, Maeve is called a 'whore', and instead of feeling offended, she says, "Neither of them understood that instead of shaming me, the word [whore] restored me to myself--the self who had survived slavery to become a priestess and healer, the self who welcomed the god-bearing stranger at Temple Magdalen. The self who embodied the goddess." This was so powerful--that we can get to the other side of a negative label, and find our power there? Wow! Do you have anything to add about this?

E.C: The reclaiming of the word whore is one of the themes of The Maeve Chronicles, especially The Passion of Mary Magdalen. The character who became Maeve first came to me in the form of a drawing as a contemporary woman named Madge, a painter who unapologetically supports herself as a prostitute (‘cause it’s almost impossible to make a living as an artist!). When she consented to be the Celtic Mary Magdalen (the only one of my ideas that held any appeal for her) it was clear to us both that she would retain her identity as a prostitute –and an unrepentant one at that. There is no scriptural evidence about the matter either way. The lore about Mary Magdalen as a penitent prostitute originated with some pope, and many modern scholars have an almost missionary zeal about restoring her reputation. But I feel as long as we see prostitutes bad and other, then women can be controlled by our fear of the label. Here’s what Maeve has to say:

“Some people insist there is no evidence that I was a whore at all; they are eager to save my reputation—which implies that they think there is something wrong with being a whore. It is true that his official chroniclers never called me a whore, just a crazy bitch or in polite language “a woman infested by seven demons.” (We’ll get to that part later.) Everyone seems to agree that I was saved, cleansed by his healing (asexual) touch and that I went on to become an important, if unacknowledged, disciple.

There is more to the story or I wouldn’t be telling it. And I hope you will discover, if you don’t already know, the difference between a stereotype and an archetype. Stereotypes are flat, one dimensional, like the donkey you blindly pin the tail on. Archetypes are rich, lush, juicy. Sometimes they go underground, submerge in mist and myth, like the Lochness Monster. But I am here to tell you: You can’t keep a good archetype down.” –from The Passion of Mary Magdalen

B: Maeve seems to have balanced the female and male energy within her being. She doesn't get too emotional, wallow in pools of sorrow, and shut down, but she doesn't shut off her feeling all of it, her tenderness, her nurturing side, or her ability to love and honor, even her enemies. Do you think this balance between male and female energy is what helps Maeve to feel so free to move? Do you think this is an important attribute to balance within ourselves?

E.C.: In Magdalen Rising (brace yourselves, herpephobes) Maeve has her first sexual experience during her initiation ordeal in a sacred cave. Two snakes (literal and/or metaphorical) introduce her to sexual ecstasy. At the end of her encounter, she hears these words: “The snakes are within you: the male and the female, the right and the left, the bright and the dark, the sky and the earth. Never forget.”

Later when she is at druid school, the female first formers, under the guidance of some priestesses, regularly dance themselves to sexual release. In this way, the young women understand that their sexuality is theirs, it’s inherent. Even if it is enjoyed with a man (or woman), it does not belong to a anyone else, nor can it be controlled by a anyone else. Sovereignty is another theme that runs through all the books.

It makes sense to me that this inner union of male and female does free Maeve to move. Although Jesus is her beloved “before and beyond time in all the worlds,” Maeve is in no sense incomplete without him. If she were, I would not have been able to write two exciting novels post-Resurrection.

B: Do you think it is Maeve's life experiences that have balanced the male and the female energies within her, or do you think this balance is something innate that she would carry into a life of relative quiet? which brings me to another question I'd love to ask. How do you think Maeve would do in a monastery?

E.C: This balance is both innate and learned, as indicated above. I doubt Maeve would do well in a monastery. She can’t even manage being a disciple to her beloved. Even if she could do without sex, she would be unable to accept any rules but the rather idiosyncratic ones at Temple Magdalen. She did fine, however, as a hermit. Despite her sexual gifts, she lived without sex for many years when she, Ma, and Sarah lived in hiding in the Taurus Mountains. As you may recall, she wasn’t happy about it. Her love affair with John the beloved disciple, when they meet again in Ephesus, is one of the most tender and unexpected episodes in Bright Dark Madonna.

Thank you, Elizabeth, for such wonderful in-depth responses. And readers stay tuned for part 2 of 3, which will appear next Thursday, December 15th, where we discuss Maeve's presence in the present moment, and Elizabeth graces us with a tribute to all mothers.

Here. Now.

2011-11-30T13:57:00.000-08:00

I am Here, present, right here, right now, and now, and now, and now. I haven't often been Here. Once upon a time I had never been Here. It was a destination completely unknown to me. I heard talk of this place, but it was like that country I knew I'd never travel to, mostly because I probably wouldn't have the time, the money, or frankly, the desire. Scared of the natives. Didn't want to be a stranger stranger.

I danced around this place called Here. I can say danced, because I am Here right now, and this place is only loving. From any other destination, you might have called it running scared, jagged attempts at walking a straight line, a desperate plight to connect the dots to find the answers. It feels like living in a sealed glass jar, banging your fists and screaming at the top of your lungs, seeing everyone and everything just outside, but nobody can hear you--or worse, you believe they can hear your, but are ignoring you.

These days I am catching myself doing this little dance around myself.

For longer durations, I know what it is to be Here, now. And the natives are friendly! We are holding hands, dancing, listening to good guitar. Loves me some good guitar. We are experiencing the same damn ball of wax as though it were a crystal ball!

You kind of wonder why you waited so long to get your ticket, get the fuck off the couch, and get yourself to the airport!

I'm moving Here. I've got my bags packed, and much of the time I leave at least one foot Here. Step in quite often with two.

And I see You Here. God, you're beautiful, fucking spectacular.

And all that pain was so worth it, the fire under my ass to finally get off the couch and come for a visit. I promise I won't stay away too long, cause I don't want to miss what is Here. Found my oasis, my tropical playground, and I'm having so much fun, I don't even miss there. Here is where it is at.

And to think all it took was to get the hell down off my cross.

My friend Karen just told me about the Tom Waits song, Come On Up to the House. Here it is for your listening pleasure.

"Come down off the cross," He croons, "We can use the wood." Genius.

Come to find that all that wood makes a mighty nice fire--sittin' around it, holdin' hands, kids roastin' marshmallows, firelight glowin' in our eyes, gratuitous laughter, and is that singing?

Mighty nice.

Lookin' forward to seeing you Here. And bring your wood. We can use it.

Are you hungry? Whetting your appetite for author Elizabeth Cunningham's: The Maeve Chronicles

2011-11-20T10:36:00.000-08:00

In honor of Elizabeth Cunningham's new book release, Red Robed Priestess, I am reposting this little ditty that was in honor of The Passion of Mary Magdalen, which is the second book in the now four book set that comprises the Maeve Chronicles. (Now if anyone could just get this to the right screen play writer, and visionary to get it on the big screen, that would be the best--now that it is complete, it is time!!!!)

This is one of my favorite posts I've written, because of how deeply I felt the truth resonate through me in this moment in Elizabeth's book, and how joyful and effortless it was to write about it and express appreciation. TO me, this is what art is for. Enjoy.

There are those sacred moments in the illusion of time when you have no doubt that you've encountered someone in your life that feels beyond the scope of the ordinary, that through contact with them or their creations, you find yourself shifting in a profound way. You know on some level you can never be the same. They show you a whole new world that you couldn't have conceived of before, and it warms you, moves you.

Encountering Elizabeth Cunningham, the author of three (and more to come) novels in The Maeve Chronicles: Magdalen Rising, The Passion of Mary Magdalen, and Bright Dark Madonna, felt like a sacred first for me; a moment when the entire universe conspired for me, to give me sustenance through the written word.

Opening her books I began to find pieces of my soul scattered about in her creations, gifted freely, so that I might gather them back to me.

I'll never forget how I came upon The Passion of Mary Magdalen. I rarely if ever browse through the aisles of the library anymore, preferring the efficiency of researching and reserving online. This day, however, I happened to be with my daughter and decided to look for an old book I'd never finished. I couldn't quite remember the author's name, and so I found myself meandering. Next thing I knew I walked right to The Passion of Mary Magdalen, picked it up, and left with it, completely abandoning what I'd come for, almost automatically.

Later when I had the opportunity to sit down and read it, the bottom of my world dropped out. How could I not have known about an author with such depth, beauty, and brilliance; such intelligence and agility with words; so tender, poetic, and yet so brazen, unorthodox even, and may I say sacrilegious; not to mention funny, charismatic, witty, thought-provoking, and brave?

How was it possible that I could read something that burned within me while I read it, feeling as if I had finally found a home that resonated with alien aspects of myself? Her writing had a healing and empowering quality to it that I would have never expected.

The pages of her book were so rich and full, that I found myself pausing often, savoring all the dimensions of thought and storytelling being presented. Her characters were so real and raw, and inspired such attachment, no matter what century or situations they found themselves in.

The main character Maeve was a fiery Celtic rendition of Mary Magdalen, not to be reckoned with, equipped with strident feminist ideals, yet her softness and vulnerability were just as palpable, as if she has no choice but to embrace all of her conflicting parts. I soon realized Maeve was highly omniscient-- aware of my time in her time, and yet, wonderfully stuck in her mortal mess. (You'll even find she comes out to blog in modern times with Ms. Cunningham).

It was a surreal experience to follow Maeve's first-person account of her search for her Beloved Jesus, whom she'd met in her youth (read about this in Magdalen Rising), but had been bereft of when the book began. The meticulous detail, research, and historical intricacies allowed me to feel as though I'd truly time traveled, and was right in the center of the action.

Every character was very memorable, even up against the technicolor of Maeve, but nothing prepared me for meeting Jesus. I actually found myself rewiring every bit of conditioning I'd ever had about him and replacing it by Cunningham's account. Hers was a Jesus I could relate to.

On a transformative level, Ms. Cunningham's writing has had the force to crack me open to be more of myself as a writer and a seeker, giving permission, in her show of authenticity, to break out of structure, and perhaps the most lovely thing, to recognize parts of myself awakening with a sweet yawn: woman, lover, mother, warrior, healer, teacher, friend.

There is a passage in her book when Jesus pardons Maeve publicly, who is being condemned for her sins of prostitution. Maeve's response to her pardon by her husband spoke to me so deeply, that I must include it here.

Jesus Speaking to the Pharisee and pardoning Maeve:

"I came to your house, but you poured no water on my feet, but she has poured her tears over my feet and wiped them away with her hair. You gave me no kiss, but she has been covering my feet with kisses. You did not anoint my head with oil, but she has anointed my feet with ointment."

His voice broke, and he waited for a moment. I became aware of other people's breathing as their one longing caught in their throats.

"For this reason, I tell you her sins, many as they are," here he paused and smiled at me, "have been forgiven her from her mother's womb, from the time before time, in all the worlds. And so she loves greatly, holding nothing back. And so she loves."

And now Maeve's response to reuniting with her husband Jesus after he has released her from a perception of being guilty, dirty, and condemned:

Before that night I thought I knew all there was to know about lovemaking. I believe now that I knew nothing. Despite the years of loss and longing, the joy of our reunion, the consummation of our wedding, I must have kept some part of myself untouched and apart. After that night, whatever I had held back was gone. Or if not gone, then utterly changed. Where does the water go when the dam bursts and the river flows free? Where is the scent of an open rose? Where does a storm wind come to rest? Until that night I was a virgin.

Afterwords it was strange to feel our bodies become distinct again. We nestled close to each other, and I felt such peace and containment, as if we floated together in the womb, lovers before we were born, like Isis and Osiris.

After reading this, I found myself wafting around in an entirely other realm of consciousness, knowing that somehow Cunningham had captured the essence of awake true love not just between Maeve and Jesus, but between all of us: that opening of spacious love with the obliteration of guilt; an unconditional embrace of all parts of ourselves from another, that when spilled onto us runs so deeply into the fabric of our being, that it trumps all our hard-won stories. It changes us.

My experience with Cunningham's work has exalted the written word to an art form that can transform and heal, perhaps akin to Richard Wagner's desire in music to exalt his musical creations into gesamtkunstwerk or a universal artwork. Wiki says "The gesamtkunstwerk was to be the clearest and most profound expression of a folk tale, though abstracted from its nationalist particulars to a universal humanist fable."

You will have to judge for yourself if what I say about Cunningham is universal to you. Of course, I recommend her with great passion, but I acknowledge that sometimes we just have to wait for gifts like her to drop out of the sky before we fully appreciate them.

If you need just one more thing to bolster you forward to your nearest bookstore, I will give you this to ponder: there is a moment so penetrating between Maeve and her Beloved Jesus when he is hanging on the cross, that perhaps every time this passage is read, you might actually feel what Cunningham has unleashed as a tiny earthquake underfoot.

I felt it as a strange combination of exhilaration and pain that kept me suspended in and outside of time, so much so, that it took a couple days before I could reopen the book to finish it. Now that doesn't happen every day.

Dear Elizabeth,

Thank you, sincerely, from the bottom of my heart for sharing yourself and Maeve with the world! Thank you for being an exceptional human being, who takes the time to take interest, connect and share from the heart with others; to inspire and encourage. I love your "right on, write on!" You are truly a gift of a wise teacher and mentor as well as someone who leads those of us wishing to walk between the worlds. Thank you for the essence of you.

With love,

Brooke

You can find Elizabeth Cunningham's site here, and follow Elizabeth and Maeve's blog here, and on huffington post. Oh, and did I mention she sings too? Check out Mavensong: A Musical Odyssey Through the Maeve Chronicles.

A title that would express that everything before now was a mere shadow of living, that life has just begun, and that the sheer amazingness of it all is nothing short of mind-blowing

2011-11-14T12:55:00.000-08:00

Hello friends!

No I haven't dropped off the face of the earth, although, life sure does feel differently these days--like maybe I did wake up on another planet.

I've been on this blog for a couple years now, but it feels as if I've just begun to really write on here as truly me, as of the last month or so. The rest of this blog feels sweet and precious, but too careful and flavored with apology for my taste--like I was tiptoeing around, being brave in the safest ways, just enough to tell it like it is as best I knew, but leaving much of the juicy parts out. I see that I was steeped in wishful thinking. Now I feel like I am taking big bold steps in faith.

It is like I have finally reached a density of self heavy enough to withstand the fear hurricanes that would blast through here, keeping me forever scavenging for safety, and finding only the most pathetic shelter. Now the hurricanes feel like a fly buzzing around my nose. They piss me off, but they are nothing a fly swatter can't obliterate. I find I'm not even bracing myself for the storm. I know that I have nothing to fear, and so I am not letting the fear distract me from what is real.

So, I am curious what this new beginning will bring, now that I've stopped holding back, stopped vying for approval, stopped feeling the terror of telling the truth—'stopped seeking the approval of idiots' (I owe credit for the idiot line to my good friend Karen:).

Been deeply participating in the life I can reach out and touch. Been slowing it way down, and barely having time to fire up the computer. Have had to turn over all the precious love connections that I have made online to the timing of the divine--trusting that there is nothing lost in the space between, but everything gained in doing what I need to do for me at the moment. And as far as I can tell, I am still loved as much, respected as much--and maybe I can even feel it more!

My house cleaning tools have also not been fired up too much either. So many things are in disarray. I have wanted to judge this, but something in me has stopped judgment, knowing that some deep healing is underway. My heart's desire at the moment is diving into the pond, feeling the cool, refreshing water as cleansing, even if the water is murky, even if my my toes come in contact with a slimy, mysterious bottom, that makes me shudder with fear and disgust every once in a while. Something is more intent on me diving in, than avoiding the discomfort.

After all this time, I am finally really learning how to live outside of the framework of an archaic, idealized and sterilized concept of perfection.

Reminds me of my daughter, who, thanks to me, became completely disgusted with cat hair getting on her pajamas, so much so, that she wouldn't touch the kitty. One night she was very upset. I knew that the cat would give her solace, but she wouldn't touch it because she didn't want to get dirty. She is six, and the kitty has been her precious friend, until she began following in my clean-freak footsteps. So, as any intuitive mother would do, I shoved the cat into her chest and rubbed it up down, and said, love your kitty, don't be like me and push away what is good for you, because of messes!! She started crying the sweetest cry I've ever heard as she wrapped her arms around the kitty and rekindled her relationship with her furry friend. I've let her room be super messy too, so that she can learn that she can play in the mess, and let friends in there despite the messes. She was starting to tell her friends they couldn't play in her room, because they would mess it up.

It sure is nice when you have a little one to teach you so much, show you where you are shutting out life, and I am finally learning it, dammit! Calls for celebration! And I know that it isn't too late for my daughters to dive in the pond with me, without needing a cement basin and insane amounts of chlorine for a feeling of well-being. Fuck that.

So, been turning inward a lot lately. Lots of time doing NOTHING. Feeling a little discomfort in that, but knowing there is something about powering up from this new way of being, that cannot be birthed from the old doingness. So, the moments of nothing have been a recalibration of sorts. Lots of eyes-closed moments, sitting on the floor. Stage one was, lean into the discomfort, stage two was to try on the loser label from myself and society, stage three was to not give a shit, stage four was to really not give a shit, stage five was to really really not give and shit-- and begin to welcome little bits of insight and clarity, stage six has been to feel creative energy starting to flow through my veins, and stage seven is to show up and tell about it and begin to create! And what this is yielding like crazy is direct experience of another world. All of the new is being greatly reinforced by goodness. All the going against the grain is changing the landscape permanently. New reactions to the old that shock and move mountains. The path is being illuminated ever more clearly and supportive elements are falling into place, from a place that exists outside of the old.

