this seabed floor

“I'll never know, and neither will you, of the life you don't choose. We'll only know that whatever that sister life was, it was important and beautiful and not ours. It was the ghost ship that didn't carry us. There's nothing to do but salute it from the shore.”
~Cheryl Strayed. Dear Sugar.

I asked him to let me walk myself and then to dive, into the depths.

Alone.

He wanted to go along. To hold my hand and to be a comfort. A safe space. But this I knew I must do all on my own. I must leave this state of co-dependency. I must.

These depths, they will be midnight blue. There would be no glimmer from the sun above. It will be very much like night. The darkest night on this seabed floor. There will be no glittered covered shells. No golden pink pearls.

This. This, is the dirty work. The sludge and the muck that now lies across my own encrusted shag carpeted ocean underbelly.

You see I've lost my shimmer. I stopped writing somewhere along the way. Started shoving it all into the extra pounds around my belly. Burying it seemed like a good enough idea.

Until. Until. I noticed that I've lost my soft. I have lost my kindness. I've become ragged and bitter. My words cutting into the knoll-y grass covered hills that I love. My words snap across rooms an my heart thumps like a caged bird against my rib-cage.

I must tend to this. I must.

I searched tonight for "grief from the past" on my trusted friend Google.

I came up empty handed.

All paths led me to the loss of cherished people and loves lost. But what I know is that this is not about those things. This time.

This is about the loss of who I am no longer. The loss of who I might have been. The loss of dreams and visions. The loss of how it might have looked.

There seems to be no guide for that.

So I'm writing my own. It's time. And the only way that I know to do that is to leave the shore. To go alone.

I cannot focus on what might still be when I surface. That fear. Right there. It has caused me to hold back for far too long.

When I come forth none of it may still be there. Or all of it might look exactly the same.

The only thing that may change is me. I'm hoping to find a chemical peel for my bitter soul.

It's all mine

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I'm done trying to release the past. I know it's not the "right thing" to say. Ask any guru or spirit guide. Or even Elsa. They'd all say, or sing "let it go, let it go."

{If you know me at all, you know I've never been the girl to do the "right thing."}

It's been too long of burning things over embers and attempting to set them free. It's become routine, and it's become too big of a deal.

The past, the hurts, the tears and the shame. It turns out they don't want their freedom. They are like homing pigeons. Roosted on my pillow. I find them there when I lay back down in the middle of the night after drinking too much camomile tea, in an attempt to drown them.

These fragments of bone and chiseled boulders are all mine. The release isn't working. It never really has been.

For years.

I started by trying to pray it all away. Laying it down. Setting them free. When that didn't work I filleted my chest to open up my heart and lungs.

I tried to write it away, to make affirmations out loud.

To buy it a passport and pack it's tapestry bags. Dropping it at the airport or even escorting it onto the plane. 

I've tried ignoring it.

I've tried to hide it all away. Shoving it all under the bed next to the party shoes and the birthday decorations.

These things all of them, left me raw, exposed, but no more free.

I tried to fool it into going. To bread crumb it out the door and away from my heart and belly. Don't be fooled. It would go. Sometimes ever so gently, in the quietest swiftest movement and sometimes loudly, boldly making declarations and throwing it's arms into the air like a child whose ice cream had all slithered to the ground.

It would all go and I would take a breath and maybe a hot shower and then raise my eyes to see it all standing before me again, my platinum hair still dripping. Our dance not over, this tango still with things unsaid.

I'm not forcing it to go anymore, I'm not asking it politely either. I'm not even suggesting it.

I'm taking back it's power to boomerang. Knocking me to the ground as it strikes me in the back of the head and the center of my heart.

My past and the pain that it brings. Is mine. I'm owning it. All of it. It's how I got here. It's what made me. All of it. And it's all mine. The dark parts, the cheating, the buried babies, the self harm, the pyramids of lies, the empty bank accounts, the 3 AM's, broken things, the birthday heartbreaks, the middle of the night texts, the carved on walls, the Grimm-est tales. They are mine. All mine. If they go at some point on their own free will, I will tell their stories still.

Pull up a chair. I'll light the fire.

 

 

 

{Don't get this wrong. I don't want to live there, in the shadowed hallways of my past. I just don't want to deny it it's place, any longer.}

Allowing

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I woke up forty today. It felt like the most sacred holy ravishing thing that I could do was to write. It’s how I want to spend this year. It’s how I want to spend the years that follow.

