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.