A Story About Green Beans

Around this time last year, I sat across from my grandmother and mother at a french restaurant in Florida. We’re french, so there’s a certain cellular familiarity when we go there and break fresh bread slathered in butter.

The conversation moved lightly from weather to beach weather to beach activities and finally to food. Of course. My grandmother shared a story about herself as a child. She was with her family at a friend’s house. At dinnertime, they served tender, perfect green beans from their garden. My grandmother wanted a second helping. Her mother (my great grandmother) turned to her and said, “don’t ever ask for more”.

That phrase struck a cord, reverberating along a false truth through the center of me and back, back, back into the lineage of our family. I followed the reverberation, realizing in one heavy moment that every woman in my family was living that phrase in her own way, bent or contorted or atrophied or embittered or enslaved by that lie.

I reeled, as if the wind had been knocked out of me.

I had to command myself to breathe again, to return to the food in front of me and the women across from me, continuing our conversation.

Within the next hour, I had found my indignation and iron-willed resolve. That belief would end with me. I would not live it anymore.

Unlike some of the women in my family, I could do something about it. I could go in search of that wound and invite it to heal.

A few weeks after returning to my little studio apartment in New York, I saw the wound clearly in my mind’s eye. It stretched through time and space, an oozing and raw fissure through the landscape of my lineage. Parasites fed from it, spawning infection and rotting flesh.

Breathing and taking in the wound, I widened the scope of my internal attention to not only see it, but allow an action or direction to present itself.

In the same breath, an ancient and bespectacled version of Poseidon rose from an ocean beneath my feet. The first step was clear: salt water. He washed it over the wound. Parasites scuttled away. The rawness seemed to pop and burn at first, and then settle into a deep exhale.

My physical body responded with dropped shoulders, folding back into the pillows on my bed – exhausted. relieved. uncertain. A few minutes of breathing, watching ocean water foam through time, and I was able to sit up again, shakily ready for whatever was next.

The water ebbed away, leaving behind a gaping, but clean, pathway of pain. Water could flow anywhere, but I was just one person. What was I supposed to do? Spend hours or even days mending a millenia-long lie? Impossible.

The word ‘impossible’ ushered in a new kind of help. I was joined by the communion of saints. If you’ve never heard of them before, it’s a Catholic thing. The communion of saints are all the apostles, the mystics, the sainted ones that have gone before us and now move mountains and make jokes and celebrate our progress from other dimensions. They presented themselves to me once before on a foggy road the the middle of Yellowstone National Park, as a I drove alone, sobbing and scared, on a pilgrimage of sorts. They wrapped me in a million-layered hug that day.

This day, they poured in through doorways and centuries, chatting and laughing with each other like dear friends. Some acknowledged me, others simply got to work. Stitching, sewing, reshaping, cutting away, mending the wound before them.

When all of heaven responds to your need and descends on your life without a second thought, there are no words for that except Love.

I watched and waited, marveling at their tenderness and efficiency. I could feel energy shifting as their hands worked, growing brighter and stronger, richer and elastic, softer and sweeter. Everything about this was changing. I was changing.

A thousand breaths later and they vanished just as they arrived, without ceremony or fanfare. One last round of helpers – the animals and angels. They’re not really that different. Both pure and wise, with unearthly medicine for us.

The angels smoothed salve over stitches and made god-honey in all the empty spaces. The animals rested. Their purring warmth vibrating through swollen tissue and tired cells, calling every square inch back to life, to fullness, to highest purpose, to golden Hara Line destiny.

A second later I was laying on my bed, bathed in afternoon sun, with dried salt water on my cheeks and an impossibly whole heart.

This is how I heal. Whether its my own or a client’s, this is the process. For the unspoken and the unspeakable aspects of you that need to be held in the light, this is the process. Assembling a team, holding space for the work, honoring the process, making sense of what’s emerging, and softening, strengthening into the new. You can’t force it or fake it. You just have to show up willing to be helped, to heal. You have to trust your own perfect timing and your life’s undeniable desire for freedom and tenderness and love lavished through time and space.

The Joyful Crucible

Pay close attention to those quiet stirrings of your soul. Are they habit, desire, or need? Name them carefully.  Brush away the layers of reaction and discern, discern, discern.

Together your body and mystical experience provide the wisest, most exquisitely well-suited map for your way forward.

Do yourself a tremendous favor and give your inner life undivided attention as often as you can.

Step out of the storylines and conversations that encourage sameness.

Peel away the pieces you’ve outgrow. Bless their contribution. Leave them by the side of the road.

The only way out is through.
Whisper it to yourself: through. through. through.

This joyful crucible wants to claim and transform every cell of you from every lifetime.
Surrender yourself on the altar.

Even as you beg the Divine for an easier way.

