Dear Body: An Openly Apologetic Love Letter

“Life will break you. Nobody can protect you from that, and living alone won't either, for solitude will also break you with its yearning. You have to love. You have to feel. It is the reason you are here on earth. You are here to risk your heart. You are here to be swallowed up. And when it happens that you are broken, or betrayed, or left, or hurt, or death brushes near, let yourself sit by an apple tree and listen to the apples falling all around you in heaps, wasting their sweetness. Tell yourself you tasted as many as you could.”

― Louise Erdrich, The Painted Drum

Dear Body,

Last night, while perusing an embarrassing myriad of social media , I came across a truly beautiful photo.

It was black and white.

And the frame captured a woman's body from just above her belly button to just above her knees.  A courageous scar noted the arrival her beautiful newborn, also in the frame, asleep between her thighs.

I couldn't actually finish reading the article, though, because I fell asleep, hating you.

I fell asleep hating you, Body, because the woman in that beautiful black and white photo and I share a very similar scar in a very similar place.  We both delivered something from our uterus, only, she delivered a beautiful baby.  One that will grow beside her.  Love her. She will share the love of this child with a partner who loves her and who probably thinks her after-baby body is even sexier than it was before.  If he doesn't, then, he's an idiot.   I fell asleep hating you because all you and I delivered was a giant tumor, nearly the size of a football.  And, when I saw the photo of that tumor, all I could see was a bloody and dead mass where a beautiful baby may have lived.

Granted, we weren't trying to get pregnant but I understand, from your perspective, Body, that you and the other woman's body had been through very similar operations and you'd come out empty-handed.  Maybe you thought a baby would have made it worth it.

It took me three days to gather the impetuous to shower after surgery and three days post surgery, I stood in the hospital bathroom, agonizing over how I was going to maneuver through a shower. When I pulled off my gown, and released my hair from it's messy ball atop my head, I stared, in utter shock. Body, you were covered in bruises from needles.  Your incision, although expertly drawn, was blotted in red, purple, strange tape and a now ever so slightly deformed stomach as a result of having been stitched up.  But worst, and most shameful, was how I felt about you, Body, as housing a woman who has worked very hard to cultivate her femininity.  Your breasts- they were swollen and saggy. Your thighs and mid-section were utterly unrecognizable.  The saline solution, meds, anesthesia and trauma of having been torn open and sewed back up again made you unrecognizable to me.  And it was all I could do, standing there alone, not to shatter the mirror which held your monstered image in to a thousand pieces.

I was ashamed of you.

I was mortified.

I sobbed.  And I sobbed and I sobbed.

I've practiced Yoga for many years- this, you, were not the body I'd had just days ago.  You were not the body I'd worked so hard to feel comfortable in.  Moreover, this disgust for my own body is not what I've fought to overcome for the last few years.  This anger towards you is not how I was trained to view you, Body.  Submerging myself in to this yogic culture has allowed me the honor and humble support of some of the most brilliant, courageous and beautiful women I've ever met, and I am ashamed of my own shame, now.  How could I possibly sit in front of a Yin class as a teacher, now, encouraging women to simply love where they are; to love the mechanics of their bodies and the freedoms those mechanics allowed for?  To love every flaw.  Every bump, every insecurity?  I'd become a fraud in no short time frame.

And, It wasn't enough that you were unable to stand tall, and were now crooked, constipated, unwashed, hairy, sliced open and scarred- but now you were also fat.

It was painful to wash you, Body.  I cried in the shower. And, when I got out of the shower and stared at the naked, embarrassing mess you'd become, I cried again.  I couldn't imagine that anyone might find me, you, us beautiful again.

Ashamed to be seen in public, at first I refused to leave the house.

And then, I thought about you, Body.

I mean, I really really thought about you.

Mostly, I thought about how brave you are, and have been, when I am not.

And, so, here's the real letter I wanted to write to you.  I just needed you to understand some things leading up to this letter.

Beautiful Body,

I am so sorry.

I am sorry for believing that you are anything but strong, courageous, powerful, feminine and exquisite.  I am sorry for having believed in this cultural myth that to tell you that you are beautiful makes me vain, shallow and self-obsessed.  I am sorry that I have become impatient with you.