I have no idea what is next, and I don't want to know anymore. I don't care. All I care about is this moment in front of me. I don't know what anything means, and I don't want to know. I don't want neat labels. I don't want anything that would limit anything. Anything that comes before me in that way has no absorption power, because it doesn't ring true as having really any meaning--like if you were going to try and argue for it, you would just sound silly trying to pin it down. I get to decide if anything has meaning or not, and it comes from a deep resonance in the heart center.

And at the same time I am becoming okay with the messes, and doing nothing, there are some bits of debris that I have been sifting through. The going within has been extremely necessary, so that I can hear the guidance needed to move through these shadowy places--circling around to the same events and people, and experiencing them differently, asking for what it never occurred to me I could ask for, in growing love and oneness. Letting go of so much fear I thought needed to stay in place for a lifetime. Bringing down my own walls, even if I might be dismissed or judged harshly for my boldness or seeming impertinence. Willing to risk it for the truth that love is all there ever was, is, or will be. Realizing it is never too much to ask for peace and healing. It is never too much to honor your fellow man.

Themes have begun to emerge. Experiences that I thought had nothing to do with one another, have merged as the same patterning sneaking up in my life. Hilarious!

And the loving interpretations I am receiving as I touch the murky depths, are coming from a deeper sense of self-love, leading me to believe and trust firmly in my heart—to realize that I have never in my life been asking for something unreasonable, in desiring peace and love—in calling bullshit on separation. This realization has been huge. It has helped me to lift the heavy cross off my shoulders and put it down. It has given me a loud and booming voice to say what is not okay, and a deep knowing of what is. It has opened up my ability to love and tune in with others, to release them as I've released myself, but not to put up with shit that is beneath them.

And I feel them thanking me, even if they don't know it yet, for not letting them act like assholes—for standing up for truth, for giving love, by loving myself and not letting their shit penetrate. I have had more love than ever to give with fiery force, now that I am not being crippled by the less than love behavior all over the place.

The guilt is done-gone as I begin to deeply trust that it isn't my problem that people can't deliver love on a platter—but that I don't have to carry that inability for them, cradle it, protect it. That I can express that it sucks, and I can also release them from delivering it, but I can give it and experience everywhere else, and not wait for eternities for anyone to deliver. And now I find I am not even wanting love in the same way. The love is just there. The trust is there. It is all good. Timing is perfect.

And often when I circle around to those who couldn't deliver, they are different because I am different. And love comes out where it couldn't before. And I am amazed.

I am learning that with no victim patterning, there is no victim.

I realize that we all have a responsibility to lean into our fear and discomfort, to be willing to look at things differently, to embark on a path of love and clarity with one another, no matter that it feels hard. I am learning that asking for this is okay. I am learning that everyone wants this, even if they are not aware of as much. I am learning this isn't a projection of mine to be laughed at as cute, nor is it all in my head.

I am learning that resistance and anger is the askance of love, and that it is okay to make people uncomfortable. It is okay to ask for love.

No more protecting fear and small thinking.

I am learning that any other way of interacting is actually much harder and much more painful than opening up communication and finding peace, which brings release and clarity, whether it looks like it or not.

And if you aren't willing to go there with me-- fine, but you will probably hear about it--but you won't feel unloved, or pressure to be anything you are not. Because having the courage to express a desire for oneness and clarity when it is scary, releases me from needing you to give it. I can truly love you and see you anyway. And if it stirs stuff in you to look at, it is your issue to deal with. It doesn't mean I have to stop and protect your victimhood--hold it in place for you, so you don't have to wake up and join the vast number of people who are choosing to let go and love no matter fucking what.

So, friends, this is where I am. I have much to share here. I have many projects underway. Very excited about what the moment will bring!

XO,

Brooke

PS. Stay tuned for tributes on my blog this month and next to a precious woman, and natural mentor--an author whose book I stumbled fortuitously on at the library, and who I was lucky enough to have grace my site here with her readership, after I left a comment on her blog. How cool is that?

She is author and amazing human being, Elizabeth Cunningham, whose fourth book Red Robed Priestess has just made its way to bookstores. BUY IT! ALONG WITH THE OTHER THREE! You will go on the ride or your life!!! Red Robed Priestess is the final installment in the illustrious Maeve Chronicles, which star a fiery Celtic Mary Magdalen, who will knock your socks off with her brand of feminism balanced with pure heart.

Elizabeth is doing a virtual book tour, which I am so honored to be a part of, (officially Dec. 8th), so, check her site to see the schedule and be part of the fun! At the moment she is answering questions WTFWMD? For those of you who need it spelled out, what the fuck would Maeve do? And trust me, you really want to know.

I am coming back online, just so I don't miss any of this amazing woman's sharing herself, her humor, her wit, and her depth of heart, with the world!

Letting It Die

2011-10-30T22:47:00.000-07:00

by Shadow-Light13

I gather you all around, on the eve of all hallows eve for a very special celebration of funeral rites.

Tonight is the night that I give an old framework of my being safe passage to the underworld.

I am ready to let it go. I've recently begun to hear it begging me for its release.

This moment is a solemn one, but a necessary one.

I'm trying not to jump ahead here, as I don't want to avoid looking in the coffin.

I need to look.

It is necessary that I slow myself down, and take deliberate steps around the funeral pyre, to take it in sight, before I strike the match and set it aflame, shoving it off, gleaming as it catches the currents.

It is important that I get a good look at that which I am finally ready to let die

The desire for perfection that rejects life in this moment

and the variety of forms that this takes in my experience.

I let this desire die, so that something that has been recently born in my experience might become stronger, whose breath may become less labored, more assured.

I welcome an experience of a new kind of moment that has been making itself known to me, where I am held at center, right between life and death-- with the allowance of both; a moment where new strata is revealed, that gives rise to a new way of experiencing the moment, giving it a multi-dimensional quality.

I welcome an experience of a moment both teeming with life and threatening death. I let go of a framework that would exalt one and fear the other. I let go of falling into the trap of either.

As I walk around the pyre, I take the time to deeply honor what was once part of my innocence, my grasping, my interpreting-- and I relinquish it with precious compassion.

I've staged this death countless times, but tonight it is different. I let this framework die, not because it is freedom from it that I seek. I let it die because its time has come. I let it die of natural causes.

It is a death for rebirth, after the birth. It is letting go that begets life, because new life has already appeared on the scene. There is no need for the old, because the new is here, and so I set it free, as it really wants to go now.

New life stands by me, and we let go of the old together.

We mourn and rejoice, as this new life allows for both mourning and rejoicing, without casting any shadows.

We mourn together the desire for the marriage of the power, the strength and the virility of the masculine, to the watery, emotive and welcoming depths of the feminine.

We mourn how this marriage spoke to us of a promised land, with such gorgeous sense of completion through ignition of union, that we might have spent eternity aspiring for it, dreaming for it, and never lived another second of the precious moment at hand.

The desire for perfection that rejects life.

We mourn the desire the physical form held to realize itself, that left it foraging into the future, to an imagined moment of perfection, cleaving to an image superimposed upon an impressionable and fearful mind, that began as a harmless thought form, but grew into a monstrous man-eating plant. We welcome a gentler of time of many moments of wellness adding up to unbranded beauty.

We mourn the desire of perfection in soul and creation, as the portal it was--but turn away from the promise of shiny treasures collected there, as we begin to understand that this castle was never the place in which we wished to remain locked, forever counting and polishing.

Instead, we let the promise of perfection die, we let it burn clear through, send it down the river, letting it leave the world of form.

We allow it to be absorbed back into a watery grave, transmuted into magical essence, swirling about and landing as lightly as butterfly wings, or as heavily as a boulder, which ever need be, but in the much more benign form of allegory--taking its rightful place as magical air, that sacred breeze that upon inhalation, takes your breath away, makes you close your eyes--makes you live something that you can't name--experienced as though life has made itself known to you, with all of its divine qualities and depths, a song in the background that you can't scribble down--let alone tell if its tonalities are major or minor.

It exists only in the present moment. Infinitely, in the confines of time.

I realize that to hold source in my being, in each moment, to listen to it trickle down the mountain, to dip my hand in and scoop it up, to drink of it before it reaches the rivers and the oceans--that I must let the desire for perfection die, because it keeps me behind glass, ever looking upon the waters, but never touching them, never letting the sweetness wet my lips, nor quench my thirst.

I must let go of vision that requires specific representation in form, in a holding pattern for life to begin.

I must not teeter too far toward dreams, so that I am not catapulted too far past this moment, having been moving too high and too fast to touch the landscape blurring beneath me--life rejected. Experience forever seeking form and losing the infinite.

And so, you are apt to be wondering, will there be a sacred marriage?

I don't know.

But I do know that I must let the bride and the groom leave one another for good, and if they are to come together, I must let them come together without my help, without my bidding-- which is really just a mask for my uncertainty that they will come together on their own.

Letting them grow naturally toward one another without my interference.

And this is so important, because this opens up that space where I partake of another in the world of form, in the moment. Lift soft warm bodies of my children and cuddle them to my breast. Feel the skin of lovers upon mine--truly experience all this teeming with life, in my arms, touching, holding, smelling, hearing, seeing, with infinite shape, texture, and sound, all the while aware of the counterpart of impermanence that insures the preciousness of experiencing.

Partake of life coursing through the moment as multi-faceted and multi-dimensional as a diamond-- where the sparkle is born.

In the center, between life and death, but not clinging to either, and knowing I wouldn't have wanted it any other way. This was the way I was meant to use this vessel given. This was the way I was to feel freedom--to become free.

Noting that the perfection of it just simply is, cliches and all.

And in that infinite moment, life and death are one, and so is time.

The message seems to be, to hold myself in strong center between life and death, but not fall to either side too far. Like shrapnel embedded next to the heart, that if moves in one direction is safe, in the other direction deadly. Forever reminded of the urgency of loving right now, and celebrating this.

I must forever hold myself in center. And to do this I must continually fall into the middle of life. I must let go of what I cannot hold. By letting go I find myself at center as fresh observer of what is. I am aware simultaneously of aliveness, and its one foot out the door.

When I let go, life is reborn to encompass all of it. Experiencing of all of it is layered with joy and pain.

I must not be afraid of the dual nature of the moment, and how it can encompass opposites.

I must not know if the living moment is being given or taken away. This is the secret I must guard from myself to stay center. I must never want to find it out. Because to search for a hold is to seek perfection, to seek perfection is to hold a perception of something different than now, and to desire perfection is to reject what is here now. I am ready to see how this letting go sacrifices nothing and gains everything.

To beat between the two, until there is a focus into the one. And here find the infinite. The grace and the tension, the ebbing and the flowing, the war and peace, the joy and the pain. All existing together.

I light the pyres and let it consume the wood, and burn the oxygen around me. I let it give light by taking fuel. I let both aspects of it exist together, creating beautiful luminescence, giving life, by consuming life, drawing me into its dance right here, right now.

My Offering

2011-10-25T13:37:00.000-07:00

Photo credit J. Scott Bovitz

I love the conscious change that is rising up in this world through so many avenues. It isn't filled with victim energy. It is filled with light. Actual people who are finding the power within themselves to be changed and then to offer up what they have learned to the world.

This has been my journey. I have delved deep within the shadows of my being. Some of you, I've even dragged there with me--almost like I needed witness, or someone to pull me back out if it got too much.

I can say that I have been reconfigured in the past few years. I just don't feel fear in the same kind of way. I welcome fear, because it is in facing it that I have found freedom.

Sometimes, I want to ride the fear, just to see where it will take me--what new opening, what new splendid revelation will be given.

There is something about this moment in time for me that is important.

I am ready to simultaneously shout from the mountain top all that I have learned, and at the same time party!

What is becoming increasingly clear, is that I am ready to give back. I am ready to act as a guide for those who want to stand clear in the energy of celebration with me, and not feel themselves separate.

So, in the weeks and months to come, I will be growing this. I am not sure what it will look like, because no compromise, means no compromise. It means no peeking ahead. I wouldn't even want to. I love the surprises. I love the unfolding. I love the unknown. This is my sacred work, and it will remain so.

This is what I know to be true. It all happens at the right time, and in the perfect way.

I have a deep sense that I have been being prepared all this time (that we all have been)--that I've already been doing much of the work behind the scenes and in the spotlight that I am setting out to do, just by living my daily experience, engaging with others, following inspiration, going against and with the grain-- all the while, telling the turth and collecting parts of myself back to me. It has looked like staying put when I've wanted to run like hell, all the while learning deep surrender, learning to trust, and learning to receive love.

It began as wishful thinking and is becoming blind faith.

There is the deepest sense of appreciation living in my being, that whatever I've done, I've done it my way--stayed true to listening to a voice within, even when it was completely illogical to the outside--even when I was told as much.

I am thankful for these chances I've had to stretch my truth muscles, because little by little, I've begun find homebase-- to sink into who I am, into every striation that is my being, dark or light. I've cared less that I might scare people, and more about exposing the monsters as shadows to myself. I have come to trust my heart, to know that never have I, nor could I ever, screw any of this up. That it is all part of it.

And in this knowing, an energy of possibility walks with me, unveiled--strong and clear.

I know that my work will incorporate my ability to connect deeply with others, my writing, my speaking, my teaching, and my parenting. I have a feeling that none of it will feel separate in the end. If I have learned one thing, is that it is all connected.

I have also learned that you will be shown where you are not free, and as a result I welcome the opportunity to breathe more fully into the tight places with whatever comes up. See, for me, this is not about pounding people into shapes I find beautiful, but watching infinite shapes unfold, with utter uniqueness-- feeling awestruck by the sheer majesty of each one of us.

I hope to be a mentor in the only way I would have been mentored--my mentors needed to get the hell out of the way, and let me take the reins--to love me no matter what, with no judgement (boy I have had a strong meter for that, and I've called them on their shit. I've been called on mine). I've needed them to trust that I had it all within me.

So, today, marks the first day of a new era of my life. Perhaps I've finally caught up to it, or perhaps there was nothing to catch up to--that from my very first breath in this world, I have been moving towards this moment in time, and to every moment in time, perfectly.

That is what I will teach. That is the space I will hold. This is what you will learn to see along with me, because nothing else is real.

If you feel drawn to working with me, in an intuitive way-- if you feel like letting me be a witness to your inner workings, and truly desire to know more clearly what is taking place within you, I welcome your companionship on this journey. Get a hold of me. The rest of the details will fall into place. I'm sure of it.

I know how this works. You send that point of contact, when you are ready--when you just can't wait any longer-- when the time is right.

That is what I am doing right now--sending that point of contact. I am unable to wait any longer to show up for my part in it.

When one is ready for this work, I notice that they will stop at nothing to find out the truth about themselves. They willingly let in a guide to show them what they were never meant to see alone, that could only be seen through collaboration. They begin to lean into the discomfort ever more bravely, because they know that something is there waiting to guide them straight to their heart.

It's so much better when a bunch of us arrive at the heart--the party is just that much better.

Cheers to what unfolds! Whew, I'm so ready.

Living in Exile

2011-10-21T10:38:00.000-07:00

Warning: this is a long one, but a good one. Think of this less as a blog post and more of a magazine article without all the annoying ads, or really just go away if you don't like it. Why do I think I need to sell you anything?

Okay, sorry, just needed to release the possible hostility of readers. It'll make more sense when you get to know me and my pet Exile, and how I create unreal scenarios of punishment and pain in my head.

Whew, this seems like an important post for me.

If you know me off this blog, you are used to hearing me connect the dots--almost in a manic way, as the most blatantly obvious parts of the scenery begin to poke out in my existence, revealing the stage upon which we are all precariously perched in this drama.

I rattle off play by plays, extracting the deepest meaning possible. Musically there is a lot of fanfare, a lot of returning from battle, wounded but having survived--a sense of pride in having given my all in the crusade, having braved the darkness, seen through the black and white, and found color. You know, sense of purpose, clarity, yada, yada.

However, there is one maze that when I fall into it, I become particularly clouded. I lose all ground.

I think I came in with this one.

Living in exile. *gut wrenching and terrifying horror music*

I often identify with Victor Hugo's story of being exiled to the Island of Jersey, away from his beloved France, by Napoleon II. It is a righteous indignation I feel for him, that a national treasure like him is taken and dumped onto another shore. He gets back at the crown by smuggling in an underground political pamphlet entitled Napoleon Le Petit, expressing essentially raw sentiments about his beloved France going to the dogs, and the blatant denial of truth by authority.

Yup, sounds like me!--except my righteous indignation includes the whole big blue and green ball of wax. And my sense of exile is with me wherever I may be. Gotta do the victim thing big in the 21st century.

Let me take you on a tour of my budding exile.

*black and white grainy film footage rolling, and crackling audio*

As a child it was the exile I felt having three brothers and being five minutes oldest-- often left in charge, often encountering much resistance from my brothers to their being bossed around.

In my adolescence, it was puppy love. I may have single-handedly contributed to global warming with the sheer amount of victim energy I funneled into the turbines, from the jaded love stories I held onto.

Then there was a thirteen year stint, where valiant and sanctified by moral superiortude (I like this new word) I set out to hammer a square peg into a round hole, which, grace be to God, finally ended in divorce.

