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


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


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.