I am sorry for not telling you, on a more consistent basis how strong, beautiful and brave you are.

I am sorry that I have depended on the compliments of others, namely men to validate your prowess and strength of being.

You have held this Spirit in the confines of the greatest health.  You have supported this Spirit during times of great strife, grief, a broken heart and trauma. And, you have stayed true and sound.

I am sorry for being anything but supportive of you during this trauma.

We do not have a beautiful baby, you and I, Body.

But we have our health.

We are officially cancer free.

And, we have shit to do.

We just got a new lease on life, you and me.  And, I'm sorry it's taken such a desperate moment in life for me to truly note your value.

I always thought that someday we'd meet a most wonderful man and that he would love us exactly as and for who we were.  I think that since I found it so hard to love you as you are for all of these years, I thought it might help if someone just helped to remind me that they thought you were beautiful.

I am ashamed of this also.

While you deserve the praise of a partner, one who places value upon the curves, bumps, lines and the grey hairs that tell the story of our travels, you ought not to have been waiting for someone else to provide this validation.  It should have been me, standing naked in the mirror, praising you for the strength you have provided us.

Every woman deserves a partner who holds her curves as though he holds the love of his life and I'm sorry, Body, that I've caused you to believe that you are any less beautiful because you do not have that.

I am sorry for that moment in the hospital bathroom.  That moment, after surgery, when I removed my gown and stared and you in the mirror and only sobbed.  Body, I didn't recognize you, covered in bruises, needles, stitches, gauze and tubes.  I am sorry I stood ashamed of you.  I am sorry I was only able to see the sudden weight and not your brazen will to fight.

I vow to rebuild your strength.

I promise not to rely on another, beside myself, to validate your beauty or strength.

I will never wait for the words of another to validate the breadth of your beauty but when they do, I will believe them.

I promise to take you on many more adventures.  I promise to cultivate love for every bruise and for every mark that this experience has left upon you and I vow to note those marks as chapters in this story of your valor, success and perseverance.

I promise to make the love story between you and I a journey told and made accessible to every woman everywhere.  I promise this because I understand the love between a woman and her Body, is hard to come by.  We have been taught to cautiously proceed.  To step, ever so lightly and to quietly brave our stories so as not to cause great commotion.  I'm certain we've strayed from the Red Tent and this is just part of my journey back to that place.  What we fail to see in this hiding place, is that we are never alone.  And if one of us speaks up, so many others are given the platform to do the same.

It is my hope that our shared stories provide safe passage for women to fearless and bravely speak, out loud and out of doors, of those things we've been taught to shun, to hide.

Love and Light Body,

Me

p.s. I promise not to starve you of french fries, bread or real butter out of fear of what others might think of us...or cellulite

My Red Tent

If taking a compliment from a beautiful man or woman makes you uncomfortable, please read this post.

If wearing beautiful lingerie beneath your daily attire seems superfluous and vulgar, please read this post.

If you are unable to stand, naked, in front a mirror.period., please read this post.

If you believe you, as a person, are unworthy of ceremony, praise and holy sacrament, please read this post.

If you believe that sexual freedom is only for "those girls," please read this post.

If the word "femininity" makes you uncomfortable, please read this post.

If you believe makeup is shallow, vain and unnecessary, please read this post.

If you believe sacred self-care of the feminine is a luxury you can't afford, please read this post.

If you believe that The Red Tent is a prophecy of false teachings, please read this post.

This post might make you feel squirmy, uncomfortable, even, dare I say...blasphemous.  It might allow for a sigh of relief.  It might make you cry.  It might send you running for the hills. And, that's exactly why I'd like you to read it.

So, join me.  Pour yourself some hot Rose tea; maybe a glass of wine if you're so inclined.  Squirrel yourself up on the couch, cozied beneath a blanket.  Light some candles, dim the lights.  Create this lush space for yourself.  I'd like to tell you a story and if, at any point, you are made to feel uncomfortable, My Sweet Reader, please know you are not alone.  I got you.

We all do.

Now.  Take a deep breath, let it go.  Take a sip of your beverage of choice and let's get in this...