I should interject my kids about here, as they became another force not wanting to be bossed around.

Then my personal favorite, another jaded love story with the worst exile that I may have experienced to date. Because you see, the stakes had been raised!! (Many of you got to experience a cryptic and not so cryptic weepy version of it on this blog! Hey I was dealing with exile, my voice had been stripped, prostrate on the ground crying out, I've fallen and I can't get up! Cut me some slack!).

Yes, exiled and possibly condemned (I'll never know for certain!) by The One who you feel to be the Love of your life--wondering how you'll ever get up and out from under this one. It is one thing to feel exiled by people whom you accept are from a different planet. Kind of like its their loss! you think as you wash your hands of them and make a run for your moral high ground. But to be exiled from One-Who-Represents-Home for the first time in your life for you-- who holds a sense of savioratude (liking this word too)--From One of your own kind!! A Being from your planet. You get the gist. Well, that rips you in half.

And so this brings me to now. Perhaps there is a waking up of sorts, because I have all these wonderful friends, who bring nothing but love and support and clarity. And I found myself just last night with one of my sweetests, in a state of feeling exiled by her. Poor her. Poor us. She had to watch me just break down into tears. And I think a part of me knew all along that there was no exile, that none of it was true.

I like big grand love stories. I like big grand victim stories too. I'm like both of these rolled up into one! What I'm not so acquainted with is a gentle, soft love that endures, that has no conditions, that is just safely there, as a given, as a golden undercurrent of every moment.

Perhaps it is as simple as breaking down over and over, to begin to recognize this unfamiliar love as having always been streaming through, to unearth the liquid gold.

Maybe part of breaking down the walls is building them up over and over again, until you don't need them anymore.

Maybe it is charging through, until your river is strong enough to break through the dam and create a grand canyon, finally honored for its magnificence, relished for its weathering the wear, crowning majesty under a big blue yonder. Oops, there I go, chasing glory again.

However, it would make sense that I would choose the most labor intensive ways to become free--after all, when exile and the struggle to come back home is the template of my being...don't have a whole lot of wiggle room.

Living life like a football game. Living like that guy they let out of prison, who just keeps ending up back there.

So, the question begs, which is worse, actually being physically exiled, or feeling as though you are exiled right on your own soil, right in your own backyard, with the loves of your life, having to fight your way through, perhaps even wishing for exile?

What I try to smuggle onto this blog is my own righteous indignation, of living in a world that has always been so clearly upside down. Right? Sure about that? Yes, of course. Wait, umm, well--okay-- not feeling so sure anymore.

See here is the thing. I'm starting to think that the upside down is all in me--not like in a critical, self-loathing way, but in a this-might-be-the-key-to-opening-my-prison-door-and-actually-stepping-out kind of way.

Lately I've been creating a lot of illusions of walking into the fire, coming out a hero--and giving hero talks on a rampage of appreciation of how I escaped with my life, and what I found in the burning house.

But here is the truth: the reality is that these fires are all in my head.

So, here I am dancing through the flames, and if you were watching me, you'd see that there is no fire, but the fire is real to me.

Let me give you another example.

I visit an online class on my computer, amply titled, Let Go, Let Love. hee hee. One day I accidentally unmuted the microphone so that my class was subject to me corralling my kids and yelling at them as my kids were being largely uncooperative at giving me the space to let go and let love. Oh, the irony.

I was mortified when I understood that I had aired my shit. It was big, like really big. I felt it coursing through me like hot lava, burning me in places I had no idea would hurt like that.

I dropped into the deepest reaches of hell. I wanted to run. I wanted to hide. I wanted to cease to exist.

But I didn't run, and I didn't hide. I just stayed there with the ancient fucking pain. I thought I was going to die.

All I could do was surrender. I couldn't hide anything.

But what happened, was that instead of being burned at the stake, I was extended grace by this group. I think you can also call it compassion. They didn't put me in a noose. Not only that, but on some level, there was a sense of oneness I hadn't been open to before. Like I'd been holding this protective stance all my life, to be strong and courageous, but that I was keeping out what would most nourish me. And what is more, I feel as though I might have spoken to their own sense of exile, just by airing mine.

And I finally became free for the first time in my life, to tell it like it is about my parenting. IT IS HARD! I THINK I MIGHT SUCK AT IT!

I realize, tenderly, that I've been forever existing in a state of exile around my parenting, feeling like I'd gotten this horrific job of taming lions, a job I couldn't quit. And shooting the lions if they attack? not an option. But the true lions were the judge and jury outside of me that threatened to eat me alive.

Because after all, I know how to judge. I was once without children, and I was merciless in my judgement of parents. I felt I knew the way, and felt pretty certain parents, including my own, were mostly a bunch of incompetent fools. I still judge parents while having my own kids, because there is something that pierces compassion when you hear a child in pain and suffering. Little shits and their power.

Now the funny part of this, is though I swore I'd never listen to the class which is recorded to see what my classmates had actually heard, I came upon it by accident when I let my mp3 stream continuously. I had fallen asleep with it one night and woke up just before I heard my daughter screaming on the recording. But the crazy thing is that it was no big deal. In fact, they only heard my daughter screaming, and I sounded remarkably calm.

So, there was the irrefutable evidence of the exile existing in my head. The fire burning around me that was never there--

but the power of walking through the flames was as clarifying for me as if they had been real.

So, now, I begin to look at all the other ways I am living in an illusion of exile, made real in my head, with the power to take me into the darkest deepest reaches of hell, where nobody could rescue me. Where even if I heard you crying out for me, I wouldn't hear you. Even if you screamed in my face for me to wake up, I couldn't see you.

All this time I thought my righteous indignation for this planet was about bringing you back home with me, but I am starting to see how it might just be a big fat I who has never seen that the door to my cage is open.

Oh, this feeling of exile is palpable, even as I write this. So dangerously looming as my final frontier. It has the power to bring me to my knees.

All I can let myself do is feel how real this is in my body. All I can do is let myself chalk up all the proof of it in my external circumstances. But I also cannot deny that there is something clarifying breaking through the fog, exposing the monsters as shadow, and the fire and brimstone as most curious works of art.

I think I will be terming this point of suffering--my self-imposed exile-- my God problem, because it just might be the last separating layer between us. That which has the power to blind me, to drop me into the depths of despair and darkest suffering, and no matter what form it takes, I am learning that it always boils down to the belief that I am severed from the whole, and that there is no way back.

And yet this God problem might also have the built in power to open my eyes.

The evidence mounting around this might just have the power to not only tip the balance in favor of blind faith, but to pull back the curtain and reveal the way home.

Toto, I don't think we're in Kansas anymore.

Off the Game Board: Life Unplugged

2011-10-17T01:20:00.000-07:00

Is it me, or does this big bad world seem to be busting wide open, and revealing a precious and strong beating heart--like we never needed to worry?

I used to think it was a curse that I was born deeply imprinted with the idea/obsession that life is short, fragile even, having been raised on the notion that nothing short of a miracle allowed my twin brother to survive being born so early. But now I'm realizing that cousin Death just may have been my most important relative. And that I can thank him for sticking by me, even when he was shunned mercilessly from every family get together, even though he crashed the party once or twice.

I finally get that all the time I've spent in my life thinking about how we were all just going to die in the end, and the rest of the time, suppressing this thought way down, so as not to really face it, that I was just building up the courage to finally turn around and greet Death-- just like my daughter is becoming ever so slowly able to walk down the Halloween aisle at the store.

Thank you death, for remaining unfailingly at my heels all of my life.

And thank my lucky stars that I finally had the courage to turn around, look him straight in those hollow eyes, and listen to what he has always been trying to tell me.

Thank you, Courage, from whence you came, I know not--that I could finally just suspend the fearful noise for a moment, always getting in the way of hearing anything with real clarity-- to listen to what Death was trying to catch up and tell me all this time.

I now see why he was so persistent.

Simple really. (The goodies always are, aren't they).

Thank you, Death, for telling about a new playing field.

And so it came to pass that, after her meeting with death, the game as she played it was over. As in no more guys to spend doing it all over again, getting eaten by the same swamp creeps. Game Over, as in white bunny ears stickin' out of your pockets empty, which means no more money to put in the machine.

Except it was only a literary rendez-vous with death, as in, she just got to die in the pages of an old, tired book, that nobody would ever pick up again. Death made sure of that when he took it with him.

And so it is that I began to grasp that I am not immortal, that I don't have all the time in the world to finally, tell the truth, to finally, value the heart of me and you, to finally, value the transformation I've witnessed of the shabby appearance of love, into the living, breathing, and very much alive version of it--and most shocking of all--the built in protective power of living authentically--oh, and to meet my brother in an ever clearer space of love--like I mean it--which luckily, in this space you always do!!!

Yes, so, apparently, a new game begins when you finally stop playing the old one--and damn, I look around, and there are some mighty fine players! Only in this game, there are no opposing teams doing any horn-lock dancing.

In this game we just get so amazingly clear, that we can't help but realize very early on how we are already winning, and how perfectly comical it is that we don't have to wait until the end of the game to win.

And it just feels so good. And we just live each moment so much better-like. We just hold one another so much tighter. We laugh so much more--are so much more amazed at all of it above and below the surface--and pretty much can't help but smile all the time.

And if we aren't smiling, we know that some big shit is underway, inviting us into the depths, so that we might bring up what is buried down there, just waiting be seen in a new light. Bring back the sparkle.

Oh, and the best part, is we get to show the sparkle to our friends, and they laugh with us at how that shiny thing was down there for so long, just waiting to be cleaned up and taken on the roadshow.

Pillow Talk

2011-10-07T12:52:00.000-07:00

Today I felt the familiar pangs of conversing with my body, it forever unyielding to my demands that it shape itself pretty now. That it chase itself back to its few glory days.

I tell my body that I would be ready to appreciate those days of yore now that I know what I missed while vying for the shapes and sizes of the other women around me.

Over and over my mind and I have run this particular proclamation to my body.

Then, we are good on our road, until the mind closes in and starts to overtake my strides.

You'll never make it there, you are too far gone, it taunts. It is too late. It isn't possible for you.

Then, so predictable--it attacks the most vulnerable part of me. The part I hide, keep covered, feel sure is my perfect disgrace: my belly.

The scale tipped in favor of shame today. Shame that I'd let the house of my being become so run down. That I'd let myself use food to comfort me, pick me up, enhance experience-- and that in the process I'd packed on the extra pounds.

From my journal:

My mind is closing in on me. Telling me my body is yucky--especially my belly. No man would or should love it. And even if anyone tried, there is no way I'd let them love it. I'd have to pretend it wasn't there, and so would he. I am tired of pretending. So many years of not wanting my belly touched, no matter what its size.

My mind is saying I can do whatever I can to the rest of me to be presentable, but the truth remains that I will always be undesirable underneath. I will always be a disappointment. And even if he can get past it, I won't.

After I'd finished writing this, I sat in silence, bowing my head half in disgrace, and half with a seedling of hope. Because with no help from me, bits of light have begun to penetrate even the darkest shadows of my experience. And although every part of me wants to run like hell, I am staying put when brushing up against these pockets of darkness. And the show that unfolds has been beyond my wildest dreams.

Today I wanted to dig deeper--stay with the scary parts, and let them help me to understand. I found myself sinking deep down into the heart, hearing all of the noise, but finding myself tuning it out, swimming deep into the ocean of my being, where I could no longer tell which way was up. And instead of panic, I just let myself float there, in darkness.

And what I noticed down there was that it was so quiet. Just floating. No agenda.

I noticed that I actually didn't want something divine or not, to swoop down with a cape and save me, until the next time I needed saving.

And with the ritual of rescue no longer desired, no longer craved, I was just suspended. I was done being afraid--with the entire cycle of it. I was done with all of it. If I got nothing from sitting there in the darkness, so be it. I didn't care. All I knew was that I could no longer be perturbed by this separation in my being. Let it be there, but I would give myself up to the monsters lurking down there-- take me, I'm ready, no more waiting for you to get me.

But as is happening more and more, the monsters revealed themselves as merely shadows. And instead of being caught, I was fed.

In the quiet, I was taken to those precarious early days as a three pound baby, with a twin on the verge of death--in a box, where all that was given me was a bottle.

The bottle was the key to survival.

It was reliable. It was the bread of life. Even if it left me forever hungry, it kept me alive.

Thank you for keeping me alive. Thank you for keeping me hungry.

And somewhere from the depths a message rose up for that man, (who I think is really me in disguise) who lives in my head.

All the safe parts are exposed to him, but not my core. The vulnerable parts are hidden. My breasts, and my belly cloaked. And just before I reveal them, I hear myself give him the lay of the land:

I welcome you to my temple.

It might look more to you like a haunted house.

Many ghosts circulate within, replaying their harrowing experiences, over and over. They seek protection for the flesh they no longer own.

Most of what you see won't hurt you--nothing a little housekeeping won't shine up again.

However, there is one door that you must enter with caution. You could lose your mind in there, and never be able to find your way back. And yet, should you choose to enter, we may finally taste the freedom we've always dreamed of.

You will find this door at my heart, but you cannot exit the same way you go in, and once you are in, it is a terrifying maze full of wrong turns and dead-ends.

If you are lucky, you will find the exit through my naval. But let me warn you, it is highly guarded, and should you decide to enter, there is no turning back. It might mean certain death for us both.

I'm not sure I understand. He says, with a curious look of wonderment. I can tell he is overly confidant, as most men. Seems I must spell out the danger.

You see, this is sacred ground--simultaneously a womb and a graveyard. It is a juxtaposition of the strangest kind. A place that houses and nourishes life, battling with that which shuts life out. All battlefields become sacred, as the casualties grow.

Don't be fooled by the shrines erected as war memorials here. They are hollow and empty. If you look closely, you'll find the plaques spew gibberish.

It is the ghosts that run things down here. And at every turn they will be after your life-force--to suck you dry, as they were unable to find their own.

What has happened here is ancient and terrible, and you won't be able to tell that it isn't happening all over again, such is the reality turned in and over on itself.

The first ghosts that will try and grab you are the ones that have waited lifetimes hungering for connection, for safety, for sustenance. Be careful of these ones. They resemble hungry children. It won't be easy to leave them behind.

Then you will be met by those who lived the good life, but were never satisfied, whose eyes have become hollow with pretense. They walk around proud and triumphant-- but you won't escape their terrible screams of anguish. They will seep into the core of you and attempt to seal themselves inside your vessel, and you will never be the same when their nightmares reside as you.

But the most terrifying will be the blind. For no matter what you say to ease their pain, they will never believe you. They will push you up and over precipices, and the last thing you see as you fall to your death will be eyes that never even saw you.

It will take strength and fortitude to journey into the depths with me. We might not make it.

The only hope you have, is if you walk this ground with reverence, honoring the past, the casualties--dressing the wounds, and tracing the scars with tender caress-- holding a steadfast purpose to love beyond appearance, for healing, and for redemption.

A strong connection with your own lifeline would be a plus.

And I should tell you that a secret will be revealed upon your exit--that is, if you make it.

Godspeed, beloved.

And if he is lucky enough to make it out safely, here is the secret: that this body that he thought was mine, that bore my name, with the demons that he thought he was fighting off single handedly, wasn't. That in truth, it bore all our names.

And the game was never as it seemed.

We were never alone. We were never in any danger. We were right there along side one another the whole time. The ghosts were never real, and the game was merely for us to remember a place in us that never knew fear.

And our love? Our love was merely the excuse we needed to finally take that leap of faith, that would mobilize us into making perhaps the greatest decision of our lives: that we would risk death to find one another.

That we could no longer remain separate from the Whole.

So, perhaps my belly isn't just a portal for new life to enter, but a portal to another world for me to travel through--a divine threshold to another kind of experiencing of life. Perhaps it might be pointing the way home-- and just maybe it is possible, as I look at the heart of my body in the mirror, I can hold the sensuousness of my breasts and tummy close to myself, and feel pillowed by softness, just as I would hold my child close to these parts, to calm and soothe. And only time will tell if my body will look differently in this light.
Worth a try though.

2011-10-06T13:13:00.000-07:00

Okay, I just finally got it, people. Taking the garbage out is all part of it.

Suckerpunch

2011-10-04T10:58:00.000-07:00

Breakout by Atari--god, you gotta love the internet!

Okay, folks. You asked for it. Well, no you didn't, but what the hey.

Tasting freedom and release, in this moment.

I think I might have just sucker punched this glass house with just the right amount of force to send the whole cage shattering down.

I could barely breathe before.

There was no more oxygen left.

It was a do or die moment.

On top of that I was holding my breath waiting for the other shoe to drop.

And somewhere between blind certainty that my world was falling apart, and the sense that I was losing my limbs, I fucking surrendered control! I admitted that I was lost. I had no idea how to run the show.

I am sorry for the strong language, well, not really, but I do realize there are those who have a sensitive palate. However, the f-word has amassed a lot of power in our third-dimensional mucking about, and it really is the only one apropos to the bad-ass energy I had to muster to fucking break out!

Just thinking about how my favorite Atari game was Breakout. There was this cute little ball that would bounce around hitting a horizontal wall of stripes across the screen, and at each hit, blocks of it would disappear. When enough of them were broken through, the ball would break through into the sky and bounce the hell out of itself, smashing all the remaining blocks. It was such a rush when all your hard work and concentration yielded the bouncy dance. There I sat, in the 80's, an innocent victim of a virtual world, entrenched deeply and obsessively in foreshadow.