Surrender.

Even as you search for reason and steadiness and logic.

Surrender.

Even as the ground beneath you falls away.

Surrender.

Even when the unfolding landscape seems impossible.

Surrender.

p.s. if you’re ready for some energetic support as you practice surrender, click here to book a Short & Sweet Energy Consult with me!

Deep Dive: Energy Medicine for Body and Soul

The deep end is where the magic happens. It’s where you discover what you’re made of: courage, tenacity, grit, compassion… everything you need.
The deep end is where you discover what desires withstand the pressure of forging ahead and creating.

The deep end is where risk turns into reward.

The deep end is where you flourish.

The deep end is where you need the most support.

Let’s dive.

20 Minutes + $45.  Click here to book a Short & Sweet Energy Consult.

Antonyms of Punishment

A couple weeks ago, while vibing pretty hard with the almost-full-moon, I googled “antonyms of punishment”. You know, just for fun.

Here are a few that melted me liquid like honey: forgiveness. blessing. approval. amnesty. deliverance. gentleness. indulgence. mercy. praise. protection. release.

Yes. YES TO ALL OF THOSE.

My whole body seemed to fill and float like a sponge.

Self-punishment is guilt in action. It’s a barrier between our gifts and a world desperate for us to use them.

When we choose one of those other words to inform our actions, we generate love.
We create a higher vibration.
We allow new opportunities for wholeness, wellbeing, power, and joy to open up.
We enable the Divine to breathe deeper in us.
We grow our life a little more lush.
We serve our clients, relationships, and self from higher ground.
We recognize our gifts like old friends emerging from a crowd.
We end the cycle of struggle.
Doesn’t that sound delicious?

If you’re ready for your business to feel like a living, breathing benediction for you and everyone it touches, let’s talk.

Gentle Reminder: You’re Here. You’re enough.

It’s okay if you didn’t reinvent yourself today.

It’s okay if you didn’t transform, transmute, or transcend anything.

It’s okay if an old habit reintroduced itself. It’s okay if you didn’t make everyone happy.

It’s okay if you forgot, remembered, took too long, went too fast, or didn’t set an intention.

It’s okay if you didn’t feel particularly sparkly every second you were awake.

You’re here.
You’re enough.

The Warrior Woman

The Warrior Archetype.

She burns away the sweet talk and making nice. After all, you’re not here to be nice. Kind, sure. Humble, yes. Grounded in your divinity, absolutely. But you’re not here to contort yourself to keep everyone comfortable.

When I work with my Inner Warrior, she makes a beautiful mess. Through that mess, She clarifies like no other.

She isn’t ladylike or polite.

In fact, She relishes the activities that tend to make people cringe-y and uncomfortable.

A few examples:

She sees, binds, and slays demons. She has excellent night vision and she uses it to hunt the darkness. When she’s done, she licks the blood off her blades.

She is shockingly blunt and brutally honest. Are you using karma or consciousness as an excuse to participate in something that’s toxic, misaligned, or low-vibration? She’ll let you know. There’s no malice in her truth-telling. It’s dry and factual, which can sound harsh. But at her fiery heart is Pure Love.

She doesn’t take a single second for granted. She is ferociously present. And she will drag you from past or future to this exact moment so you can look yourself full in face – the light, the dark, the mess, the miracle.

She’s a bit of a metaphysical pyro. Her delivery of wisdom and war is clean, not clouded with a lot of feelings, agendas, or desired outcomes. The preamble to that clean delivery, is a lake of fire. She’ll start it, bathe a whole situation in it, and pace the shorelines watching for what emerges solidified or burnt to a crisp.

She brings the cosmic balance of life AND death. As light chasers and awareness generators, it’s easy to gravitate towards the light. But we’re not all light. There’s rolled-up-sleeves and get-your-hands-dirty work to be done in ourselves and this world we live in. There’s insidious darkness to address. There are bullshit and platitudes to burn down. There are energetic strongholds of hatred, suffering, and apathy that need dismantling.

Let Her lose, friends. She has work to do.

Preparing Your Heart

Drumming is my favorite vibration for deep heart work preparation. I combine it with rib and hip isolations, letting Anahata (heart chakra energy) spiral its way gracefully into the ground, deeper and deeper, merging fiery and blissful with the core of our earth.

When we consider heart energy only in terms of flow and emotionality, we miss out on the power of a rooted and rhythmic heart. Roots and rhythm make movement and the movement of the heart creates a path for transcendence, healing, and feeling.

Ground your heart like a tree. Let it make its own wise way into Love.

Don’t Hold Back

You’ve made waiting a superpower
Turning your desire into a delicate pause
A total surrender to Divine Timing
And while your heart waited, it grew lush
Now it’s time to stop waiting, Beloved
Your heart is too irresistible to hold back.