Real shadow work does not leave us intact; it is not some neat and tidy  process, but rather an inherently messy one, as vital and unpredictably alive as birth. The ass it kicks is the one upon which we are sitting; the pain it brings up is the pain  we’ve been fleeing most of our life; the psychoemotional breakdowns it catalyzes are the precursors to hugely relevant breakthroughs; the doors it opens are doors that have shown up year after year in our dreams, awaiting our entry. Real shadow work not only breaks us down, but breaks us open.
                                                                                                         - Sera Beak Red Hot and Holy                                                                                                 

I have, indeed, broken apart.  Wide open.  It's not pretty, I'll tell you that.  Sort of like a carcass on the side of the road...the kind you shield your eyes from, partly for fear of seeing something so horrific and partly for the sorrow it brings and still, in the same space in which you just can't pry your eyes away from all that blood.  But this break isn't something I can afford to look away from.  It's uncomfortable and really messy.  It's scary and it's also a time in which I see the Beauty that exists in me.

If you know me, you know that I've lived a pretty beautiful life. Never needing for a thing.  I've accomplished goals, traveled, explored, earned a degree, an advanced degree, survived (and escaped) Corporate America, earned my Yoga Teacher certification and a pile of other great things.

If you know me, you also know there's been some real shit I've waded through. No one wants to hear about that...so let's get to the part where that sip of wine might come in handy.

I am a woman.

That should be obvious if you've ever seen a photo of me...or if you know me, personally.

I am a woman who's accomplished a lot.  I am a woman who has an amazing family.  I am a woman who has the best support system, in friends, one could ask for.  I am a woman who has loved madly, passionately and fiercely.

What you don't know about me...is that being a woman has scared the shit out me for most of my life.

I am also a woman who's spent most of my life hiding who I am from most of you reading this.

See, the thing is, in many places throughout the globe, a woman has the freedom to be anything she wants. This is a good problem to have, yes. She is a powerhouse.  A Corporate leader, an artist.  She is a stay-at-home-mom, an architect. She wears a lot of make-up, or none at all.  She spends money on high-end shoes or cheap flip flops at Payless Shoe Source.  She is a mother, a lover, a prostitute and a chaste Saint.  She is a Savior and a Demon.

I'm not sure about you,  but all these options were too much.

And they were too much because I literally felt ALL of these women.

ALL OF THEM.

I felt their breath, their pain, their love their fear, their successes and challenges.  I felt them all at once and when I couldn't discern this gift to feel, I crashed and burned.

I couldn't choose to be just one- so I chose to be none.

Make-up scared me.  Receiving compliments made me highly uncomfortable and receiving the attention of men?  That was unbearable.  Lace panties scared me.  Sexuality scared me.  Showing cleavage scared me.  Marriage and children scared me.

It wasn't until I met Narcissism that I finally realized what it was about being a woman that truly scared me...just when I needed Her most.

She is called the Divine Feminine.

And She doesn't take shit.

She is Queen of Light and Dark.  She is the Creator and the Destroyer.  She is our History.  She is the story left of the Bible and a a pile of other Sacred texts,  She is Eve, Kali, Lilith and Persephone.  She is the Protector and Harbor of Mysteries and long-forgotten Ceremonies.  She is the mother of Community.  She is YOU.

And, She is ME.

Narcissism is a tough pill to swallow...and it's very tricky to recognize.

It's especially challenging to really see Narcissism when you're an Empath.

Enter the Divine Feminine.  She tore me from a situation by setting me on fire.  And, when She picked me up against my will and pushed me out the door, I realized that at some point, She rises with a profound fury when we are unable to do so and when She's had enough. We may not even we see it happening.  I can't even begin to imagine what others see when She's graced them with Her presence...in me.

Go ahead.  Take a swig of that wine.

You'll need it for this next part.

See, the Divine Feminine is strong in me.  She's brazen.  Emotional.  She is kind and fiercely angry. She is beautiful, damaged and fiercely protective.  She is warmth and She is Grace.  She's my Mama Bear.  And she's PISSED OFF that it took me so long to see that she is in ME as much as she is in YOU.

Women are magic.  I mean, really, we are.  And if you're a man who happens to be very much in touch with your own Divine Feminine, this include you, My Darlings.  If you're a man who sees this and agrees with me and you remind your woman or partner of their mysterious and sacred grace, I'd like to kiss you, on the cheek...take it easy...and say thank you.