I totally get why I loved that game. (I totally get why I love blogging too, because you can just put random shit out there, and talk about whatever floats your boat--seriously, who downloads Atari images? That is cool).

My breakthrough wasn't very pretty. I think Martha and Mothering magazine would totally fail me.

That's the breakthrough, I decided I don't give a shit.

I decided that I was done. DONE. DONE. DONE. trying to get anyone's approval.

Because the part of me trying to get it, would never let me actually have it--not even hold it in my hands for a millisecond!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

Note to self: Read that last sentence again, and again, and again.

So, here is my rebellion, beginning way too damn late!

My pledge to myself, today, this 4th day of October:

I will let the magic into my life.

I will bake cookies with my daughters instead of fretting over not having enough time for homework.

I will bake those cookies, even if I eat the entire batch.

I will no longer let the good stuff get edged out of my life, in the name of routine, keeping up with the Jones', the world ending, our bodies being ravaged with disease, ending up on the streets, fucking being a failure, or just plain being a bad person!

I will no longer harbor the fear in me that feels as though Nazis will be showing up any minute to take me away.

I will no longer keep quiet and demure. I will no longer bow my head in shame or fear. I will no longer make you do it too.

I WILL NEVER AGAIN BELIEVE THAT I MUST EARN LOVE.

I WILL NEVER AGAIN BELIEVE THAT THEY MUST EARN LOVE.

I WILL NEVER AGAIN BELIEVE THAT YOU MUST EARN LOVE.

And if heaven forbid, this cage begins to form around me again, I will not hesitate to take out my Kung Fu and TAKE. IT. DOWN. AGAIN.

This is my solemn vow. No more pretending I know what the hell I am doing. I DON'T KNOW! AT LEAST THAT MUCH IS CLEAR!!!

I will no longer care again about anything, but holding my babies close, holding myself close, and feeling the great big wide expanse as all of ours--no more cages.

Return

2011-10-02T11:39:00.000-07:00

Crack me ever wider open. Let enter your wisdom, your grace.

Let me surrender to each waking blow, that lifts me up and out of darkest dreams.

Let me tremble with each fall from grace, reenacted over and over, tempering me for the breath of life

that resuscitates

that brings me home, side by side, with my brother.

Nothing more to hide behind, nothing more to protect, no more hoarding emptiness.

Let my eyes be reborn, let my breath deepen with certainty.

Let me bask in your tender love, revealed itself, through my brother, as forever having filled the night sky,

just waiting to rush in,

to undam all hearts

to show us one another, as ourselves.

You've shown me that I can take it. So much braver than I ever realized.

We are all so much braver than I ever realized. We are all so much more loving than I ever realized.

So responsive, to the smallest gesture, caress-- the tiniest word, the most splendid recognition.

With all the love that rests behind it. We really are no match for it.

Let me let you in.

Hand in hand, with him as me, never to be forgotten--sealing something unnamed, as yet.

Let every barrier fall away, today, in this moment.

Let me no longer reconstruct the walls.

Let me rest open. Let the light be balm to my wounds.

Let warmth soothe my fear

keep my heart from slamming shut.

Let me rest as warmth for my brothers' heart.

Let the battle be over.

In the softness of this morning, come on kitten feet, let me rest in the knowing that the dark dreams were never real.

Let me remember how love always won out in the end--how I always knew it was inevitable that I would release my brother. Let me skip ahead to that moment, now and always.

Let me remember what is real, how it stopped me from running, ripped time in half, and brought me to my knees, and how my brother was down there just waiting to embrace.

Goodbye Love(s)

2011-09-27T13:07:00.000-07:00

Yesterday I found some old love letters. I began reading through them, digging through like a box of chocolate, for the delectable morsels--

sure enough, as with all lovelies, the pleasure transformed slowly, imperceptibly, until it was too late, into a deep ache in the gut.

These loves immortalized in words have long since become a thing of the past.

I wonder why I've held onto them all these years, and certainly for the past three years that I've been divorced.

Ah, the power of a love letter, to fill the sails of a ship and keep it steady, even with large gaping holes in the hull. Riding the dream.

And for the dreamer like me...

I see now, that in each case, it was best to let the ship go down, to put it out of its misery. To show myself how apt I was at swimming to shore, scouting new lands, exploring new possibilities.

Yet, I haven't been able to let these letters go. Almost as if burying them might invalidate that the love was ever there.

The letters stir powerful emotions. The poetry and pizzazz, perhaps proof in the moments they were tendered, that I was experiencing something that I didn't think I could live without.

All to create the perfect illusion of the love story. I could let a lot slide under that hallowed banner.

Appearance of a love story, would be more correct.

It got me thinking, how in all my relationships, we were living on a dream and the dream was fed by the 'trek west', by the struggle, by the attempt to live it fully, when we had no idea what we were doing. Hmm, that's odd. Kind of like my relationship with life.

I think underneath the surface, the dream was empty and cruel for all concerned. The Emperor without his clothes parading around, hoping no one would call his bluff.

Hmmm, this is not like my life now. Because relationships now have shifted, so that the underneath feels full and precious, and connected to something truly alive and breathing. So the appearance relationships were pointers to possibility. My soul must have been able to detect the difference. Knew it. Knew it was time to stop forcing, pretending, controlling. Knew it was time to let go, because the appearance of love would be nothing in comparison to the actual thing. Just a symbol of it.

I find this worth examining, mostly because of how emotionally affected I was by revisiting these letters, how parts of me rose up in pain, wondering how such love professed, with such poetry, could have had such short shelf-life in some cases, in some, a little bit longer. Yet, in the end...the end.

What I know is this. Our dreams together, were dreams to be honored and cherished, and that there was a newborn love there--only it was destined, like anything newborn, to grow up, to develop, and to mature into something that would be the sum of its experiences and heart.

What I am learning that is important to me at the moment, is that it was never about all those expectations being realized, in those fancy dreams. It was never about using another to deflect your shit. Even though we used one another this way. And yet it was something special--but ever just the beginning.

The words birthed from the deep, in our love letters to one another, were merely proof of our own souls wanting to birth inner landscapes, be it by earthquake, volcano, or flood--to curve and shape every last contour to blessing--and if we needed to use each other as stepping stones or security blankets for a while, it was what was right at the time.

I am learning, however, that you don't stop at the dream. The dream is small. This is just the spring board. It is just a pointer, a symbol.

We are heading toward what is beyond that. It entails actually letting in the love that is professed, and receiving it too. So that when the newborn light fades (which is inevitable for us romantics), another kind of light takes its place, rich with the uncovering of truth, and the momentum for release and rebirth.

It is about letting go to let in a love that wasn't previously on the platter. Opening a grand space, that would have been previously filled with booby traps and raging monsters ready to devour.

What wants to be expressed through the energy around this is an acceptance of all of it, how there is no regret. All of it has been necessary. The reaching, the holding, the grasping, and the eventual slipping through fingers--all of this wants to be mourned as a literal death. The endings that were never conceived of in the beginning. The deaths that remains in your being, because whatever they are now, they were once alive.

Then it wants to be laid to rest.

It isn't quite so easy to let it go, though, is it? Just spiral around and run into it(or from it) from time to time, if lucky, experience it in another frame of mind.

So, what do I do with these letters? All these letters.

I am torn between wanting to burn them and release them into the ether, and wanting to hold them close as proof that I was loved, even if it was mostly from those quiet moments, where men sat in the dark, with a pen and a dream, and that dream somehow contained me, and I was all of it and more-- until he actually woke up next to me.

What I want more than anything is to see the truth. I no longer want to use anyone or anything to deflect my image, and keep me from seeing myself.

Yet, one value system, so deeply conditioned within us, and so gigantic in all experience, (largely because it is so heavily responsive in our bodies), does not beget another.

What this post is really about, I guess--because actually, I'm not quite sure myself, is about the powerful vacuum that would be created by letting go of wanting something outside of ourselves, that monstrous space that truly keeps us tethered to the wanting, eternally.

And how the releasing of this, the gradual prying off of hands, through the grace of experience that shows us the way, creates an infinite space for a whole new way to emerge.

Is this why I found the letters? Is it possible that they symbolize more than just lost love, but a means of finding it?

So burn the letters, let go of the old, onto the new? Time will tell.

Why is it in this moment, I feel like there should be some kind of hauntingly beautiful earthly mentor or guide, with long silver hair, who knows all about this. She, who would take my willing hand, and lead me out into a meadow peppered with wild flowers glowing in the light of the moon. She, who would direct my gaze up, up, and up, into the night sky, and then help me light the flame. Speak some kind of incantation--meeting the death of poetry with more poetry--celebrating that in letting go, I am retrieving a part of my soul, back to me.

And after, in the light of day, I'd find myself softer, more open, certainly quieter--because somehow the darkness was fed what it was hungry for, and left me hungering no more.

New Post on Soul Carving

2011-09-23T12:10:00.001-07:00

For those of you who'd given up on Soul Carving, I invite you to view my latest post, which feels like a rich beginning for me. Thank you for sharing this journey with me.

Sending love...

The Bridge

2011-09-23T12:09:00.000-07:00

I now understand why my journey here was so focused into the five earthly senses.

I also understand why it began in Eden.

There was a part of me wanting to birth the spiritual from the physical, much like Eve was to have been fashioned from the rib of Adam. I wanted to integrate the physical with a less physical aspect, and was using them as a bridge to take me there.

What I have learned serves me well.

That just as no woman would have been content to be fashioned from the rib of Adam. No story of mine would be content to pin down two worlds for you in such a simplistic way.

But to describe them in language, now that becomes another matter. However, there is freedom in the telling, in each moment--of exactly how I see it happening now. And like you, I will have to wait to see what emerges here.

This is a world stranded between two dreams.

I am finding I am largely connected to both places.

However, in my beginnings here I chose to give more attention to one world, because I spend much of my time in the five senses there, which makes it familiar, and less vulnerable to share.

But sometimes the two worlds collide.

So, I've been doing a lot of walking here. Have you noticed? I must be in pretty good shape by now.

But it is pretty much because I haven't been able to do much else here yet. Closing my eyes, not wanting to see too much--not ready to see too much.

But fragments are coming together here. I am learning to see how both worlds fit together--one fully alive as experienced within a world of tangibility, and the other deep in a sea of sensation an imagination, where no perception can be trusted, because the same physical laws simply do not apply.

And then there is where both worlds superimpose themselves on one another, and nothing is as it seems. Still, it is all about where we focus our gaze, or is it blur our gaze.

Where the two worlds meet is at a bridge, and yet the bridge isn't solid and as simple as joining two locals suspended over a flowing body--although, it could be described this way.

In this place, all definition must fall away.

Rather than meet where one world describes the other, both must become fluid to a certain extent, to support the existence of both.

Both worlds are similar, in that they are subject to movement, to images that separate out, and can be described-- but what is yielded in description varies greatly between the two worlds. And what is interpreted by one may be completely inaccurate, and yet at the same time, there is no such thing as error in the other world. But somehow they are just parts of a whole, that is working just fine, no matter what we think--or think we are directing.

I haven't wanted to step into the more enigmatic parts of this yet, as it has been too difficult to trust that I won't get lost there-- and so I've been content to do a lot of walking. But it hasn't been in vain. I've been showing up and walking in the places where the portals to this other world can be most felt and accessed.

It is just now, however, that I see that entering a portal doesn't feel as physical as I'd imagined it would have to, so, I've slacked on telling the sides of the story where I've clearly entered new realms, waiting for more tangible evidence, something to pin down for you, so that this story might unfold for you in a more obvious way.

But, of course, that was the point all along, right? This avoidance would only serve me in opening my perceptions, in breaking down the physical properties that would keep me forever trying to see this new world through a keyhole.

So, let me begin today, in the world that I can't pin down.

It begins at the bridge, where both worlds meet...

I am in my bathroom, freshly bathed, and wrapped in a towel. There is nothing special about the day, and everything special about it.

When I meet myself on walkabout.

I find myself so overwhelmed with expansive love burning within, that I sink to the bathroom floor, sobbing. My hand over my heart, my head bowed. I feel myself open to a perspective bigger than myself.

In the darkness of closed lids, I have a strong image of me lying on my bed being observed by a purer essence of myself, warm and radiant, lighter in countenance, and contrasting with the heavier, denser form on the bed.

All the while I see this image in my mind's eye, I can feel the curve of my back pressing against the bathroom counter, my knees tucked into my chest.

The woman lying on the bed has her eyes closed and her brow furrowed. Her hands rest over her lower abdomen. She is deep in a form of prayer she is sure is cancelling itself out, as she asks for release and feels tinges of the impossibility of it.

The softer presence looks on her so lovingly, and with such warmth and compassion. She understands and hears her prayers, although does not share the judgement or fear about them. She feels only their beauty and sincerity. She recognizes the heaviness of entire lifetimes of seeking truth and understanding in the body before her. She feels the density of one who believes there is so much in the way of finding it. She recognizes the woman's fear that she is doing something wrong. But mostly she notices a gigantic opening in the energy field--this woman lying before her, touching into the void, as it truly dawns on her, it is impossible to do anything wrong.

In fact this is what has conjured this particular scene. The new--ready to release the old, creating a vacuum of monumental proportions, to draw in a new level of existence pregnant with possibility.

Crouched in the bathroom, this relationship becomes sealed in my cell memory. This deep exchange of love and release. The woman on the bed who wonders if anyone hears her, and the undeniable truth that she is being heard, that she has never been alone. That she is surrounded by a loving self, that watches her with tenderness. That there is great love for her. That there is great understanding and honoring of her every thought form. That the words of her prayers have little consequence. That what emanates from her heart into the heavens does all the speaking.

I feel as though if this woman watching her were to touch the woman lying before her on the bed, she would fill her with such dazzling light, such is the praying woman's readiness for release, and such is her need for healing, and such is the power of her onlooker.

But it is a goodbye energy that is the pervasive feeling.

And from the bathroom floor I hold my heart, releasing deep sobs, while taking in the scene, welcoming the convulsions, and yet, having no control of them. Not entirely sure what has control.

I find myself merged with the softer form, honoring and cherishing this woman on the bed, but knowing that it is indeed time to say goodbye. It is time to move into another way.

It is time.

The goodbye is said energetically-- a deep acknowledging of this woman lying on the bed, of all she has been, her fears, her loves, her joys, her sorrows, her perceived limitations, all her experience and where it has taken them--the rich journey that they've been given together as one and the same. This good-bye, couched with a readiness to welcome in another dispensation of experience, bringing the worlds together. A deep goodbye and honoring of all of the old, but no longer clinging to it.

She turns from watching the body on the bed.

An angelic hand reaches out for her, and they walk away from the body, letting it go, leaving what comes of it, to be turned over to heavenly gardeners, to use what is no longer needed as fertilizer for new growth and transformation.

On the bathroom floor, I begin to find my way back to myself. The sobbing calms, but a strong knowing that the bridge has been reached, but with no way to explain the hows of what has just happened.

When I get up and return to taking in the world with smells, touch, taste, hearing and seeing, with my earthly senses, there is the understanding that I will return to this bridge from time to time, and replay what has just happened, and that each time I will more and more strongly choose to exist further along a continuum toward the new. And that the old will become more and more assimilated into the ether, will become the ashes that harbor new life.

With New Eyes

2011-09-22T09:57:00.000-07:00

Artwork by Akassa

There are a few personalities that I know, that I have spent my life either resisting, judging, or in my best moments, trying to navigate safely, feeling like a fragile ship on the torrents of a raging sea.

So, in these relationships I have avoided, reacted and felt justified in my pain and anger, or tried like hell to become their equal in power, but with limited success.

However, recently it has finally dawned on me, how much energy I have spent trying to control the outcome with these personalities, to single handedly soften the energy into one that feels more comfortable to me. I have never felt anything but drained by this.

For a long while, the concepts of letting go and releasing have been growing within me, and like all concepts, have been deepening into the layers of my being, as more than just pretty tools to find peace.

But recently,the concept of release has taken on mind blowing properties. In moments I seem be getting out of the way enough to let the yearnings of my soul for inner peace take the reins, yearnings of my soul to surrender to trust take precedence--to take releasing to the deeper reaches of an emptiness and nothingness, a place of beginnings, where new is not born from the old, but rises up from its ashes.

I realize that in this new territory, the problem drops away--sometimes to the point where I can't remember what I am releasing. This was scary at first. I thought I was losing my marbles, when I would literally lose track of my problem. I'd quickly backtrack to find it, scurrying up the scaffolding of my mind until I zeroed in on it again. I noticed that when I found it again, I'd feel secure at the problem being there. Familiar.

But I also simultaneously became aware of a place where the problem no longer existed. To release a problem completely hadn't occurred to me. A problem becoming nothing. A mind becoming free from restraints. Just hadn't been on the list of possibility. What had felt possible was to wrangle with the problem for the rest of my life, and make it a more manageable size, little by little.

But to be free of the problem all together? Impossible.

Well, needless to say, this experience of no-problem-hood, even for split seconds has shaken my foundation. In a good way.

And the instability has felt good. Good enough to take with me into these interactions with personalities I find daunting.

