Part of upleveling my commitment to my intention for the year is showing up for what makes me uncomfortable. Being on video, definitely makes me uncomfortable. I notice I do this weird thing with my face and my voice changes…every time. Truly, those odd things that arise are hints that a deep layer of fear around being myself remains. So, to stay true to my intention, I’ve decided to do what brings up this fear over and over.
A most sincere thank you to B T W N, Pacifica Graduate Institute’s Literary Journal and Teach.Yoga, the project started by Elena Brower for publishing these poems.
And if you finally started to hold yourself accountable, what would happen? Would you drift off over the edge of the sea, ashamed that you’ve fallen through on your word so many times before? Would you be so ashamed when you saw your own reflection in the calm undertow that you’d miss the still innocent and earnest heart waiting for you to feed it? Aren’t the promises you make to your heart just as important as the ones you so eagerly give to others? Let the fog envelop your doubts child and just try. Show up and try. every morning, like the seagulls that reliably fly in round’ 7:35 at the break of each new day. show up and try, perhaps one day you’ll fly. and if you never take off soaring, so what? For isn’t a life adorned with wholehearted attempts precious still?
Last night I felt my soul saying goodbye to a special person in my life. I let my tears flow and I stayed with the wave of sadness that brushed up along the shore of my consciousness a few hours before. I’ve had enough encounters with spirit these past two years to no longer deem something a mere coincidence. It’s all interconnected. I fully believe that, down to the smallest detail. This morning I reached for an unscented candle. One was already by my bed, but it was scented and because of that it somehow didn’t feel appropriate. So I lit this other unscented candle, one with a feather stuck in it. The heat from the flame sinched* (lightly burn…it seems it’s not actually a word but it’s the only word–made up or not–that feels fitting) the feather and the scent reminded me of summer afternoons at my grandma’s house when she plucked the feathers off the chicken she would later prepare for dinner, the chicken I never wanted to eat. I started playing Krishna Das’ Mere Guru Dev on repeat and let my body move as slowly as it wished. Every other breath I’d see the flame from the
Over the past week I’ve had a bucket full of further revelations and spiritual homework assignments. An overarching category that cradles a handful of the lessons is self-worth. I more or less denied that I harbored self-worth issues. While I didn’t often receive love in the way I needed it, I always felt worthy of amazing congruent with my needs love. But then how is it that I stayed in a relationship much longer than I should have, forgiving many more things than I should have, had I actually believed that I was worthy of top-notch love? How is it that I climbed on and off the sugar and food-for-numbing and self-harm bandwagon so many times that my brittle fingers lost track? If I truly believed that I was worthy of the most high-quality type of love, how then did I regularly fall through on the self-care commitments I made with myself? It’s because I was protecting that shield of illusion like the victim protects their abuser. It’s because I did not actually feel worthy of the type of love I proclaimed I deserved. It’s because when it really came down to it, I didn’t show up for myself like
It’s been speaking up over and over every few weeks for the past five months. “Write” it says with a cadence that both pulls me in and frightens me. I’ve never tried to write, not for any purpose other than academic or professional work. “Writer” or “artist” are not terms I would ever associate with myself. Yet, without missing a beat, each night, something would emerge to the surface, something that yearned to be written, heard, seen, and shared. It gripped me; and once I glanced in its direction, it didn’t let go. So I spent a few months introducing myself to this mysterious soul that lived within my body. As we got to know each other we both grew, we each lovingly put forth a rug of support where everything was ok and anything could be explored. From this space I leapt forward into possibilities abundant in sharing the creative entities that ooze out through my pores. And so, in this little electronic nook, I shall share my creative explorations. These are pieces of myself that live amidst other parts; some are reflections of my psycho-emotional state, but others are artistic organisms that materialize on their own and do not
I am experimenting with a new medium: audio recordings. Listen to the first one below: Morning routine. 3 pages. Some days are harder than others. Some days I don’t want to see myself on the page. Some days I remember that it’s not all mine. On those days I embrace the tangled up knots. | 3 simple pages & 2 cups of tea. It’s the prelude to meditation, it is its own kind of meditation. An energetic brain dump—a sorting through.
“I saw a woman yesterday she took a letter from her case and as she read it she began to cry” – from See You There by Emily King ___________________ Bare your soul Bare it open For all to see Because there’s nothing in there that is shame-worthy There’s nothing in there that isn’t precious There’s nothing in there that isn’t in all of us too So when we turn away or scowl It’s just because we see, we See our abandoned parts in what you so bravely share Give us more, we need more of that medicine Show us what it’s like to be scared, hurt, abandoned, and held down Show us what it’s like to be angry and helpless Because when you show us that you also show us what real hope and tenacity look like You show us Heart. You show us Faith. You show us what we’re afraid of. And we need it modeled for us, because we can get so blinded to our own source of it. So bare your soul Bare it open For all to see Shame is just a construct created by the weak, by the ones who seek to hide and