Why have so many of us FORGOTTEN this?

We live in a world that shames women for nearly every thought she has about Herself.  If She proclaims her beauty, she's arrogant.  If she's afraid of Her beauty or diminishes Herself, She is weak, insecure and small.  If she exposes Her cleavage, She's a whore.  And if She never exposes Her cleavage, She's a prude.  If a woman is married, She's given in and submitted to a man.  If She's single, She's a cast-away and unwanted. If She's career-oriented, She's too masculine and if She's a stay-at-home mom, She's given up her right to be educated and empowered.

my Gawd...

No wonder we're such a shit show.

Why is it that so many of us are afraid of our own Shadow?  Afraid of the beautiful and perfectly sacred body standing before us in the mirror?  Why are we afraid to wear red lipstick and why are we ashamed our bra size?  Why do we pick the wrong partners?  The ones we know will never stay? Why do we subject ourselves to careers that don't fulfill us?  Why do we fear our financial status? Why do we fear being too powerful or not powerful enough?  Our relationship status?  Why do we fear our sexuality, our emotions and suppress our rage or find balance in our display of those emotions?

If you don't see this fear as palpable or, even real,  I urge you to visit a bookstore and check out the "Women's Studies" section or the "Self-Transformation" section.  Bookshelves are littered with "self-help" books that help guide women along what has been a deep-seated albeit overlooked Sacred Path back to the Divine Feminine.  Most of the books on the shelves discuss our fear of success and how to combat that fear, or touch on our fear of our own sexuality, or "How to Be Happy and Single" or "How To Not Lose Yourself In Your Marriage."

We don't need books on manners or tips on how to "please a man bed."

F@*K that.

Good manners, in and outside of the bedroom, aren't something a woman needs to learn from a damn manual.  She'll earn those badges with the right partner (yup, I just said that) or when She decides She's good 'n'ready.

We need books on Sacred ceremonies, how to please OUR-EFFING-SELVES in bed and how to not feel badly about this...and how to choose a relationship that ignites our fire and a partner who fans that fire, who holds the space for us to break and to re-build, to grow and to fall apart.  We should have books that remind us of our Sacred selves and the men who believe in us.  We should have books that remind us that it's totally great and empowering to wear ridiculous and superfluous black lace bras under our bland grey sweatshirt, on a random Tuesday, when no one under the sun will ever see it...because we like it and it makes us feel freaking beautiful and mysterious!  We need books that remind us that just because a man (or woman) tells us that we're beautiful...sometimes that's all it is.  It doesn't mean that person's trying to hop in the sack with us- there's no need to panic or brace yourself for WWIII.  Sometimes someone pays us a compliment and we should just smile and say "thank you."  We need books that teach us that we deserve to be with partners who compliment us despite the shame we feel in that space and who cherish the lumps and bumps on our bodies and who constantly ask us to show more...do you realize how lucky you are to have a man who worships the being and the body you have?  If he tells you you're beautiful...if she tells you your body is the most precious thing she's ever laid eyes on...DAMNIT SISTER, take it in. Breath in that compliment and let it swim in your insides, filling your cells and pouring wisdom in to all the places and empty spaces you forgot about. And say "thank you, my Beloved, for always reminding me."

And never, ever, EVER choose to stay with a partner who punishes you by refraining from showering you with the compliments and love you so deserve and then, twists your head all around by informing you that you're insecure.  Never be with anyone who makes you feel that you are difficult to love.  Run like hell from that one.  Trust me.

Look, I'm not angry...exactly...

I just...really love you.  And I want you to acknowledge your worth and your prowess and the mystery that you are, deep inside, even in the darkest, most forgotten and lonely places.

If you forgot you were the Divine Feminine, I just want to remind you that you ARE Her.

And if you live in fear of Her, I want you to know that you aren't alone.

She's a wild one, that beautiful Creature and if you've not yet met Her, when you do, She will turn your world upside down, twist your insides all about and hopefully break you in to the Light.