And voila. I find myself in situations, instance after instance, letting go, stepping out of the trying. Surrendering to what is there. And having no idea how to do it, what to say, how to be.

No more navigating.

A new way.

Because it occurred to me that I was spinning my wheels trying to tame the waves of the ocean. And only because it was familiar to do so. Like I said, it never did anything but drain my power, and leave me weak.

So this new phase? I feel like Alice in Wonderland. Very curious what I will discover here.

Seems like it is as simple as walking without having to mentally intend to lift one foot in front of the other. Kind of automatic. And yet, there is movement, and yet there is no mental noise. No trying to navigate--just somehow trusting your feet will get you to the destination.

In other words, I'm not doing all the back-breaking work. Getting the mental stuff out of the way, is giving room to interactions that actually feel better with these people, but feel a little unfamiliar and unpredictable--yet better.

I can't explain it, but perhaps it is that dropping deeper into a place, where problems don't rule, opens up new ways to work together? To see one another?

Could it be that they weren't the problem? Could it be that there are no problems? Not even me? Whoa.

I love mystery. I love a life unfolding that tips me upside down into the land of the lost.

This is the place I desire to remain--watching the equivalent of chocolate rivers and gumdrop trees, marshmallow bunnies hopping, and stopping to wink. Everything is new, different, unbelievable. Nothing can be pinned down, and my eyes are wide open. I don't want to miss any of it. This is interesting.

Not Alone

2011-09-20T10:19:00.000-07:00

Every time I write a blog, I come up against fear that rises up from the deep. How will it be construed, what I've said? Will I be perceived as weak, perseverating on the same subjects over and over again? Can I trust the written word to make its true meaning clear? I mean, haven't you seen your words turned against you, when a benign email you've sent, comes across otherwise?

Am I just unable to surmount the obstacles, and come here to do a little dance around them, and in public, no less? Often I suppress that fear deep down to heed a voice telling me to do it anyway, but I am not spared from the sick feeling it gives me to step out of my comfort zone.

But my plight remains the same as it is always been--even if it is still uncomfortable at times. I want to be more of who I really am, so you will be more of who you really are, and so that together we will know more than just each other's stats. We will pierce through that bubble that keeps us separate, and we will find ourselves together, experiencing a life that feels real and meaningful to us, together. Where we are long past living life using escapes to avoid interaction, where we are curious about the essence of experiencing life together: how we fit together in this world, or how we are not fitting together, and the subsequent feeling of dis-ease at that.

I seem to have been born with this intention to connect, and as soon as I woke up to the possibility of it, I've been moving in that direction--probably driving a much straighter course than I realize, because there is a part of me that is unwavering in its commitment. There is also a part of me that is running like hell in the other direction, wanting to escape feeling too much, pain and vulnerability.

But I am not doing any of this alone.

There is a circle of women, (sorry guys, not many of you that I know--looking forward to inviting you out on the journey too:)) each of whom have varying degrees of contact with one another, but with whom I have become very close. I have heard their stories. I have followed their journeys closely, alongside my own. Some for a handful of years, others for only a few months.

Today I make deep bows to each of them, as loyal and loving friends, but mostly as women who are living life by powerfully facing what is coming up for them, and bravely opening to be instructed and opened by experience.

I have expressed to each of them how powerful they appear to me, how with their deep and abiding courage, they help me to hold the space for myself to live a very different way--how their bravery keeps me from retreating into my fear--how their bravery and pursuit of clarity and truth reflects my own, and keeps the process alive and feeling real--keeps me moving steadfastly into the new, and out of the old ways, where I often succumbed to fear and criticism.

I write about this, because I feel so deeply grateful for these strong women.

I deeply honor them in all of their unique ways, on journeys that are so specifically tailored to them. I love how they are committed to being themselves, wholly, and to living their lives by getting to know their hearts, without compromise, without trying to be something they are not. I love how rich the twists and turns are in their journeys, and how in the end, I see how they are each following guidance specific to them. It has helped me to let go and just watch their journeys unfold, without trying to steer. They have helped me to see that we are always in the perfect place for us in each moment, to heal our hearts, not just cover the wounds, and to connect with something deeper.

I know unconditional love and respect because of these women. I am able to visualize a new world, new relationships, largely because of the rich experience that they have given me. They have shown up when it has been difficult--when our egos have been raging. They have shown up when they'd have rather stayed home in their messes. They have chosen to be all heart and to commit to a more feminine way of letting things unfold, even when the world would have deemed them silly. I have seen them hurt, and releasing their hurt, when the world would have justified them resting in hatred and anger.

They have dared to be Selfish and put themselves first--leaving a legacy of peace and fulfillment for our children that will change the face of this earth, I am certain.

They have stood by me and seen the bigger picture, as I have tempered my own experience. They have seen higher meaning for experiences in my life--when the world might have judged my actions as wrong and selfish. They have held the space for my release, while showing deep compassion for my story.

They keep me strong. They honor the heart of me. They give me the strength to show up here on this blog, and sound out my own clarion call, even if it feels weak at times. They have supported my creative beginnings, and let some die peacefully, without blame. They have showed up to listen, to validate my words, and my heart, no matter what.

In other words, I am not doing this alone.

I realize more and more, as I let the love in, that I am increasingly loved and supported. I just have to look around and remember.

To these lovely woman, I am beautiful enough, my spirit is shiny and vibrant, and each decision that I make, is one to be celebrated like no other, just because it came from me.

We are creating a sparkling atmosphere together. We hold this space, whether we are together or not.

And what I want to say today, is that the more we create this way, the more lovely travelers join us--and there is so much room for countless more. I guess it is like the internet, the space here is just infinite.

I also want to say that the beloved has arrived in my life through these wonderful women. And I can't believe it.

Last thing--I want those of you who have no inkling of what I am talking about, you, that have never had relationships that sustain in this way, to know something. Until I was 30, I had never had any friendships that resembled these. Rather I often played the victim role. Where were those who could be a friend, like I dreamed of being a friend? I realize now that my victim-hood was in the way, and usually, so was the victim-hood of the one across from me.

It was extremely hard for me to show up with people, being so sensitive to energies and strong personalities, and to stick with the disparate moments. I actually have my ex-husband to thank, for forcing me to be more extroverted, as he was very social. He helped me to keep showing up even when I felt sick about it. One day the fear was so much less, when I realized the world didn't revolve around me and that others were often feeling the same raging fear, masking it with alcohol or big resumes.

But, there is something about divine timing, that when we are ready the perfect people show up to realize our heart's desires. For me it was these women, and friends from the past, who have allowed our relationship to change and grow into something different.

But, what opened up everything in these relationships, was learning to tell the truth, to relate on a level where there was no longer any pretending, or being sure about the world. And like an onion, and sometimes still like an onion, we are getting deeper into who we are. Sometimes the skins come back on, as it gets too vulnerable, but mostly, we are learning to trust deeply that we are truly loved. This helps us to love naturally.

We are no longer just filling up space in each others life, as components of the least discomfort. We are actually providing comfort.

From Up Here...

2011-09-16T09:31:00.000-07:00

I've been hiking around this place a little more lately. Trying to be like the music of J. S. Bach--full of perpetual motion, fluid emotion (just noticed the motion in e-motion. Very cool!) but never stopping in one place for long.

I've been hot and sweaty, but moving all the same. No seeking refuge indoors. Something is drawing me out, listening to the percussion of feet stepping through substance, deliciously tactile with jagged rock and dust.

I'm ready to write about it here--to use this place as it was meant to be used, as my blank canvas, but with no promises, just one foot in front of the other.

I've spoken of Mt. Heaven. Seems it is pretty famous here. When in doubt, one is reminded to look outside, and see that heaven does indeed exist on earth.

In my travels around this place, I've seen some mighty interesting sights.

A winding river, glistening in the sun, paving its own path. From the heights of Mt. Heaven, it looks like a snake coiling below, makes you pay attention--wait for its bite--heavy medicine, but necessary--especially at this time for me, when so much just wants to be experienced and then released, to make way for the new. I'd say I'm kind of becoming adept, but something always keeps me humble. At the least the commitment is the shedding of old, to birth the new.

The most enigmatic thing I've come across is some old farm equipment, with a tree growing up right through the center, right up into the gears.

Poetry to behold. Of all the places for a sapling to spring up, right in the middle of a machine, as if its curiosity got the best of it. Or is it nature and man, finally making peace with one another. Or is it nature sprouting itself in man's run for progress, covering up the blemishes. So many possibilities, but it doesn't matter much.

I can hear a rumbling underneath the earth as I walk. Refrains of so much fighting. Sometimes it sounds like two little girls--sisters.

Maybe they are trying to make their way as saplings up through the obsolete machinery. Maybe my trunk is stuck in my own, so that I can't quite reach out to them, to show them the way to the light.

Oh, well, might as well keep my sight focused down river, such gorgeous blue, such open sky. There is plenty of space for all of it.

Becoming Real

2011-09-15T15:19:00.000-07:00

Art by Coffinberry

Yesterday there was an empty yogurt container on the counter, next to a few dirty dishes. I passed by it, and had a panicked thought. You'd never find this at your mother's house. And the voice added, you are such a loser.

The voice was so strong, so conclusive, that it caught me off guard. I just froze there in the kitchen, looking on at the mess. I knew the dishwasher was half empty, and that I could have easily put those dishes in, and recycled the yogurt container, but I truly couldn't force myself to do it. Even if the counters weren't completely clear, this wasn't the time. I could feel it deep in my being, that it wasn't the time to force. Yet, I couldn't fully accept that I couldn't do it either.

I left to pick up my kids from school. I panicked that they would remember me as a slothful mother, and I felt all the broken around me. You know, that feeling that you are so far behind the game, that there is no bother even playing anymore.

These feelings are pervasive, in moments, in myself, in people that I love. They often fill up the in between moments, when the high's and the ah-ha's have died down.

Everyone I know is feeling lost and flailing on some level in moments, but unable to pull themselves up by their bootstraps and just get it together either. Because 'together' is fleeting, and we don't seem to be buying into the idea that it matters so much anymore. Something else seems to matter much more.

I like to think that this inability to move is stopping the madness, the endless pursuit toward a cruel ideal that somehow lives and breathes so powerfully in our world. I like to think, as I have said countless times, that we are paving a new way that will reveal its importance in time--a new wave of connectedness that breathes peace.

I am beginning to see this monster for what he is. He comes out to stomp on us from many places--from within, or from outside--often in the form of firm words from those well-meaning around us, who 'know' just what we should do. But perhaps it is precisely for these people, that we should be true to ourselves. For those who mask their own deep vulnerabilities--who rise up in anger (I am guilty of this!) because they can't handle our fragile state right now, our childlike gait, as we prepare to come out of our cocoon and spread our delicate wings--as we take a leap of faith, to find a new way to live, that doesn't resemble the old way, as we embrace our unique spirit and stop stretching it into shapes that won't hold.

I called my mom. I told her my thoughts, and she helped me to put things in perspective. Her love helped me to remember.

I remembered that I craved release, more than keeping up with my inner dictator. My heart's desire it to let everyone off the hook, including myself--to let the heart of us shine, even when surrounded by mess. I would rather that I teach my kids to let go of hating themselves if things aren't perfect, and to stop fueling the monster. I would rather my kids release me from being perfect, so that, we can drop into a place that really matters, where joy abounds, and judgement from an inflexible mind isn't part of the game.

I'm reading a little story by Kate DiCamillo to my kids, called The Miraculous Journey of Edward Tulane--about a toy china bunny who begins to find his heart after disaster strikes. He spends a year face down on the bottom of the ocean after being the casualty of two rowdy boys playing keep away on a ship, and then a half a year buried in a garbage heap at the dump, when he is maliciously thrown away. These experiences help him to understand the only thing that is important. Love.

I guess I feel like this little bunny, set on finding out what is really important, no matter what anyone else shouts as truth, even if things are a little messy at times. I want to find love in a messy kitchen, with messy fighting from my kids, with messy routines and messy rejection, with fear and energy zaps, within faithless anger and condemnation.

I want to become real like Edward and the velveteen bunny, who become clear about their priorities, who become more of who they really are, because they have no choice but to roll with what is thrown at them.

I realize that when I am scared and lost, I become much less able to exist in messes. In fact, I find myself avoiding what is real by suppressing what is important, covering it up by demands and routines, by judgement and black and white thinking-- by kidding myself that I will have control, dammit! Then I enlist others, like my kids, to help, and use them as excuses to be angry, as they resist my need for order. And with all the warring going on, I can be in denial, that the truth is I am just f*cking terrified.

I have had a strong image lately, of something that doesn't even exist in this world. It is you and I, just holding hands, sitting in the ether, feeling the buzz of something going on down below, that looks like a lot of running around. But there we are up above, just holding each other and breathing together through our contractions. We are joined together living the exact same experiences, even if they look different below: the energy of love and loss, of fear and failure, of confusion, of clarity, of preciousness.

And all I want to do is just sit there and feel you with me, and tell you how much I love you, for no reason at all, for nothing that you've done, or will ever do--and I want to thank you for being there with me, and for holding my hand. I want you to know that it wouldn't be the same without you.

I want to remember this image in those terrifying moments, and find myself relaxing into the truth. Then I want to feel thankful for these terrifying moments, and for the siren call just barely audible under the noise, of my soul, calling me home.

Love Letter

2011-09-06T20:31:00.000-07:00

If I were to write a love letter, it would be in E-Major.

The tones would be rich and deep and thorough, spanning the 88's entire double infinite.

Acoustic, of course.

The melody would tell a new story while bowing to the old. Music is so effective.

The bass tones would be as stable and rhythmic as foundation, while the harmonies remained haunting as memory. Over which would spread the sweetness of a cake-frosting soprano.

Ease of movement from left to right, a hop, a skip, a jump, a fall. Doesn't really matter, where she goes, as long as she goes.

All the emotions represented. All the relevance through the ages in musical figuration reaching out like tentacles, with the right parts to plug you in. Your own meaning fleeting as the moon's phases.

Simple notes added together to tell a story, held and then released. Held longer then released. Held longer than released.

The music never interrupted by a stubborn note. Even stubborn gets to be part of the mystery, creating suspension, just for interest--tension toward resolution.

Nothing finite. No dance can be pinned down, in the moment.

And the song is free to imitate the text. It only makes it stronger, more accessible. It can fully believe itself, and then putter in doubt for pages too, or both at the same time.

If I were to write a love letter, I'd allow one word after the other to burrow into past, present, future, as lightly, or as heavily as desired. Each word tasted and then forgiven.

Just for the sake of story upon story, and the capriciousness of it all. The organized mess.

Pointing toward a new dawn, but never promising to reach it.

Then I'd live it all over again, waiting for the familiar strains and the surprise, the returns and the deceptive cadence.

Then I'd end it abruptly, so that my next move would be anyone's guess.

And as for a signature, I'd leave it blank, so it could look lovingly on, as a mirror, with no playing favorites, and nothing hidden.

Traveling

2011-08-29T12:27:00.000-07:00

Today we are all spread out, my older daughter is in France with her dad, and my younger daughter is with me chez mes parents, en Utah.

It has been a welcome change of pace, to leave home, and feel the contrast in my being--how relaxed I can remain, how much I can let go in the moment, and how easy it all can be--even if I did get a little overwhelmed by the preparations--mostly, I see now, that much of the stress was anxiety resulting from thoughts about letting my daughter go so far away without me.

But once we were off--I'd swear the plane ride was a dream, it passed so quickly and easily.

It has been nice to throw my arms around my dad and give him a big kiss on the cheek, and to spend time with my mother in person, and repeat over and over to her, all the goodness, that she has already heard mille fois on the phone, but is always happy to hear again and again.

So far, lots of down time, a beautiful hike, healthy food, beautiful space. Feeling thankful.

Albion Basin Alta, Utah

Also, as a part of my kin is traveling in France, I feel myself revisiting those first magical moments at 19 when I first flew over that storybook land. I remember seeing my first cathedral. It was the cathédrale d'Auxerre. I remember being so overwhelmed by the beauty of such a place, and the possibility of such an edifice existing in this world. I remember spinning in the candlelight, tears streaming down my face, feeling time stop-- perhaps downloading all of the prayers ever uttered there. Her dad sent me this picture of my daughter lighting her candles in the same cathedral--one of her favorite things she loved to do when she was two and we lived in Paris. But now she looks so grown up.

I heard the prayers all over again, when I saw this picture.

Her footsteps and mine, forever woven together in that place, in our discovery of a world much bigger than the one to which we'd grown so accustomed.

I love that I could let go of my fear and let the truth rise within me, that she would be okay that far from me, that I could trust my knowing that it is time for my daughter to get to know the other half of her roots, to feel another soil under her feet, that it is time for me to let go and let her discover aspects of herself, some of which may have felt foreign, until she saw them reflected in her new surroundings.

It is beautiful to see her spirit grow boundless with joy and discovery, and for her to show herself what she is capable of, even if just the ability to overcome jet lag, or to have the bravery to keep walking forward, eyes clouded with goodbye tears, onto the plane.

Before she left, there were many moments that she was afraid she was going to miss me too much. I told her often that she was missing me more with me right there, in those weeks before she left, than she would in actuality.

And sure enough, the tears subsided instantly on the plane. I received a text, that she had settled into the adventure, and that she told her dad that she didn't miss me as much as she was afraid she would.