I looked in the mirror and it all looks the same. My eyes the same. My face, my silken skin. The hills of my hips and the valleys between my breasts. I don’t feel it. The forty or the birthday. From right here, I seem the same me.

I spent yesterday running my arm across my altar and allowing it all to fall to the ground. The dust, the feathers, the prayers. I needed it to happen. A clearing. A cleansing. Making space and holding witness of what has been and what is to come. It’s all holy. As I watched it fall it felt like a prayer in itself. Maybe I need more letting things fall to the ground so that I can witness them in time and space.

Last night I crawled into a king size bed at my favorite chain of hotels and I built a pillow fort around myself. Right in the middle. Using every inch of bed and fluff. A fortress. {In my motorhome-turned gypsy wagon, I spend my nights nestled against my man on a full size futon.} He knew what I needed going into this year, this era, was space. Hotel booked.

I had planned to spend the evening with the bed covered in planners and pages going on a vision quest, for my forty. Instead I allowed. I allowed the lamb curry with the plastic fork and the Starbucks chai. I allowed the video streaming and the cherry m&ms. A allowed the laughter that shook the bed and filled the room for only me to hear. I allowed the text messages and the “one more episode.”

I then took an extra long shower, slathered sesame oil across my skin, spending extra time on the cellulite thighs and the slightest fine story lines. I oiled my feet with delightful scents and then I read the New Moon insights for my Aquarius self, that every one else read two days ago. It all felt right. I allowed.

There will be time to cast a vision for this age. I just needed a few more moments in that big bed to be. To be with me and for me.


Allowing.

 

what I'm carrying

I've spent the last few days deep in thoughts about 2015. A word for the year. My space. Both physical and emotional. My body. My home. My hips. Relations. Longings and releases. All of it.

I will meet with 40 in just a few weeks. We are in fiery negotiations now. Forty and I. Contract meetings. Dress code decisions. Mediation. To sort out what I want. What I need. All of it.

This morning I woke up and thought "What will I carry forward? What do I want to carry into this New Year?"

So 2015 feels like a big deal in so many ways.

I don't want to carry all of this old stuff forward. A wound from my past came up the other night and I was instantly swirling into the depths of anger. I felt it all like it was just happening for the first time. It was my depths calling me in. Letting me know that this wound is ready to be mended. Again. It needed my attention. And I'm giving it my all. I know that I can't carry it forward. That it really is time to let it go. For me. And for me alone. I know that it affects those that I love and that love me. But this round.... it's on me.. All of it.

I've been lighting a lot of fires lately here in Florida. Letting it all burn. Because I don't want to just bury it. I want it incinerated. Gone. Charred fragments in the wind. Never to be held again.

I posted on instagram this morning and said "I want to say no to all the things. I want to stay in when everyone else goes out. I want to eat creme brulèe for breakfast with a doppio and whip cream. I want to wear a black slip to the restaurant (with bare feet and red nails) I want champagne with a cheeseburger. I want to strip it all down. Bare walls. Bared soul."

What are you carrying into this year? What really begs for a space in your life that just doesn't belong in 2015? Before you can settle upon what you do want, you have to really look at what you don't. It's dirty work. It's painful. But it's also brings about the deepest sense of freedom. It's all yours. All of it.

Love. What calls from your root? The deep parts. The secret longings? It's time to make a space for it. 2015 feels like a start. Reinvention is a daring beautiful thing. Let it come. Meet it at the door and sit down to see what it offers.

 

that's a fine looking high horse

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If I'm a pagan of the good times
My lover's the sunlight
To keep the Goddess on my side
She demands a sacrifice
To drain the whole sea
Get something shiny
Something meaty for the main course
That's a fine looking high horse

I tried to describe to her what was, what is happening here. It's hard to put to words. The depths of it. The widths of it. This year, {this decade} has been slowly building. Climaxing. I think right here is where I started to finally acknowledge that I wouldn't be able to ignore it. That it would need a voice. That that voice, it may need to wail.

In two months I turn 40. I am full of resistance to it. For so many reasons. 40 reminds me of Oprah. I remember her celebrating for days. Weeks maybe. Wearing matching clothes and perfectly coiffed hair. And while I love so much that she is and so much that she says. I do not want Oprah's 40. I'm not even sure that I want my own.