You are a beautiful creature made from Divinity.  And you are worthy of walking the Sacred Path, just as Mary, Kali, Jesus, Mother Theresa, Buddha and the Queen of Sheba did...it is your Divine right to dig in deep, to the depths of the darkest spaces and be reminded of the mystery of this beautiful divine energy that exists in each of us, regardless of your religion, belief system, upbringing, sexual orientation, relationship status...none of that shit matters.

At your worst.  And, at your best, I believe that you are a powerful, mysterious, Divine and illuminating Creature- and I love you for all of those pieces.

Take the compliment from that beautiful man or woman and say "thank you."

Wear beautiful lingerie beneath your daily attire- even if it's just for YOU.

Stand naked before a mirror and cherish the Temple that you have been given to house your Soul.

Offer yourself ceremony, praise and holy sacrament, regularly.

Come to see your sexuality as part of who you are and be totally cool with it.  If you struggle with this, read A Woman On Fire by Amy Jo Goddard because daaaang...she's good.

Dissect the word femininity and create your own definition that defines the way this speaks to YOU.

Don't fear the mascara, lip gloss and red lipstick...seriously.

Realize that sacred self-care of the feminine is a luxury you can't afford NOT to perform for Yourself.

Read The Red Tent by Anita Diamant.  And if you've already read it...read it again.

And if you believe you are not worth being cherished as a Divine and Glorious being by your partner or cannot seem to find one who values this Divinity, visit Mr. Amari Soul's page on Facebook.  And then, read his book Reflections of A Man because even though he doesn't know you from Eve or Lilith, he'll remind you of your worth and it will blow your mind...

I love you,

Brett


"I don't know about you, but personally, I want to learn about the Divine Feminine from someone who dares to speak Her.  The good news is it doesn't take fancy techniques to speak Her.  When you connect more consciously with your soul, it will naturally start to affect your human voice.  

Your soul's voice isn't just a voice "from the divine"; it's also how the Divine communicates through and as you.  You mix and match together.     Therefore, your soul might not always sound mystically poetic.  She might speak some other sort of spiritual street slang or swear like a sailor or sing like an angel.  She might bubble beliefs like a valley girl with a wad of gum in her mouth, or twang truths like a kinky cowgirl riding through the Wild West of reality, or bleep blessings like an "alien" from the fifth dimension, or float ideas like a planetary body that orbits just left of everything you think you know.

This is how She Speaks.

This isn't the only way the Divine Feminine speaks, but this is a coive that most of us have shut up because we have not been taught to respect or value it.  We have been schooled out of it.  This is the voice that doesn't give a shit about being literary or witty or pretty or remarkable or "spiritual."  

Why is it so important to unleash your soul's voice?  Well, because for women, finding their authentic voice is almost, if not quite, the equivalent to finding their true identity.

Every time you speak your truth, a Goddess tattoos your name across Her belly."

-  Sera Beak, Red Hot and Holy

Just Beyond the Edge of Fear

I want to talk about fear.

Pure, organic and unadulterated, fear.

Fear can paralyze us in this frozen spectrum of time, through which we remain unable to grasp even the simplest things, concepts, people and motions of movement.  It becomes hot, this inertia existing inside ready to defend but still unable to do so because it locks us tight, makes us rigid and bound to some form of rule set we've created.  That rule set determines the course by which we freeze.

We are not enough to get this thing, this person, this dream, this reality we want.

We are not enough to be this thing, this person, this dream, this reality we want.

When fear paralyzes, it binds us to the impossible.  To the not enough.  To the I can't. To the I don't know how and to all of those things, those voices and those reasonable and logical pieces that tell us fear is the risk and to stay is the safe place, despite the pain it causes.

It becomes the thing that binds us to pain.  And so we become the un-doable.

And that, my darlings, is how we know that the thing we fear may, in fact, be the very thing we must face head-on.

I fear change and yet I crave it at every instant of my life.  I am a juxtaposition in this game.  I fear that which I cannot know.  I fear those people who I cannot possibly know.  I fear the prospect of the effort that must exist to make change and that which must force me to move this inertia of passion and drive in me.  And yet the risks I take in not meeting the edge of fear is so much greater than the fear of actually facing that fear and shoving it aside.  It's a mirror.  It's two things at once.  It's complicated and indiscernible if you don't pay attention.

But fear is also humbling, wise and warm.