I love her clarity. I love that she is spreading her wings, and mostly, I love that I am standing back as much as I can, and letting her.

As for my other daughter, it has been fun for her to have her grandparents all to herself. Something about her is glowing with this.

I, who resisted change for so long, who felt so much fear at the idea of structures being rearranged or dissolved, who felt so anxious about moving, well, in any direction--to find myself feeling strong and brave, and filled with a knowing deep within my cells, that all is truly well, no matter what--that I can peek into problems, and see how they just might not be. That beyond our fear stands the greatest edifice of all-- lasting peace-- that this is accessed by change, and by the act of traveling out of our comfort zone--experiencing life without a safety net. That this is the place that begins to create a true feeling of safety. The leap of faith that creates faith! Expansion. Spreading our wings.

The openness that creates a sense of the permanence we've been in search of all this time, made of the fabric of all those resounding prayers living outside of time. And oh how soft and comforting the texture.

Long exhale. Life is good.

Blooming

2011-08-22T20:15:00.000-07:00

So, it is official. I am plugged into this world-- no longer floating away. I have proof.

My friend Julia is writing about her running legs of a 200 mile relay race, and I am feeling that it is time that I write about my own Mount Everest ascent. Not literally, although, I'm not ruling that out--yes, I am.

Anyway, this has to do with what has been facing me down in my home-space, specifically, in my yard.

At the beginning of the summer I looked outside my window after almost three years of looking out the same window, being overwhelmed and dismayed by the state of affairs, and knew it was time. Something in me felt ready to show up and listen to my heart for the steps to take, to follow a path resulting from intention set to create beauty and flow in my space.

I've been softened through this process and led in a very feminine and flexible way beyond my initial thoughts and ideas, to walk that fine line between following intuition and the logical mind, both together, which would weave a perfectly lovely, wiggly, curly cue, path toward relative ease and magic.

I've written a lot lately about how my plants have been teaching me so much. It has been hard not to see myself and my journey reflected through that of the plants. And, as always, I see how nothing is separate--how aspects of our lives, and the lives of those around us, repeat the same patterns throughout, just with different themes.

The sad state of affairs that my yard has been living in, was perhaps the best illustration of my life through divorce. Perhaps it was the clearest indication of how I had to focus on the vital organs of my life, to keep the heart pumping, so to speak--even at risk of losing the limbs. The yard would have to wait. There was a lot of inner work to do, before I could even begin to focus on it.

But it seemed this summer, with a strong beating heart, I was ready to get up and start walking around--hop and skip a little, at that.

So, I looked out the window, determined to make this a space one I could use with my girls, and friends, that wouldn't keep me cringing when piano students and their parents walked in my backyard to enter my studio.

Of course, nobody probably thought twice about judging me, but there is something about our environment that expresses who we are, and that is why we tend to it. So, having a pretty yard wasn't about wanting approval, but rather about wanting to share my beauty inside and out, to others and myself, and knowing that deep down, there was healing that would be symbolized in a garden resurrected. Something speaking about making things grow, about faith and participation. Praying while you walk, so to speak.

So, my first challenge was the lawn. My initial thought was to rip it all out, and then I won't have to contend with it. So, I put my lawn on Craigslist for free, thinking no one, in their right mind would ever go for it. Would you believe that I got a rather instant reply from someone wanting to come and dig it up the next day?!! Something about being so decisive and taking action that gets the wheels turning.

But by the end of the day, however, I had been steered in a more gentle direction. I was at a friend's house, talking to her husband (who is usually never home when I am there) about their yard. They have such a beautiful yard, and I found myself dreamily thinking about what it would feel like to come outside every day into such a haven. But the conversation took a different turn than I expected when I told him how beautiful it was. He proceeded to list twenty to fifty items in the yard that were gnawing at him, that needed to be done. I couldn't believe it. Was it possible that my yard would look beautiful to someone else, who wasn't subject to all the thoughts telling what needed to be done and dealt with?

That moment, something shifted for me. I saw that my imperfect yard would probably always feel imperfect, no matter what I did to it.

This softened me, and helped me to move into a gentler, more flexible state of mind. Maybe it wasn't about starting from scratch.

I felt myself turn the struggle over, along with the need to create from a place of fixing vs. a place of loving.

And thus began a different kind of journey.

It was no longer about fixing something because it was broken, to ease my pain, because I could see that it would always feel broken. No matter what I did, there would always be long lists, before I could enjoy it.

Nope, I didn't want to go down that road anymore.

This was about learning to see things very differently.

I cancelled the grass removal, and was met with much understanding by the Craigslist gentleman. So much so, that he ended up doing some work for me, as he was a handy man.

And this is what really began the transformation of my yard! This Craigslist man ended up being super talented and super affordable for his work, and he removed the biggest eye sore in my yard, which was a very ugly little deck, and turned it into a perfectly symmetrical set of stairs which opened up the space like you wouldn't believe! Here it is finished!

Everything flowed from this project, and the little rock garden that I got to plant, where the ugly deck used to be.

This was when I began to put paint on my pallet for the rest of it!

For the sake of keeping this shorter than a novel, what ensued was something like running a big race. It looked like digging deep into the hardest earth you've ever seen, sweating like I've never sweated before, spending hours without a break, working, working, working--spending full weekends moving, moving moving-- breaking the handle of a big wooden garden shovel in the process, trips to the local garden shop, a little imagination, a lot of trust, picking up that 16-pack of dusty rose petunias, that I almost thought would be too excessive financially, but which have become one of my favorite features!

It was about carrying heavy bags of soil, breaking up dirt clods until my hands ached, and watching things start to take shape.

What I remember most, however, is how I became like a machine, with no mind calling over my shoulder to criticize me, or scare me into quitting or doubting. There were moments I really tried to hear it, but it just wasn't there. It was like yoga, just moving in clear space, all by myself.

It was like the mind had truly gone to sleep, giving me freedom to create.

After the initial work, it was a lot about waiting and watching. I watched some plants die, and others flourish. I found out that one that died, I had over-watered and given it too rich of soil. This taught me a lot about balance, and how some plants are better left alone, and can be suffocated by your care.

I watched lots of flowers get eaten by slugs, but then I watched them bloom again, as the slugs got distracted by the parties going on in the beer swimming pools I set out.

Magical.

And here is some real magic for you! Recently, we looked out the window, and I saw a tree smiling. I smiled back and my girls ran outside to greet the little man.

Can you see him smiling?

I've written in recent posts that my girls and I glued a lot of sparkly glass to stepping stones and that I gave some tables a second chance at life by creating a colorful mosaics top. Infusing a creative spirit outside!

by my daughter Madeleine.

by my daughter Caitlyn

By me, three roses--
reminding me of one woman and two precious little girls, who made a Home with a capital H together.

my funky table!

It has been so much fun to see my yard transform before my eyes.

My girls are as excited about the veggies as if we were growing real human babies out there!

The roses I've written about a lot on this blog lately, are leafy green and in bloom--no longer the twisted twigs with only a stray bloom here and there.

So perhaps I am finally feeling planted in my life, and blooming! My environment is reflecting this. It is good to keep reminding myself of this.

I've christened an outdoor table and chairs and sun umbrella with some dear friends, and with my sweet daughters, who have sat out with me, telling me that it feels like a new house.

The inside of our house feels different too, now that the outside is sending in love. Mostly I don't feel so caged in, or that need to escape my house to breathe.

In case you were wondering, there have been no rats to speak of since my Rat Tango post. Yipee!

So, perhaps, I've reclaimed my territory, my power, and my connection to my environment, in addition to my connection with my heart--coming back to life, grounding myself, finding enthusiasm for life. I am excited for what is next, knowing I'll do it the same way I did my yard, balancing the spiritual and the practical, by turning it over, and listening and trusting.

My heart is full of gratitude for the journey, and for divine timing and trust, and for the part of me that knew to be patient and not force things before it was time-- to believe that in due time the heart would beat strong and clear with self-love, and the body getting up and around, would follow.

I am also deeply thankful to be able to share this journey with you.

Tonight, my daughters and I will chill in the hammock and read the last couple chapters of Far Away Tree, by flashlight, and I have a feeling that this little man in the tree, smiling at us, and all the little fairies attracted by our sparkles will be there listening. And when we are done, we will turn off the light and we will have a perfect view of the stars.

The Beloved Within

2011-08-16T16:50:00.000-07:00

Photo Credit

All this time, I couldn't help but think that the voice I was looking for-- loving, compassionate, understanding, encouraging and deeply gentle, would be found outside of me.

Imagine my surprise when this voice turned on inside of me.

Perhaps it has always been there, but I've just now begun to allow it in.

When I find myself taking refuge from a battle zone-- if I've lost my cool in the end, fought and maimed and joined in the warring, I hear it telling me, it is okay. All is well. You are Love, as if it truly knows me better than I. I feel myself responding by dropping a thousand pounds of fear and heartache, as if I've just seen my divinity.

I let go of dragging the pain into the next moment--really let go.

When I find myself feeling a little lost, unable to move for the moment, because my head is spinning with noise, I hear the most darling of questions, oh, dear one, what deep thoughts are stirring within your beautiful depths?

I answer, oh, you know, saving the world, seeing through the eyes of love in each and every moment, make that nanosecond-- looking out for the mind and its snares, staying one step ahead of anger and blame. Hoping I'm doing it well enough. Hoping I'm healing more than I'm destroying. Wondering if I am missing something--two steps ahead or behind-- wondering if I'll ever find the end of the rainbow. Hoping today will be the day-- when all will be clear.

Then I hear such gorgeous ripples of laughter, this presence, finding my plight for salvation so sweet, so honorable, so precious, and after a silence filled with gratitude for the heart of me, I hear, but dearest one, remember, it is already here, All of it.

And for a moment I feel it. I remember it. I surrender to it.

When I look in the mirror, and begin searching for my youth that still plays dimly on my face--keeping me in a frenzy to hold onto the light as it slips through my fingers, the response is intimate.

I feel it as arms around me, hugging me into the heart of myself, reminding me to close my eyes, to feel who and what I am, and how she cannot be measured. It speaks of a pathway from my heart that has never been obstructed from love, that has never been subject to conditions. Look, it says, your eyes are no longer clenched! It celebrates with me, that I have chosen to lift my eyes and look out upon this path, to let myself be led down it. I notice with joy that it is a two-way street.

But, the most sacred moments have been when looking outside of myself, at those around me, and hearing whispers of a surrender so deep, as to truly resurrect the world--to restore to its rightful place a love of the truest kind. Where eyes meet and hearts understand, where what is heard in each moment, is the beloved within, merging with the one external.

Holding

2011-08-08T16:51:00.000-07:00

Photo credit J. Scott Bovitz

In the center of human life are those who hold it together. They make home what it is. They listen to "leaders", receive, decide whatever a country is, whatever a profession, a town--they establish that.

--William Stafford

I told my daughters that this has been the best summer of my entire life. My older daughter told me why that was. She said, "is it because you can let go more?"

I said, "yes."

The heaviness that weighed on me all my life is gone a lot of the time. This summer marks this lightness here to stay more consistantly. Sometimes I wait for the harsh voices to come back and haunt me with their wild refrains, that I am not enough, but often it remains silent.

I hear the sounds of my life instead. Digging deep into soil, learning from the plants about optimism, resilience and balance. I hear the sound of my fingers tickling ivory keys, communing with souls gone by in a language that doesn't bother with semantics. I hear dishes and clothes being washed, and food being prepared, while a strong heart beats.

I like to think I am becoming one of those who hold it together, instead of tear it apart--unlocking access to a saner individual, who isn't just going through the motions of daily life, while dragged behind a horse, but who has found home within, and can therefore see how to make one externally--or, at the least, point to it.

In those moments when the noise in or around me becomes so overwhelming that I fuse with it, I honor that my pain is trying to tell me something. It always does.

Usually, it wants to lead me to greater release, greater ease. It wants to show me how deeply I value unconditional love above all, how much I desire to release my fellow man and myself from my terrorizing, and how much I already have.

There is a lot less thrashing and a lot more embracing.

I can see how living can be beautiful, on the other side-- how what is in place for us can work, and how we can work with it.

What I am understanding is to be one to hold it together, is to be one that has gathered her experiences back around her, no longer running from them--with no more war to fight. And with all that space, a simple beingness can't help but burst into bloom.

Connecting the dots

2011-08-05T23:18:00.000-07:00

Feeling like returning here, to splash on the canvas.

Feeling curious about the creative process--how it can be so full of energy and the next moment it can be gone.

One of the things that blocks my writing so much is the fact that in the end, nothing really seems to matter, not the stories, not the big ideas. The music ends, the sun sets.

So, the creations feel so fleeting. They have their moment, and the moment is over.

The part of me that gets this, doesn't feel much like adding to the millions of creations, just for a small moment in the sun. I want to get to the heart of what is really important, not spend precious moments of this short life in an effort to entertain, even if just myself.

I have high expectations for art. I want it to change people in an instant. I want it to open up the closed parts. I want it to free us-- to create oneness--to help us remember.

Am I focused on fixing what is broken, or is there a higher vision at work here?

Yet, the nature of the world is fleeting. So, to plug in would be to accept this ephemeral nature. To find this nature meaningful may connect us to what is greater. I get that too.

What am I missing here?

Bottom line, I've never been able to do anything that hasn't had greater meaning in my perception. Greater pursuit for a love that knows no bounds--the possibility of lifting us into another dimension of being, because we are changed by experiencing what we couldn't fathom before.

Perhaps it is creating that opens up channels within ourselves, to grow our experience, to carve a path for experiencing something greater. This notion would make creating meaningful.

So, can I just embrace that my brand of creating, is unable to be disconnected from a bigger process of the soul underway?

Yes, I've hinted at it here. Ready to listen, see, feel, smell, touch--commune through the senses, with something there under the surface. To understand something that is being lived, but isn't directly visible.

I've kept this place secluded, afraid of being labeled crazy for visiting this place, even though I know that we all know this place to some degree.

But this place gains territory in my inner landscape--time for it to join the rest of me.

I read Jung, and sometimes he makes me think that it is okay to feel that there is something more.

I sit down to create and messages come through my writing that whisper of a completely different kind of reality than the one I've been able to conceive of through my limited scope of understanding.

Yet, I resist these whispers, for fear that I am merely running away with my imagination.

Then I read in a book that jumps off the shelf at me, that says quite magcially, beingness thrives in the imagination, that imagination dances with the soul.

I read that without metaphor, culture is meaningless. I read that life is diminished without metaphor.

And somehow I know that this journey here, at Soul Carving, has been about stopping and starting, musing, wondering, letting go, and coming back. Because it is through this beloved creating that the art begins to find its medium, its form, its story.

My experience and my creations could never be disconnected, because art without life swimming underneath it, has no meaning, has no reception. This is my soul's whisper (more of a shout these days).

Just as life without art, and the rich metaphor art brings, doesn't complete the picture.

So, that must be why I am so determined to bleed myself into my creations. I just don't have the choice anymore, to abide in separate worlds.

Changing the Song

2011-08-05T22:37:00.000-07:00

His words are sharp, jagged, tearing even, by a dull-witted knife, repeatedly moved against the skin, but without much hope for a clean cut. So many years of wounds reopened, threaten deadly infection. I've always wondered if gangrene was green in color.

You'd think the skin had grown tougher after all this time, but it might be that it is slightly more tender.

I take this to be a good thing. No matter the wounds, I prefer tender.

I prefer to challenge the idea that such hurtful words, if spoken, must be true. I prefer to see what deep pain and fear has birthed them.

I prefer to rub my skin with the balm of those who recognize that every war has two losers.

I yearn to find it in my being, that stopping place, where war is spit out, and laughter bubbles up.

I absorb his words like pollution, hoping some deadly cancer is not being colonized in my body, but without enough consequence to keep me from taking a deep, cleansing breath even with heavy traffic. I let the sirens change key as they pass by, without hailing them to save me. I let the smoke he blows rise up into the air, as counterpart to this Parisian café, as the cross-hatched imprints across my backside.

I let his words be what they are.

I make room for them in my story, not as something I marched against for long--having long abandoned the fight--but as something that reminded how sensitive the skin, how powerful the words, the voice, to vibrate in the body, long after they are no longer audible, like a violin whose skin still echos with dark music, long after sound has faded.

I no longer need protect my skin, to cover it, or shield it from discordant tones.

Rather, I let the music play itself out, and fill me with sensation. I let it wash over me, and through me. I welcome the waves.

I let peacock feathers stand erect, in all their splendor, and gasp at hidden beauty.

I inject a spaciousness from deep within my being, dipped from an eternal spring of precious love of self, no longer requiring regular stoking.

I sway with the dance as soothing aria swirls about the discordant tones with tender, knowing caress, so as not to spook, until the cacophony falls into mesmerized step, and they merge in sacred harmony.

Such strange music results, gently tucking itself back into my center, leaving me its refrains, and new echos that speak of remembering.

I weave this melody around and through, a braid of song for him, for myself, and for those upon whom I've unleashed my own torrents of fear, my own unassuageable grief, disguised as blame and anger.

I rest in song that makes room for all of it. I rest in song as it all falls away.

Reverence

2011-08-03T17:38:00.000-07:00

Notes to self:

Nothing on the surface matters. Don't let it fool you.

It is all happening underneath, and down there, it is one big party.

Down there, a dance is going on. Nobody sits this one out.