Craving

cravingsI’ve been craving grapefruit for the past 48 hours. To be clear, I haven’t been thinking about grapefruit. I’ve been tasting its tang on my tongue. I’ve been feeling its little pockets of juice burst when I bite. I’ve been smelling its sharply sweet citrus so intensely that I half expected to find one magically waiting next to my laptop. That is a craving. It’s not a thought. It’s not a rational want or need. Rather it’s visceral. The primal union of a need and a want.

In the US, when we talk about cravings, our minds usually land on diet rhetoric fraught with terms like “curb your sugar craving.” Through that paradigm, we have collectively come to understand cravings as illicit thoughts that we must find a way to control. If there was ever a nod to our puritanical roots, it’s our attitudes toward and very definition of craving. We’ve put craving in a metaphoric corset and told her to sit down and shut up. We’ve given practicality precedence. And we’ve relegated cravings to chocolate (actually the iron in chocolate) when we have our periods.

Well, Loves, I don’t like chocolate. So I started considering my cravings, which strayed far from the norm. I started distinguishing between wanting (a thought) and craving (a sensual experience). Here’s what I’ve learned: Wants come and go. They can be forgotten. Cravings are persistent. They will not let you forget them until they’re sated. Wants emerge from a lack of something. Cravings emerge from a desire for something. They point us towards fullness. The purpose of cravings is not simply pleasure or play or satisfaction. A craving invites us to expand our capacity. When we answer our cravings we find ourselves transforming into the most powerful, lush versions of ourselves. We find ourselves ready, even hungry, for more in our lives.

When we start listening to our cravings, they demand a new kind of listening. Cravings are primal. They require us to remember ancient ways of listening. We need to metaphorically put our ears to the ground and wait for the distant vibration of footsteps. We need to pause, not just for a breath, but for the whiff of longing our breath might carry. Because cravings arrive in subtlety. They’re melted into the layers beneath our thoughts, beneath our skin. However, don’t mistake their subtlety for impotence or simplicity. Cravings are sensual. They’ll take us over, if we let them out of their cages.

They can turn you into a huntress, bent on feeding all her hungers. They can turn you into a creatrix, laser focused on making and birthing. They can turn you into a seductress, brimming with sovereignty and softness. Cravings are the flame in the dark leading you back to your inner fire.

So let me ask you: What are you craving?

We Are Here to Heal

triggeredimageWide awake at 4am and deeply triggered by the results of the election, I reflected on this:

In 2005 I was sitting in a Human Services class at Schenectady Community College listening to my professor explain the cycle of abuse. She described how a woman (or man) returns to her abuser an average of seven times before permanently leaving the relationship. She explained how the abuse would, at some point, be internalized and woven into her belief about her worthiness. She told us how external abuse often turned into self-abuse – willingly allowing manipulation, fear, and guilt to guide her life, accepting emotional crumbs instead of expecting support and love, and punishing herself physically and emotionally.

I sat there, lifting as far out of my body as possible, in a state of numb realization. In that moment my only thought was: run. Rage and terror and grief boiled beneath the surface. In a moment of self-preservation, my sunny exterior took over with a Stepford-eque vengeance. Faking it a majority of the time felt like negotiating between life and death. I had a grip on my role, on my smile and laugh and amiable personality, that could break a neck. I had a death grip on my mask, because the second I let it go there’s a chance I’d fall apart. There was a chance I would turn to dust or burn up. Or worst of all, the world might confirm that I was as worthless, ugly, weak, and disappointing as I had been lead to believe.

I’ve spent the last twelve years peeling away the layers of my mask, wading through the pain and scars and lies, reclaiming my beauty and power and radiance. That process brought me to the brink of my life, unsure if I could take another breath. It brought me into skin-tearing, raw-throated, sweat dripping, broken hearted suffering that felt endless.

On the days when I couldn’t feel or think or see the light, or breath, I let God move my lungs and limbs. I struggled. I fought. I anchored my entire being in the knowing that love always wins and it would win in my life and the world around me. I freed myself, wound by wound, from a mind that had been turned into a prison.

I’ve reach a mountain peak in my life. There are certainly more valleys and more mountains ahead, but right now, the view is spectacular and there’s more light than I could have ever imagined. I’m safe and loved and so are you. Joy washes through me with every breath because something became clear:

No matter how much rage you have right now, no matter how deeply your grief cuts or your pain digs, your suffering carves out  a greater capacity to love and heal and contain this wild world.

Your wound is your medicine. So let this cut a little deeper, let this take you further into your ferocious truth, into your capacity to love yourself, to forgive, and let that love gush and overflow to the world. You’re here to heal, Beloved. We are here to heal.

If your heart says it’s time to go deeper, let’s talk.