There's a way to discern fear's place in life.

Intuition.

Your heart.  What your heart tells you in the face of fear is the guide that tells you when you've met fear head-on and danced in this beautiful hot fire and come through it alive.  When your heart meets fear and your intuition tells you that everything you want is right over the edge of fear and your heart beats with the joy of actually meeting the darkness of fear, you know you've met your match and won.

Check mate.

I win.

When you can see fear as humbling, as a reasonable set of rules by which you take a risk with thoughtful inertia, with true intent and with warmth, you know that the fear is just a small voice of caution and not an all-consuming chill that straps you to a place from which you are immovable.  When fear becomes a thing that guides our logical self to make sound decisions through kindness, grace and real effort, then we know we are on the right path.  Fear is a mechanism by which we achieve greatness, dreams and sometimes, if we're lucky, bliss.  We just have to know how to read our hearts through the space of fear,

And in this journey of my own, as I take the greatest risk of my life, I honor the fear.  I honor the reality of that fear and do not take it for granted and cannot take it in so much so, either, that it freezes me in this path.  I choose to allow this fear to humble my decision-making process, my path, my career, my sense of self and help define what it is I have to share.

I've met fear, just at the edge of my comfort level and use it to my advantage so that I may gain wisdom in this risk...so that I may learn to take flight on a path which becomes me as I walk this line. And this meeting with fear is altogether different.  It is free of suffocation, bounded rules and expectations from this life.  This meeting with fear is a calm discussion of the facts, perhaps with a spot of tea.  It is a wise pursuit of truth on a new journey and I am humbled by and grateful for the balance of logic is provides along with a desperate cry fro big freedom.

And when you can have tea with fear, that is when you know, She guides you well because the resounding notion that you can conquer that fear is bigger than She is.  And She knows.

So, she says her piece, provides you with her warnings and nags you as a mother might and then, she steps aside when she recognizes a warrior She cannot stop because that warrior is bound by their heart and not the fear.

In yoga, we like to encourage folks to meet their edge."  And as that is so apropos, I say go ahead, meet the edge of your fear and take one, small step, just beyond it and see what happens...

I’ve tried to write this a number of times over the past year and have failed each time.  Sometimes a “thank you” is quiet and easy, this one is not either of those things.  This “thank you” is one I’ve thought about screaming from some rooftop, from the peak of a mountain or from the back-end of a mega phone.  This “thank you” is one whose depth I wanted to reach far and well outside of myself.  It is organic, sincere and humble.

One year ago, today, January 29^th, 2014, I lost everything I owned in a house fire.  Details as to the start of this fire are still unknown and thus it remains.  Closure, considering these circumstances, has been hard to come by.  I’m not sure if you’ve ever loved a home, felt its presence as total sanctuary, but that’s what this sweet house was to me and I miss it ever single day.  I miss the smell.  The hardwood floors.  I miss the warmth and the presence of something so secure and special.  I miss my collection of antiques and my photos, my journals, my collection of hundreds of books.  These are all just “things” and I am conscious enough to understand that the love of trivial things is not what matters most in life.  But then again, you cannot truly understand this...until…you do not have these precious things.

In the months, that followed, however, I learned what sincere gratitude and giving is.  Many of us think we know the ins and outs of these two things but to lose everything teaches us the enormity of these gifts. 

But I digress.  This letter is not intended as a means by which I choose to share my story.  This letter is one I should have written long ago but could not.

It’s time now.

There are the obvious heroes in this journey: Auburn Police Department who arrived at the fire, first.  I am ashamed to tell you that I do not know his name, but one officer, held me in his arms, carrying me from the fire when I met him at the front the house (I was out of the house by the time they arrived, unharmed).  To that officer, thank you for your kindness.  Thank you for the shelter of arms in that moment- you cannot know what that means to me, today, a year later. 

To Auburn Fire Department, thank you for your work.  For the bravery you own in this crazy job of yours.  “Thank you” isn’t nearly enough.  The words are not big enough.  I stand ashamed by my inability to thank you in a way that you truly deserve, other than, very publically, thanking you for a service which renders you heroes in the eyes of so many.  I love every.single.one.you.  Truly.