They say that it brings freedom and a letting go of sorts. I just feel like I've already been doing that. I'm so free I no longer have roots. I've let go of almost all that I have known. It's just bringing more confusion and resistance. Can't I stay in my 30's if I've already done those things?

She asked me if I first needed to grieve some things. To really grieve them. I spent two days contemplating wearing black for the next two months. To go inside and grieve it all. I didn't even know until she asked that I wanted that. When she said it I felt the biggest permission slip held tightly, crumpled in my hand. 

I'm going to do that. I'm beginning that. To sit shiva with myself. To mourn all that cannot be, that was and is no longer.

But a part of me also wants the sparkle. To wear nothing but sequins and fur these last weeks of my 30's. To be bold and shocking and brash. To sleep in my makeup and get up and wear it out the next day. I don't know what I want more. The darkness or the sparkle.

In the spirit of untraditional shiva. I'm going in. I don't know what it will look like, but I will allow it. I will throw my head back and call it all forth. I must see to this.

It may get heavy in this space. It may not be colorful and sweet. It may be gritty and full of stark nakedness. It will not be tidy or candy coated. It may be dripping with grief and the heaviness of molasses.

{Hoziers music will be my soundtrack for this sojourning.  Go. Now. Listen}

This Thin Veil

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I've had a swirl of emotions since I posted Sea Hags and Granny Panties. I've questioned the logic of it all. Wondered if I've alienated those who I aspire to sit with. I've spent nights wide awake in my bed with only the sliver light of the moon shining across the bed. My inner dialogue going something like this.

"Maybe what this is a mid-life crisis. Maybe this restlessness is just because 40 looms."

"What if the spaces you manifested writing for won't invite you in because you don't want the labels anymore."

"No one is reading anyway. Why are you giving so much weight to this when it's not even been well read. Or received."

But I realize that what I wrote is still all true for me and the private messages and the emails tell me that I'm not in it alone.

My soul love and fellow creatrix Hillary said to me "I wonder if you resonate so much with the season, the in between, the veils between worlds thinning."

That comforted me. I'm claiming it. I'm spending Dia De Mertos with The High Priestess and a mocha. Standing in this thin veil space and spreading my arms open wide. Inviting it all to come in. But only what brings life to stay.

Sea Hags and Granny Panties

I texted my friend Anya a few weeks ago and said “I’m tired of all the same things. I’m tired of the word gypsy and all the mermaid craze. I’m tired of boho and tribal. Basically, I’m tired of myself.”

I attempted to bury the thoughts for a bit to lower them into the ground and throw a handful of dirt over them. Little Lazarus’, they keep resurrecting themselves. Whispering and pulling on their leash. Not letting me go. Me not really wanting them to.

As magical time would have it, last weekend I donned a tiny dress and some moccasin boots and picked Anya up from the airport. {I’m not even going to tell you about the weekend. You wouldn’t believe most of it if I did. Like for real, you would think I was lying.}

I’ve been back in my nest for 5 days, but long before I left the weekend, I had this sense of urgency. That some things in my life needed a big time overhaul and that some things just needed to be burned to the ground. That a change must occur or I would be lying on the ground also, covered with grains of time and dried up things.

I was thinking about it in the shower just now. (Any kind of water always fuels my minds energy.) This lack of feeling for anything labeled gypsy-boho-mermaid and I realized I want something else.

I want to be a sea-hag. Not a mermaid. I want to be with the thieves, not the new day gypsies. I want to be in the dive bar, not at Whole Foods. I want messy plastic altars not shiny stained glass windows.

I’m tired of all the sparkly trendy things. I want realness. I want the depths. The unglamorous. Dirty real.

I want your granny panties and your dirty little secrets. I want your vulgar language, rather than your pretty poetry.  I want your whiskey instead of your fancy cosmopolitan. I want to eat with my fingers and lick them when I’m finished. I want a half smoked cigar, and some too short shorts, while I lay out tarot cards that I don’t even understand.

I am tearing down the matching curtains in my RV and covering the windows with mismatched sheets and faux sheepskin. I’m hanging disco balls instead of fairy lights. I'm donning a furry vest and some thrift store jeans. I'm listening to Kendrick Lamar on repeat and dreaming of being a pace car driver.

Forget Pinterest worthy photos. I just want to see your piles of clothes and your too full garbage. Your streaked mascara and your stacked up dishes. Your crying child and your unswept floor.

