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.

Allowing

milagrogirlallowing.jpg

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.

 

Sea Hags and Granny Panties

plasticaltars.jpg

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.

 

 

 

 

Opening Up

I spent October with five beautiful women, digging in, pushing through, and looking hard. It was a magical experience and I found myself glowing in the process, hanging up the phone and declaring to the world that I LOVE this work. I've learned so much, spent the time seeing what worked and what needs a little more tweeking, evaluating my voice and learning to trust my intuition even more deeply. It's felt very much like stepping into my birthrite. In fact that is exactly what it has been for me.

I'd like to take this a step further. I'd like to offer up myself to you. I'm ready. Are you?

Until November 2nd, I'm offering up $25 off a Dark Night of the Soul Session or $50 off three months of working with me in Guide Sessions. Shoot me an email if you're ready to walk your path, a little more intensely, and looking for a few nuggets along the way.