To my employer, ClearCapital,Inc., I am not even sure where to begin.  Your outpouring of support, offers of shelter, clothes, home supplies, shoes, boots, yoga gear and warmth re-affirmed my faith.  I cannot express, in words, the bigness of your support.  You have literally transformed my life, now, a year later.  You may not know it, but it was the collective offering of financial support that allowed me to put down first and last month’s rent for my new sweet home.  You furnished my home, my kitchen and filled a new closet with more clothes than I’ve ever owned in my lifetime.  You helped warm this space with treasures shared and the books…so many books.  You have re-built my library and if you know me, you know that this means the world to me.  YOU have rebuilt my life, you guys- and I mean that.  Thank you.

To the cities of San Francisco, Santa Cruz, Truckee, Tahoe, Reno, Auburn, and home: Half Moon Bay, wow.  I grew up in a small town on the Coast and I was raised with the powerful notion that collective unity creates a sense of community.  And you took that concept to a new level.  Boxes and boxes and boxes of clothes, tools, swim wear, jackets arrived well in to May of 2014.  A constant show of support and a reminder of the specialness of this area helped pull me up by the bootstraps and start again.  Perhaps the greatest gifts were your letters.  There was no sorrow, no pity but a firm and solid reminder of the support you offered, the reminder of the strength in Home.  Thank you for your kindness and for your faith in my ability to rise up and face a challenge with a group, and never alone.  You all are a solid and true breed of support.

To my nearest and dearest, thank you for allowing me the space to grieve, for the show of support on the hardest of days and for proving that in this life, we are never alone.  You are my foundation.  Thank you for being my cheerleaders, I love you to the Moon and back.

In an effort to pay it forward, I have a plan.  Over the course of the next year, I will be collecting as many clothes as possible and intend to donate those pieces of clothing to one family, organization or individual in need, each month beginning in February, along with a hand-written note to whomever the package is delivered.  This is not a Yew Year’s Resolution.  This is something I just need to do.  If you would like to donate clothing, want to participate or just have some thoughts on how to orchestrate this process seamlessly, please private message me if you’re a friend on Facebook or email me at: miller.belle1@gmail.com.  As I will be using my own funds to ship packages, each month, if you know me well and trust me with your cash and want to donate some cash for shipping assistance, I will welcome that also. 

If you know of folks who could benefit from these gifts, please contact me so we can chat.  A reminder of these collections will be posted Day 1 of every month, on my FB page with packages sent on the last week of each month.  If this means renting storage space, then so be it.

Thank you for the immensity of your kindness over the past year.  I am excited to continue on my journey and could not have done this without you.

With love and warmth,

Brett

So, I don't do well when idle.

I am terrified of an empty quieted mind.  And yet, my advice is always to empty the mind of the negative, suck in the light and let it fill your brain spot with and electric current so heavy that nothing negative can sustain itself in your head space.

And when I take stock of my own advice, I wonder if I am not a coward simply spewing the advice I ought to take, myself.

A lot lives in my head and heart these days.  There's a lot of good stuff in there.  But there are still traces of remorse, anger, red-hot hate and some loss.

So, in an effort to take my own advice, I enlisted myself in a 30-day yoga challenge.

It's not *that* hard.

If you're fit and, for me, emotionally equipped to handle the emotional tidal wave that hits at the end of a practice, alone, on a mat.  See, at the close of practice, your body is relieved by rest and your brain's chemically altered somehow.  Well, my brain is.  There's a lot to be said for the benefit of exercise.  I get this.  I've heard this a million times.  And when my body suffered no real threat after the past year, I was told by therapists, medical practitioners, physical therapists and my beloved chiropractor to get off my ass and move.

"Do anything.  Anything at all," they said.

And all I did was sit.  I read.  I decorated my new abode.  I painted my nails and I watched T.V. as I have cable for the first time in a decade.  I made crappy delicious food.  I snuggled my cat and dog.  I rested on the couch with my boyfriend.  I put in 100% at work.  I cried from exhaustion and berated myself because I should have cried because my lungs hurt from running.  But I didn't cry because of physical effort because I refused to put in any physical effort.

Because I was terrified.

Exercise quiets my mind.  It has the tendency to put me in to meditation mode and that, my friends, is a dangerous place for me because it makes me think about ME.