Every move, integral.

Here we are dancing together, and we don't even know it.

Judgement drops away. No mistakes. Always in the right place.

No harsh forces conspiring against us. Everything manifest for our ultimate release.

Living for the first time.

Nothing is exempt. The points of our lives make a circular sweep, and spiral down into deeper understanding. We make our rounds again, hitting the same points, but our perspective is different. Our experience changes, burns through, becomes clearer, and clearer, deepens into the body.

Releasing the old, welcoming the new.

Fear becomes a memory. New poses, standing tall and strong.

Ease of movement.

Ease of union.

Cliches become understood down there. Clues that have been there all along, hidden in the fabric of the ordinary, but scarcely grasped before.

Joyful bubbling up of laughter to the surface.

Everything, a first.

So, it feels as though we are all just deep in the process of bringing something vital back to life.

A love so clear.

It asks nothing. It gives everything. It receives all of it.

Total acceptance of what is.

Nothing is special, because everything is special.

Finding the Heart of the Matter

2011-07-31T08:19:00.000-07:00

Photo by Lyn

It is early morning. I am enjoying the cool crisp air and the quiet just before my daughters get up. I've been getting up early these days, and going to bed late too. There is a new fuel that appears to be running the engine much more efficiently, so less sleep has been okay. All I can think is that I have cleaned up a lot of the power leaks.

One of my biggest power leaks that I am in the process of repairing centers around my creating.

It is no secret that I've struggled with my mind towering over me when it comes to my creating, and often my mind has won. But I am finding pockets of light that begin to show the way.

A meeting with a sweet friend the other night, helped to show me just how far I have come, and how many forces have amassed already to help this integral part of my being to feel more flow.

I've realized that my struggle with creating comes when I try to sector it off into a suffocated little place, compartmentalize it far away from who I am.

The problems come when I hold my creating outside of myself, and find it irrelevant to the bigger picture, and to the parts of me that have begun to flow with more ease. I often can't see that I am holding it away, however, until I am open to healing the rift.

Another sweet friend I have is very proficient at writing and speaking about writing, and has helped to show me parts of myself more clearly. She can look deep into your process and find what ails you. She can help you understand where you are blocking yourself, and expose it for the fraudulent mind-troll it is. She would make a wonderful writing coach, and when she speaks in this way, I find myself in awe. I also find myself a little at a loss, wondering how I couldn't have seen it, wondering how I've still hidden much from myself to be discovered.

But maybe these hidden parts of us are there, just for that reason, to enlist the aid of others, to force us to face a certain truth, that we can die alone, or we can flourish by connecting with the heart of others. (Maybe this is when listening and letting another person in feels natural, when it is part of completing a puzzle of universal proportions).

Maybe we aren't supposed to find it all on our own. Maybe that is the point, to let the parts of us needing healing hurt us until we are finally ready to surrender, to draw to ourselves that which our little minds would have never let in, for fear we might look silly or pathetic, in admitting our weakness.

I know that my biggest lesson has been that I can't do this on my own. I know that my walls have been a fortress around my heart, for fear of exposing my perceived inadequacies (even to myself).

Letting the walls come down has been the only way that any change has had staying power. It has led to some of my bravest moves, and shown me my greatest abilities. How completely baffling.

This same friend I speak of above sits in awe when I speak with deep passion and fervor about what feels second nature to me, about my journey of clearing away all that stands in the way of love being the only thing that is real, of dropping into a deep trust that living a life where everything else is let go, leaves love shining and bringing sweet surprises around every corner. The sweetness just bursts through as she begins to feel the warmth of a sunrise creeping up over the mountain through our exchange. It is for me and for her, either way.

And more and more, our gifts feel like one, as if they are finding their place together, and working for the greatest healing.

I am learning that it is by being open to these collaborative processes that we not only share our greatest gifts and become clearer about what they are, but also, little by little, become freer to share all of ourselves, and feel all of ourselves received.

Perhaps we really aren't meant to do this on our own. Really. Amazing. Like every concept that began as an idea, this one just keeps deepening within me, becoming more of a force than a passing fancy.

And I cherish this open space that I have cultivated, where I can let the stories that would threaten me wind down to a silly whirl, and really listen and inhabit what is being given to me in each moment, and find myself changed. I, in turn, can give in the most effortless of ways, sharing the heart of me, changing the heart of another.

Maybe this is simply what love is.

Maybe there are certain things that we need others to give us, not in a needy kind of way, but in a letting in love beyond measure kind of way.

Maybe this is why we seek relationships and why our relationships seek clarity and release.

I am convinced that deep underneath the surface a river flows, and is never, nor will ever be, hindered by obstacles in its path. Its power to move and shape the path ahead is omnipotent.

I am understanding more and more that what is going on above the surface, in the form of mental noise, clearing, and connection, matters very little at how it is played out, because that river deep within cannot be obstructed. It doesn't bow and bend to our little whims. It doesn't stall at our stories.

But up above, it is nice to feel as though the obstacles are being shifted around, and even in some cases, being removed, and to see how they have all been perfectly suited for my unique journey, as I continue to show up and let go of trying to control the process.

This past year has been very humbling for me--and yet I see how the darkness has helped to open my eyes, to see what beauty exists. My sight changes as I find out truly what really matters. My faith has been tested, but rightly so, as the conviction I am embodying is less and less vulnerable. As I learn that the heart of us is strong, the melody that each of us carry has the power to change the fabric of existence, and to unearth a sacred heart within us that would truly heal the deep chasm of separation that is played out over and over in our world.

I can find no path more worthy of following, than of seeing and being seen, loving and being loved, standing together strong and clear, holding one another in joy and release, as each new day dawns.

Something the friend told me the other night, helped to free up my writing a bit. She said that writing is not work, it is a meditation, quoting probably many others, but specifically, in this case, Amy Tan.

Today, I am feeling that it is much bigger than my writing. It is life that is the meditation, and perhaps this may be the most healing realization of all for me, to begin repairing the rift, I have the opportunity to make every moment sacred by integrating all of my experience, even my creating with words, as part of a bigger all-encompassing mediation, and let go of the habit of cordoning off parts of me into an untouchable place.

Don't think about it, just do it!

2011-07-27T17:02:00.000-07:00

Photo Credit Scenic Reflections

I am here writing without giving myself a chance to think about it.

A slogan that has been working for my good friend Julia has been showing up constantly in my mind like a flashy neon sign: Don't think about it, just do it.

How is it that Nike knows? How is it that Just do it is printed everywhere, and has had as little effect on me as the Got Milk slogan. It doesn't make me buy milk.

Why have I always had to take the long route--I could argue that it has been the scenic route, but c'mon, poet or not, I need to function on this planet.

Oh, how many endless minutes have I spent in that place just before moving, feeling stuck--overwhelmed by a sensitive nature that jams the engine, an eternal winter icing the gears--overload of information pouring in, needing to be parsed and dissected from every damn angle, all possible scenarios to be scoured, all possible thoughts of anyone and everyone to be considered, filtered through guilt-charged conditioning and mind-mess--only to arrive in a barren land called INDECISION.

I am warming to the flame, realizing how cold it has been. Clarity. It has a little kick-ass flavor that is undeniably new and spicy.

Lately I have been extra energized with life. Pulling weeds, digging into rock-hard clay to transform my garden into a place where I actually want to spend time. I've been enthusiastic about kids and their activities, their growth, their upkeep. I've been showing up with friends, in situations that I'd have avoided favoring a reclusive nature, feeling ready to engage and exchange. I've let fear visit like a missionary, greeting it kindly, without remorse when the door is shut and the footsteps recede.

Again, I don't recognize myself.

Mostly what has been so great is that I have been doing, without thinking about it.

The big SO WHAT, just may be the best thing that has ever happened to me. It has always been hard for me not to get caught up in the stories, riding their highs, and finally letting them drag me down, way down.

So the SO WHAT just cuts through all of that mental noise. The secret to some kind of mental homeostasis.

So, I've been watching my kids and their resistance to little things like chores, homework, practicing an instrument, and I see myself very clearly in them. Scary!

My kids have been good at hooking me into their resistance to soften what I expect of them. They've been so good, that I see that I have my work cut out for me, as I finally get up to bat.

They tell me that they hate chores.
They tell me that everything is toooooo hard.
They tell me that they aren't any good at anything!! Anything!!!

In the past their tears have kept me wanting to swoop in and help them to see the amazing little beings they are, to be gentle on themselves, to understand that they are just at the beginning of the journey.

My soothing has had no effect. PERIOD. In fact usually they just spew back hate. And I realize that it is because I have been pandering and giving space to a part of them that really deserves very little attention.

At the risk of sounding insensitive, I am convinced that giving this part of them coddles is only making their monsters bigger.

Enter the big SO WHAT.

The key to all of us functioning despite our minds, (who, I am convinced, served as THE defunct model for politics. In fact without the mind, I don't believe politics would be possible--oh and not to mention the justice system) is giving space for the good stuff to grow. I realize I've been letting my inner garden run rampant with life-sucking weeds, for fear of harming the weeds! Why would I want to do the same for the inner-gardens of my children?

I finally get that it isn't helpful for me to soften my requirements, pandering to my very apt-to- resist children's minds. They want a war and that is what they get. The goal is to hook me in and get me to fight and bring me to my knees in submission.

My goal is to recognize that they are hooking me in and then let go. Then state clearly the game plan, for the sane parts of their minds to hear. What I notice is that in letting go and hooking in less, the game plan is heard by them as the sane part of them perks up and listens to the sane part of me.

And it just happens that this ah-ha coincides with being much more aware of the bodily sensations that act as a very important gauge to tell me how things are going. And what a very bad feeling I have when I do cave to my children's broken record resistance. What a very good feeling I have when I push through their resistance and my own, and come out the other side.

So, things are changing. When I push them a little to begin their tasks, they meet me with a fresh feeling of completion and pride on the other side. Wow, this feels good.

Coddling feels tired and painful, and mostly stagnant and depleting.

I don't think I could ever be a tiger mom, but it is different now that I realize that I have been transferring my own resistance and inability to move to my kids.

Why has it taken me so long to understand this?

Probably because I've always hooked in with my mind.

Of course, we know that this really has nothing to do with my children. It has everything to do with what is showing up to help me to be free.

Everything I say to my kids to help inspire them to move, is loud and clear--yes, I hear it!-- for me. I am thankful, because I've needed to hear it. I've needed to say it.

It feels so good just to get up and get moving without being under a dark cloud. The day unfolds so differently. There is a feeling of flow.

Oh, and this has been so helpful for those critical minds around me who like to back-seat drive my life. Getting a lot easier to tell them to get out and hitchhike.

This changes what it feels like to be in this world. No matter what I am doing, who I am talking to, running into, at odds with--I can interject a big SO WHAT! And nothing matters. There is only love left, and movement. No useless wavering, humpty-dumpty-teetering, precariously perched thought forms-- no gory messes to clean up when it all falls apart. No more freakin' egg shells to contend with!

Clear.

Oh so what can bring so much!

And I can't very well tell my kids to move it and shake it, to lose their minds, and not do that myself.

If I have learned one thing as a parent, it is this. Kids learn by watching what you do and who you are. They don't give a shit what you say.

Good for them. Gives us less space for our own weeds to take over.

Planted

2011-07-22T14:51:00.000-07:00

Photo by J. G.

I don't quite know how to write about what is happening in my life. I have such a sense that the being that is hopping out of bed, doing daily tasks, completing projects, feeling enthusiastic about my kids, isn't me--or at least familiar to the me of the last 36 years.

I don't know how I am doing it all, and mostly I can't understand how engaged and joyful I feel in everything--how close my heart feels to the surface--but how balanced it feels. Not extreme blissed-out highs, but not god-awful lows either. Somewhere in the middle.

I notice that this place on the continuum is where I want to return, and more and more I do. I seem to be hoovering around a mid-point. It feels quiet and stable and clear. It asks nothing and wants nothing, but does not impede doing, intuiting or feeling immense joy and appreciation--perhaps the best way to describe it is that it isn't so fleeting or so much like a roller coaster.

Something very heavy I've been carrying all my life has been put down, although I can't quite pinpoint how or why or when it went away. Gradually, perhaps.

I have the sense that my soul has its very own special recipe it has been following--throw in a dash of this and that, a little more contrast, a little less, here's a breather, here's where you make a run for it--stirr it all around, and then cook it. Time to take it out and see what we've made.

I realize that I've never really lived.

I realize that my entire life I have been weighed down by a dark cloud of depression, fear, hopelessness, and despair. But because it was my normal, I am just realizing to what extent was the intensity I lived under.

And somehow, it isn't there now--and I'm not on medication.

I've felt tentative about writing about this, because I've had many a breakthrough only to find myself back in the darkness.

But it has been a few months now that something feels different. A trust is setting in that there is no going back to the darkness, at least in the same way. There is also no going back to the light either, at least in the same way.

Nope, it is centered around some kind of mid-point.

My mind has a hard time making sense of the fact that my body chemistry seems to be inexplicably altered. I think my mind thought that the concept of 'mind over matter' was a nice idea, and the fact that all this work might actually have made a dent--pushed me through to the other side--well, it can't quite grasp it. I don't think the mind was really ever open to sanity as a real possibility.

How it began:

It was like my suffering brought me to the brink.

I would say that I reached a point where I sincerely released aspects of self-importance in this world. Got to a place where I understood that it really didn't matter if I lived or died. Everyone would be okay if I was gone.

I would be okay if I was gone.

Although I never truly contemplated suicide beyond thought, I didn't find the thought as alarming as I once had. I didn't find the thought of suicide to be as great of an escape route as had been made popular either.

And I think for weeks, I powered down, having completely lost any excitement for living, but also having lost any hatred for it. I lost my victim role in that. I powered down not in a pathetic save me kind of way--but in a neutral way, where I understood that none of it mattered. Whether I lived or died, truly didn't matter.

It didn't feel selfish or shocking to me, that a mother of two girls could feel this way, because it didn't shock me that I could see my girls as okay without me. It felt true. I saw their insignificance too. I also saw their power. But it had nothing to do with the kind of power I had once thought saved the day. And neither the power or insignificance scared me or kept me clinging to it.

I believe parts of me have been dying all along. But maybe this time, I truly let something die.

Maybe what died was all that heaviness and pain, the mind frame that supported disillusionment and fear, made the world into a monster that showed no real promise for peace.

Maybe what died too was its happy cousin, that exalted life to the sacred, that cherished earthly existence as the land where the soul could spin a thousand dreams, could touch, feel and hold enlightenment, belonging, and oneness, in the bottom of a fleshy palm.

Maybe they both needed to die.

Because now, something is different. The world looks the same, but different. It's all not such a big deal, which equals ease of participation.

And in participating, there is quiet. There is seeing without having to squint through thick veils of stories, fears, limitations-- or on the flip side, extreme highs, synchronicities and rampant possibilities, to see what is really there. It is like all that stuff is getting filtered by a big fat, SO WHAT!

And yet, the world is opening up. My garden is blooming for me. My children are blooming for me. Others are blooming for me. I am blooming for me. But still within a mid-point, that only exists right now.

The rest seems to be falling under the heading Yeah, Big Deal. Doesn't matter.

And for the first time, there are actual moments when I forget I was ever searching for anything at all.

In moments, I got lost in what I am doing, and realize that the commentary in my mind is not running away with me.

In moments--I am free. I am alive. I am here, right now. And so what! And SO what.

Rat Tango

2011-07-13T23:49:00.000-07:00

I don't know if I like rats or not.

They've invaded my house in the past few months.

Funny the fear of sharing this here, that you will picture my humble abode as kind of an evil lair, dirty and ill-kept--the kind of place where rats would assemble---become armies for some infamous villain.

You'd never know how the furniture I came away with from my divorce fit perfectly in each space of my little house, as if it had been destined for this place all along. You'd never picture little girls rooms frosty with pastels. You wouldn't directly guess that I have a taste for swirls and the belle epoque.

Yes, and I can't help but ignore a conflict within, that the rats feel like mere rats, and I can't elevate them to a higher status.

Is it any different from the aristocracy and the hungry peasants?

I trapped one unknowingly in my daughter's room. I thought the towel under her door was keeping them out.

But when I went to wake her up, I saw the signs of a rat in residence. I found the little scoundrel hiding behind bookshelves. I chased him around the room, my girls perched on their bed-island, thinking they were safe.

Did you know rats can jump three feet in the air? That's when one of my daughters made a run for it and I heard a door slam.

The rat ended up jumping up in between the window and the screen. Which is when I quickly shut the window, and created our very own rat aquarium. He looked a little less menacing trapped in the window. My daughter wanted to keep him for a pet for a second or two. Seeing as she had been trapped all night with him, I take it that finding him cute meant she wasn't too damaged psychologically. He was quite a sight sandwiched between the glass and mesh screen jetting nervously around, stealing glances at us. We went outside, removed the screen, and the little guy got away, scot-free.

We have had quite a few misadventures with these little guys. I'd count at least ten over the last two months. Only ever one at a time--thank goodness. One was hiding in the fireplace and we set up coffee table books to form a runway that would guide the rat from the fireplace and out the front door. We nudged him out with a broom handle and watched him run out to freedom. We employed this method a few times. We used a box and cheese, and my cat (mostly useless) helped with a couple.