I can’t think that I’m alone in this longing, but I’m making peace with the fact that it may be only me who is ready for this revolution. I’m fine with being on the other side of the coin.

I am here.  I am renovating my life. I am letting go of all that no longer serves me. I am done pretending so that I’ll have more readers or more likes. I’m making no promises about what may take place in this space. Because even I don't know what will be here.

Before Anya arrived, I texted her and said “I want to re-invent myself” and I did that last weekend and once you do that you can’t go back. You can’t lean back wards towards what was. {And you don't want to.}

I can’t ignore these voices anymore. I’m throwing a tea party and inviting only the mystics and the drunks. I'll be the one on the dance floor with the tiny dress and the uncombed hair.

 

 

 

 

What I learned at NASCAR

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I'm not a race car fan. Or at least I wasn't. But I've been wooed.

We got to North Carolina about a month ago. We are within walking distance to the track here. I even mentioned leaving when the next race was for fear that we'd be over run by the party crowd.

Fast forward to last week. I mentioned to my man that I might wanna go over. Just for one night. Just to see what the fuss was about. As the race drew nearer you could feel the anticipation in the air and my curiosity grew. 

We went over the night that the "pole" would be awarded. {Basically it's a race to compete for the starting lineup in the big race.}

I had a blast.

There was something about those cars flying past me. The energy in the air and the science of the track. Each curve and stretch measured and calculated.

We ended up back at the track for the big race on Saturday night.  

Here's what I learned.

1. Stereotyping people never works out. I had expected people to be drunk falling all over and being rude. I met the opposite of that. The people we sat near were polite. They coached us in what was crucial to know and that offered us fried chicken and beer.

2. You need a driver. You have to pick someone to cheer for. Someone to pin your hopes on and scream for as they go flying past. There are a lot of drivers and only one winner. You can't just choose a driver and then be mad that they didn't win. You're  a part of their team now. Win or lose. 

3. Coming together for common interests builds community.  It gives us something to cheer for and to talk about. Even if something isn't what you'd normally be excited about. Expanding interests is vital to life. I'm realizing that. It's an ever-evolution and causes us to grow.

4. Say yes. This was the thing that fueled me most this weekend. I said yes to something that I expected to hate. And fell in love with something new. Now I'm looking for new things to say yes to. I can't wait to see what opens up now.

5. It's never too late to choose a career  path. I'm holding onto this one. Because now. I kind of want to be a pace car driver. I'd love to lead those cars around the track. You don't get famous for that. But you do get to say, "the winner of the race had to follow me!"

What are you learning right now? What new life experiences could you say yes to?

Goodness

I'm in one of those seasons. Surrounded by such shiny goodness. Even in the midst of all the things that are really tough, I keep seeing abundance. In relationships, in my body, in my home.

I thought it might be good to bring some here. To share it if you need some. To beg of you to share your own. Or just to give you hope filled wings that it's still out there, swirling around.

I just saw that Mandy's book is free in eBook form. If you've not yet read it.. what are you waiting for? It's changed me. I live in an RV, I don't keep books around if they're no good. Space is limited. I have two copies... go now.

Blushing Wild starts on Sunday. I am giddy over this course. I spilled my guts out in it and shared some pretty daring photos.. similar to this one.

If you follow me in Instagram you might've seen that I was at a tattoo studio last weekend. Would you like to see what transpired? Oh good, because love, I'm showing you.

{It's in the peeling stage, but I was anxious to share with you.}

{It's in the peeling stage, but I was anxious to share with you.}

My baby daddy and I have never gotten tattoos together, we usually take turns. But we decided to go for it, right now. I got the alchemy symbol for water, because of my love for the oceans and the depths, he got the symbol for fire. I am in love with them. I also got the crescent moon on my finger. {And now I want the rest of my fingers done}

We've been parked in the same spot since April, it's a record for us. My feet and soul are restless. I'm ready in anticipation of where we are off to next. Hopefully very soon.

I began a whole30 this month. It began as a desperate attempt to heal my womb. I don't usually do well with restricting foods. I tend to rebel to greatly. But something this time has been different. I'm no longer calling it a whole30 because I've strayed a bit. But stayed mostly paleo/primal. I cannot even begin to tell you how amazing I feel. Turns out, my body loves whole foods, no grains, no sugar. Just real food. I am relishing in how magical I feel right now.

