There was this piece of me—a young, vulnerable, desperate piece of me—who begged for someone to finally just tell me who the hell I was supposed to be, or do, or what my life was supposed to be about. Every time life intensified, waves of hysteria would swell from deep within me, the fear that I’d get it wrong… that I couldn’t trust myself to know what was true for me. I felt terrified that, without external guidance, my life would be wasted.
But then I started to explore what one of my early teachers called “the spirituality of the self”. I studied the way I reacted to the world around me, the way I allowed certain relationships, circumstances, and experiences to affect me. I learned I was powerful, far more powerful than I’d ever imagined, and that I could change reality by changing the way I was showing up in the world. In time, I released what no longer served me and made space for my truth to become my life. The artist, the lover, the priestess, the mother, the healer, the dancer, the writer . . . one discovery at a time, I hosted a reunion of the pieces of my soul.
This transformation was possible because of the supports I cultivated for myself along the way. My blog is an extension of my journals. I use it to share the lessons I’ve learned, powerful resources, and inspiring stories of my clients’ transformations. Dig in and find the information and inspiration you need today and keep coming back when you need another dose! If you can’t find what you’re looking for, email me your question and I’ll see what I can find for you.
Nepal. We finally looked. It’s heartbreaking. No, that doesn’t even touch it. It’s… Oh, goddess, I don’t have words. They are not enough.
What’s the word for sitting in your completely secure home with your completely healthy family watching complete devastation unfold on the television screen?
What’s the word that explains the relief that I feel when my seventeen year old son overhears the CNN anchor reporting the murder of Freddie Gray and he says, “It happened again?!” My efforts to protect them from this news were overridden by my need for them to be awake enough to be part of the solution. Is that “right” or “wrong”? I don’t even know anymore. And I don’t care.
Ignorance is a weapon in the war against decency, so I’m dragging them into the fire… an opportunity I have because they aren’t busy trying to learn to appear non-threatening enough to keep from being killed by a cop while unarmed.
What’s the word for that ache that rises in my chest every time I see that mother in my community speak (so incredibly bravely) into the seemingly endless pain her young son’s death? Or the way my stomach drops every time I think of the woman whose young daughter just died last week, knowing damn well that two or ten or thirty years from now, she’ll still have that hole in her heart?
Life is over for many and for those who remain, life will never be the same. Meanwhile, I get to do business from the sunlit end of the couch on this beautiful Sunday afternoon because electricity and wifi remain uninterrupted. We can seek medical care if we get hurt or fall ill, enjoy our family dinner tradition, and bond over lengthy bike adventures. We can create art and connect with the people we love, and do all manner of other things that seem unspeakably luxurious when I imagine an unknown woman in Nepal desperately digging into the rubble that used to be her home in search of her children’s lifeless bodies.
No words. Or perhaps too many words. I can’t even tell anymore, so I’ll just breathe and be still until I figure out how to use who I am to be useful to those whose hearts have been broken.