One night I was in bed, and had put a towel under my door, only to wake up to my cat chasing a rat down the hallway only to see it push through the towel under my door and run for its life into my room and under my nightstand at 2am! Talk about a nightmare!

Lots of late night activity with these rats and my cat. Lack of sleep-- like nursing a newborn.

So why am I not sure if I like them or not? Shouldn't I abhor them?

Well, because, to tell the truth, they have given me a new found energy to move. I can't explain it, but having to battle the rats has infused me with a do or die kind of energy--to get up and go. Because nothing could disgust me more than all that they stand for and leave behind, nothing could make me get out the Lysol and bleach and clean so thoroughly. And well, I think I needed this to push me into the act of doing and not thinking about it--truly having no choice in the matter. Because, really, with the rats, there was no mind to vacillate back and forth about the matter of reclaiming my territory, of making my world clean and sane for my children and me. There was nothing that could feel so fearful and show me my courage in such a way than getting up in the middle of the night and facing these dark shadows.

Do you see what I am getting at?

Having to reclaim my space has shown me a part of myself that can get things done, that can work tirelessly toward the aim of creating a sane environment. Seems to be teaching me about harnessing and infusing a new found energy in so many aspects of my life. This battle has shown me that I can be unafraid of the monsters lurking in the dark. I can do it by myself and I can choose to let go of the frame of mind that would leave me terrified and running for the escape route. I've been done with that for a long time--but I haven't been clear about quite how to start the engines. This rat business kind of gave me no choice but to attend to the matter at hand. And thank god, because it was time for me to begin living on a higher gear.

A few months ago I was touched by a large beautiful elephant in my dream. He caressed my leg with his trunk, and then danced off, as light on his toes as any ballerina. He was so big and heavy, that to see him dance off as if he weighed nothing was an awesome sight to behold!

Before this dream I was not acquainted with Ganesha, the Hindu god with the head of an elephant and body of a man. Nor did I know that his vehicle is a rat, or that as the god of obstacles, he places them and removes them as he sees fit. A series of synchronicities led me to stumble upon this god.

I can't help but think that perhaps these rats have been the perfect obstacles to help me to override an even bigger obstacle--a part of me that was ready to get up and go, but barred by the paralysis of a heavy mind that was sure it just couldn't take another step in this world--that it was just to hard, it was too tired, too broken, too bereft of light.

Today I watched a tiny little rat move around my garage as though he was experiencing sheer delight, completely ignoring my presence. I caught him in a shoe box with peanut butter, with the greatest of ease and took him far away and let him go free.

I wasn't completely free of fear as I watched him, but I could appreciate his agility and curiosity, his ability to move and shimmy through the smallest of spaces--to climb like Spiderman and jump like Wonderwoman.

I can't help but think that it isn't all so black and white, that I might have something to learn from these little guys about the world and about myself. Even if it is only learning to claim my space in this world--my territory, my birthright. (I guess this applies to coming home to this blog!)

Who knows, I may call in the big artillery to rid myself of the rat problem all together, but, the gift in the most unlikeliest of places, has not gone unnoticed.

Just having to get up and attend to such a problem has re-awakened a part of me that likes to move in this world, to solve problems, face fears, to perform and fine-tune--a part of me that had shut down from general and specific wear and tear from being so sensitive, a mostly blocked energy circuit from maintaining a victim mentality all these years, from a lot of big life changes and an even bigger story that life had essentially just become too much to bear.

In this new place, life feels as though it is to be lived and acted upon.

So, all this self-work, letting go of the stories-- it left me a little in the fog. But the rats (along with a whole host of other experiences) have helped me to push through the obstructions and into the warmth of the sun--to take the action that creates beauty and sanity.

The irony of it all still gets me. That I could actually thank the rats for making it most uncomfortable for me--for pushing me out onto the dance floor.

I cannot deny their aid.

Well, there you have it, folks--time to fill up those dance cards!

Eyes Wide Open

2011-07-07T00:15:00.000-07:00

When I began this blog, I was just stumbling on the heart of a new way of being. It was all very new, ground breaking for me in my life, and leaning toward an intellectual understanding and synthesis of matters over mind--in other words, there was the idea that I just needed to become proficient at tackling the mind.

Tonight, I was reminded by my friend Nige, at what has been behind all the words on this blog all along--the stories, the proclamations, the testimony--even if at times, I got caught up in my own war stories.

This all began as heeding the call to wake up.

I realize that this new way of being is becoming less intellectual, and often living and breathing in the moment-- deconstructing stories, finding relief, and Love, sometimes in an instant.

I am humbled by how easy it is becoming to choose love, and how easily it is being reciprocated. Seems that when an authentic love is extended, there is nothing left to fight.

This morning I had some Jehovah's Witnesses come to my door. I saw them wielding their Bibles, and fancy literature, and I felt a slight twinge of regret about the fact that I'd never gotten around to that no soliciting of any kind sign. I also felt a little excitement. Because I often don't even know what I will say or how I will react these days, and well, that just makes it kind of fun. I just wait, and tune into the perfect reality show, Me, Without All My Crap. It can be surprising at times to see what takes hold, because it isn't a me I recognize.

My kids were wide-eyed and bushy-tailed to have visitors, and it just felt right to go ahead and open the door.

The action of answering the door felt natural and deliberate. Where were all the sensations of anxiety? There was no desire to engage in any intellectual or spiritual debate, nor was there any need for them to see themselves from the outside, as birds of prey--none of that existed. There was only an openness to the experience, and the strong, clear knowing that it is only an illusion that we are really separated by beliefs, conditioned ideas and stereotypes.

The gentlemen wasted no time in pulling out the big guns, and cordially asked me my stance on evolution vs. creationism, right in front of my children.

The sun was shining bright, and my kids waited with ready ears for my response. Did I think the world was created by God, or that we evolved from single-cell organisms?

It was so interesting to be put in this situation. (No pressure with my kids waiting to hear my response, or anything).

However,the moment I responded feels frozen in time, because the response felt outside of time, but inside of me, as me (whatever I am).

I simply said, "You know, I think that nobody really knows for sure, but all that matters is Love. But if someone is interested in studying either theory, that could be really fun."

I was a little surprised at what hopped out of my mouth. Truth be told, I was always rooting a little more for the fish that had grown legs on the back of cars--but I realized that needing to take any side was long gone. It just didn't matter--no more fighting over semantics. No more fighting over personal interests and preferences. Let it be.

What was beautiful was the man's response. He just stared at me for a moment, like I'd give him a fresh glass of lemonade, that he wasn't expecting. He thanked me for what I'd said--like maybe I'd reminded him of something.

And that was it. So simple, and so different from the heaviness I used to feel interacting with those I deemed 'a-little-too-fanatical'.

I took his literature, because it had pretty pictures, and who knows, I might find it interesting to read about the different camps.

He took my words, my acceptance of him, and perhaps a new place where we could meet, outside of the debate.

I like this place outside of the loop.

It allows for all of it to be here on this planet, and for us to enjoy all of the rich stories we've invented, to create amazing things to experience-- lots of interesting and intricate concepts to keep our minds busy with.

But perhaps the time is upon is, when we will no longer be asleep, slave to protecting our stories at all costs.

Our stories will be merely preferences, will make life interesting, and no longer will our ideas and beliefs separate us or bring us to the battle fields.

I think both Jehovah and Darwin would approve of that!

New Ground

2011-07-04T00:47:00.000-07:00

Sometimes the heaviness is gone, as if something has truly taken root, grown up big and strong toward the light, and begun to blossom.

It began with baby steps. Giving myself what I need. This was so hard at first. Practically impossible.

Everything I wanted or needed was in direct conflict with all the shoulding driving my life.

Stood still when I was supposed to run.

Shut the door when I was supposed to keep it open.

Spoke when I was supposed to be quiet.

Ate when I was supposed to lose weight.

Stoked the fire when I was supposed to put it out.

All along, I could measure changes in my inner landscape, but my outer landscape remained mostly the same.

But the outside changes have begun to manifest--small, but big enough to be honored here.

Tonight, an impromptu trip with my girls to watch the sunset. Sitting with them huddled in a big green blanket, watching the sun sink below the hills, singing about amber waves of grain waving around us, and purple mountains majesty rising above us to meet the skyline...

How is it that I agreed with myself to head for the hills? How is it that my girls agreed to accompany me?

I almost had to pinch myself, because our minds were so quiet, the three of us were so absorbed in the moment, hiking a short distance of country road, only to plop down into a sea of wild daisies for the show. My eight-year old leaning into me, with one arm around my waist, my six-year old on my lap.

A big blue sky, and pink cotton candy clouds. And nothing getting in the way--no bedtime, agendas, grudges, or convenient viewing screens--this was the real thing. Freedom from all of it, and experiencing the heart of something alive, and yet, so quiet, so allowing, so sweet and simple, and so loving.

I can't tell you what it is like to have my older daughter seek me out for a hug, for a moment together. She brings me back to myself when I was her age, and I think we meet there together, and there is healing. I can barely contain my emotion when she chooses to simply let go, rather than throw a huge fit. She often says, well, I guess I'll just let go. Sometimes she cries, and I tell her, go ahead, cry, it is helping you to let go. Ah, the cleansing rains...

As far as I am concerned, we can't cry enough. I'm for the world and I crying a lot more, and throwing tantrums a lot less.

My girls and I have been knee-deep in glue too, gluing sparkly mosaics all over stepping stones and tables for our backyard. I think we'll have a gazing ball or two. Maybe we'll begin work on a fairy house. I have a feeling the fairies will want to hang out with us this year. The barren landscape is coming back to life, the dry spell is over. More shocking news!

All the breaking into hard dirt and clay in my backyard, to create a soft place for so many splendid little creatures to summer. My body aches at all that work. But to feel the promise of helping things grow, and to think we might soon partake of the fruits.

To think that this is the year, I finally found a strength that I thought I lost to loss, after spending so much time and energy on a yard of another home, that I would leave.

I realize that I truly never mourned all of those little friends I left behind. They were secondary to so many other aspects of leaving--the first strawberries I'd ever watch truly flourish, my giant Dalias-you amazed me! How I just used to stare and stare again, bewildered at how you stood so tall so quickly, supporting your mandala blooms, laughing with color. And my Rhodies--dear, magical ones--oh the party you had when you bloomed. I see how you were there for me, trying to show me my reflection all along. The Magnolia tree. I never knew a tree could be so splendid. You hinted at spring with your silly daisies glued right to your branches, and then you bobbed with leaves, until you shot up pink tulips. You embraced the season like a circus, and so full of fashion. And the blueberries. You were right outside my door. I could nibble away at you with the girls, always with the wonderful feeling I was getting away with something really devilish!

And all of the rest of you beauteous ones, so patient and understanding that motherhood had to come first. I miss the heart of you. Our time together was too short.

My heart swells when I think of all that I have learned, at what I am still learning--what is blooming, what is just breaking ground.

How simple and precious moments feel, how many things show just how deeply my girls and I have absorbed a new way of being.

It feels good to be back writing here. It feels good to be so clear that this place is an important part of my self-expression--and my synthesis of experience, that just in the telling, helps other parts to flow. I really had no idea, until it was gone.

Writing here tonight, this place feels more at home than it ever did--perhaps, because my absence somehow made it more a part of who I am, rather than something merely created externally--as if my time away created a deeper commitment and connection to my writing, a fuller acceptance and integration of my waking and writing life.

It feels good to be surrounded with my words gathered round, reaching into past, present, future. Reminds me of my daughter, sleeping, comforted by all of her stuffed animals piled up in a mountain on her bed.

There are other notable changes too, as I sit down to pour out thoughts on the page.

When I began Wild Road, I felt I had a mission to save a broken world. I was full of hope that the world could get better, and fear that it wouldn't.

Now, beginning Backdoor to the Moon, I feel like I have no intention other than to gaze up at the night sky, to see patterns in the constellations, to marvel at the pictures and cherish the stories--to close my eyes when I get sleepy, and to wake up with the sun, knowing that the stars and all their stories will be there, when it gets quiet, when the little ones in my life retreat to their own swirling universes, and my heart wishes to come here.

Walking Again

2011-07-02T06:14:00.000-07:00

Or making all of my writing part of the family.

One of the biggest conflicts about ending Wild Road and beginning Soul Carving, was that, in essence, I cut off a limb. I had no idea how much I needed that limb to get around.

I do now.

If you want to join me walking around again, visit Backdoor to the Moon (formerly Wild Road).

If you want to join my imagination running wild, stay and play.

At least, that's the plan for now.

As I said in my first post on Backdoor to the Moon, I see how gathering back parts of myself is part of the journey, and how letting it happen, is my freedom... if it looks like I am flailing, it is because I am. My soul, embracing what it needs, and realizing that the only thing constant is change, and the only thing I can do about that, is be me.

Back Home

2011-07-02T05:46:00.000-07:00

Okay, I get it.

I need this blog, like I need to breathe.

I need to be able to write here, to work through process and to share preciousness.

I need to have one place to weave through the fabric of it all, and another place to let my imagination run wild.

Last night I had a dream about an old woman. She was in a wheelchair and was being wheeled into a dangerous surgery that was to likely kill her. As the doctors stood around her , cutting, poking, prodding, and sucking, to remove dangerous blood clots, she flat-lined over and over. I watched as parts of her body gave out, including a leg, that was amputated.

Everything happens for a reason. That I get. Even down to the smallest most insignificant events. They all add up, somehow.

I see how leaving and coming back here, takes courage. I also see how writing here was such a precious part of my experience, how it helped the life-force to flow.

I see how gathering back parts of myself is part of the journey, and how letting it happen, is my freedom.

Sometimes we have to give up parts of ourselves, to realize we can't get around very well without them. Sometimes coming home means going away for a while.

I look back at earlier posts on the wild road, and feel ashamed of my naivete, at the brash way I asserted my understanding of the meaning of life.

I look back at later posts, and feel ashamed at so many bouts of darkness.

I recognize transcendent parts and indulgent parts.

However, as I look at it as a whole, I feel reverent. None of it matters, and all of it matters.

Today, in the wee hours of the morning, I return to myself a vital life-force.

Backdoor to the Moon.

Always been there, waiting to emerge.

And just the way I needed to get there, via a big beautiful wild road.

And if it looks like I am flailing, it is because I am. My soul, embracing what it needs, and realizing that the only thing constant is change, and the only thing I can do about that, is be me.

Showing Up

2011-06-29T17:08:00.000-07:00

Today, I honor all of the resistance I've had all my life, to showing up to interact with people.

I honor a sensitivity in me that perceived a world disconnected and blind. I honor a part of me that wanted to shield myself from a society that was doing a lot on the surface to keep up with appearances and latest trends, but felt devoid of substance or meaning.

I honor the part of me that wondered why nothing was ever really being said, when so much air space was being taken up by words.

I honor the part of me that was afraid of what I couldn't find or feel--of a surface love that felt so fleeting and dangerous.

I honor the part of me that was always seeking something deeper within interactions--a love that didn't feel marketed, a connection that didn't feel contrived.

I honor the part of me that has been intent on digging deeper with people, creating a safe space to share much more of ourselves and our experiences, to feel our relationships deepen through this. I honor those who have wept the truest tears in honoring this in me. I honor those who have shown up in the same way for me, that have been brave, bold and trusting.

I honor the space we have created together, in uncovering patterns and personalities, that have helped us to see each other and release each other--to drop into a space of love, even when we can't find any common ground.

These have been my most treasured moments, when another dear soul and I begin to see our situation so clearly, our conflict so perfectly-- we see our part in it, and the other's part in it. We see what we are chained to, what the other is chained to, and our minds begin to stall.

Then the smiles break out, because with the malfunction of our minds, a connection rises to the surface that is warm, syrupy and light as air--and most of all, what I've always been waiting for-- that deep rich connection where in the end, nothing could get in the way of love. (Perhaps this has been the only mission worthy of all the hype).

Stories drop away. Only love remains. And if stories resurface, they are never seen in the same way--rather than the walls becoming higher, they begin to break down, and open healing and joining in ways that promise greater ease of movement, greater satisfaction in living.

I honor the part of me that stood back from giving credence to the image of empty connections, to ladder climbing and ass kissing-- holding out for something REAL.

I honor the part of me that held out for the day that a few humble connections would blossom into relationships beginning to access something unfathomable--that would allow life to be lived on another level.

To love beyond bounds--bringing healing--trusting--a new way of being--rediscovering a life to be lived that connected the surface 'doings' to the heart of being.

To bravely show up, trusting in love as the potential for any and all transformation, growth, release and deeper understanding of one another.

I honor all the parts of me who have loved in any and every way--that questioned, reassessed, went against the grain, and let go.

I forget all this goodness sometimes. I get stuck in pursuits I know have no meaning or longevity-- out of fear.

I am reminded that we are not meant to do living alone. Even though alone has felt easier at times.

Showing up is important. It is with others that the real work begins, when so much has already been let go. This is where the real trust begins, the real opening to being loved, and to loving beyond measure.

And in those moments when I feel that anxiety tar me over, making me scared to death to show up with all the colors and contradictions of people--afraid I will be met with more disconnect and emptiness, I will remind myself, that it is always worth it--that every soul craves release, and that we are all showing up for the same thing, even if we don't know it yet.

And in the end, this showing up together is what breaks up our most suffocating blocks, what helps us to see a little more clearly, and what begins to create more certainty that a new world will take hold.