I have some really great things on the horizon. Starting with Money Salt +Bone. It doesn't end there, I think it's a beginning really. And I have a girl crush on beginnings.

 

 

Money Salt + Bone

I cannot even begin to tell you how excited I am to be able to finally share this with you.

My beloved Hillary and I were communing over miles, {but still nestled against one another,} and I fell deeper in love with her mystical ways. We kept saying "me too" about so many things. The tough things and the lovely. It's from there that Roots Alchemy was born.

As our scared kinship evolved the conversation one day led us to money. Having it, not having it, debt, scarcity,  the whole realm. In the midst of these shared words, this course began to unravel before us. String by string. 

Out of our longing for connection and deep whispery conversations we blew a wish. A sacred longing that someone would start talking about money (and all that swirls around it) more. That we could sit in circle and share our own myths and curses. That we could bless and release, standing right where we are.

We decided to write the eCourse we longed to take. And loves, it's so so good.

We begin our pilgrimage February 2and will walk for 4 weeks. Starting where we began, at our roots. Through the course we'll build community .... a collective, where you can continue to dance and gather and mend.

Take our hands. Let's start the conversation.

 

 

When It's Swirling

The want for spilling here is so vast and I hold it down, swallow it. I wonder if you want to hear what it is that I have to say and I wonder if you'll still be here after I say it.

I've come back to making this my own space, for me. To spill. To dream. To mourn and to mend.

This season has been a bizarre one. There are lessons so vast that I feel as if I've only begun to get my feet wet, and even in that edginess, it feels as if the current will pull me under.

Two months ago I sat in a doctor's office going over ultrasounds and blood tests. My body already knew long before I sat in that chair. Within moments I was in the midst of biopsies and fears. It all stops in those moments. It doesn't matter the outfit you chose or mascara you wear.  Waterproof or not, the tears flow the same.

It all turned out alright. Well I mean the words were benign, but still my body declares all is not right. The symptoms persist and the demands for healing go beyond sleep, food and herbs.

And then my littlest love sunk back into her pain and misery as well. Her pain at being adopted is limitless. She hurts. We've extended the resources for attachment healing and feeling so helpless, I reached out. In my echoes, one of my dearest friends said to me " Have you considered that this might be more than attachment? That maybe this is something more" and I wept, deep sobbing cries rose from my depths,  because deep down I knew. And didn't want to know.

The writing, which is my life line gets pushed aside and I sink into it all. Allowing it all to consume and stake claim. But I've dropped anchor, in this mild sea and I'm ready to change course, to make my own declarations and to go within and without.

I'm reminded that my life is the lab. That all is mystery and that seasons change. That I can be a witness to myself.

 

declaring my independence

Last week I celebrated an anniversary of survival. I guess maybe "celebrated' isn't the right word. But the day came and I stared it down and I made some peace and I acknowledged some peace that still hasn't come. Some peace that I must now hunt down and declare for myself. To myself. 

In my 750words that day I spilled truths for myself. Words and phrases that had been swirling in my head for some time. Maybe for all this time.

" I deserve to stop carrying around these f*#king body bags. The bodies heavy, the insides of them decayed and no longer salvageable. I want it. I do. This independence day I'm setting myself free. It is time."

and then "I'm burning it down and walking away. And turning to the things that heal only, if it's not beautiful or doesn't bring healing I don't want it anymore. None of it."

I thought about it all over this weekend, where we celebrate freedom and independence. There are some things that just really no longer allow me to be free. There are some things that I have become dependent upon that hold me tie me to the ground. Some of them good and some of them simply still around because they are familiar. It's too much for this gypsy mermaid girl. I need the freedom.

" I'm setting my boundaries and laying it all out and down. For me. I need this so badly. I need to let myself have the good things and walk away from those that aren't. I can't give to them anymore. They'll have to heal themselves."

I'm proclaiming freedom today. I'm cutting the string to things, people, food, phrases, whose time has come and gone. Things that were beautiful and good for a time. Whose purpose has been served and now it's time to let them float off into the sky.

For some it will be a quick snip and a sly grin as they go. For others I will have to crowd them out with better nourishing things. I'm keeping my eyes wide for what goes and what stays. But I know that this stuff I'm carrying around serves me no longer.

I'm not hiding it or skirting around it. I'm declaring it. This independence.