I don't like to think about ME often because I mostly come to find disappointment.

So, this is why I fill my head space with anything but exercise.

Until I met Yoga.

Again.

Nearly a decade after our initial meeting.

A 30-Day challenge was a decent commitment.  If I hated, I could throw in the towel, check it off the list and call it good.

It's been 14 days since the dawn of the challenge.

You totally just rolled your eyes.

I saw that.

And you thought about telling me to shove it, didn't you?

I heard that too.

I get it.

Yoga's over-played.

Well, so is Cross-Fit.  So is the Paleo Diet.   But we all have our vices, don't we?

The thing is...this time, my practice is different.  I am not in a "class."  I am not checking out folks around me, constantly comparing my plank pose to the girl on my right who is flawless with no make-up and can mesh in to chaturanga as easily as someone might sip a cocktail through a straw.

I am alone.  Travis leaves me to my practice in silence.  The dog goes outside and the cat takes up space on his coveted window sill.  I am left to my own devices, following a series of videos.

I was terrified of the physical stamina it would take and I am still working on moving into warrior one without eating shit on my mat.  I knew this would be tough.  But I was totally unprepared for the emotional part of the bargain.

With so much effort going in to nailing down the movements and postures, I found that the day's events, the past year's struggles and fear of inadequacy evaporated.  I spent so much time focused on perfection, that everything else just went away.

Until the moment I mastered a one-legged chaturanga.  That's when it changed.  Success does funny things to me.  I realized I was capable of this.  I could master planks if I did them every.single.day.  I could feel the fatty parts of me screaming and I loved the tears coming out of every part that hurt during practice (i.e. SWEAT).

And then my mind quieted and shit hit the fan during a few practices.

Forgiveness is a big part of this practice. Forgiveness for yourself for *not* owning your practice as you want.  Forgiveness for your body's inability to stretch like you want it to or twist as needed in order to get your right elbow securely placed on your right thigh during a twist.  Forgive and persevere because at some point, your body will one day surprise you in it's ability to kick some ass.

But there's also those quiet moments, in yoga, when you've mastered a sequence and instead of your mind striving to make it happen, it starts moving in to the shit you don't want.  See, this is why we do yoga...for strength, stamina and meditation.

But the meditation part is hard when your brain recalls all the shit you're supposed to forget during practice.

And this is why I've come to take some unnecessarily unfair advantage of my yoga practice.

I use it as a tool to expel the bad stuff.

During plank, I force the emotions of my inability to forgive out in to the mat.  I force the sadness for the loss of my house out through cleansing twists.  And I force the pain of sciatica out of my leg through dancer's pose.  I force it all out on to the mat.  And it's a release I can spread thick, without judgement and without fear.  I take the day's wares and force 'em hard through chaturanga and I curse the bad shit instead of myself for not nailing a pose.

You're probably not supposed to to yoga with that much frustration.

But it's real and it's there.  And if my mat can take it, why not get it out this way while simultaneously shredding my arm and back fat?

Seriously.

The thing is, I've met my match on the mat.  It's a physical and emotional challenge for me.  I am quiet in my head and sometimes I let it rip and tear out of me and other days I use the practice to simply forget.  More recently, I use my practice as a way to push my thought process in to something I WANT. Something attainable.  I use it as a way to project the path I'd rather have set before me.  I use it as a way to remember my house fondly.  I use it as a way to acknowledge my fears and I slay them, completely.

And I see the response from my partner.  He's committed to seeing me succeed throughout this challenge, asking me questions about my practice, congratulating me for just simply completing the 45 minute challenge every day.  He shares my excitement over a headstand and a one-legged chaturanga (I'm seriously so excited about that one). But mostly, he gives me the quiet space in which to practice.  He doesn't get yoga and he doesn't have to because he knows what the practice means to me.

So, there it is.

A non-yogi's take on yoga.

The House That Loved A Girl

Once upon a time, there stood a house.  At first glance, this house appeared old.  Tired as though it's bones would crumble at the slightest hint of a breeze.  The house's stature was small, unassuming and altogether, kind.

Most folks wouldn't describe a house as kind.  Old, yes, but kind, never.

But, Friends, this was no ordinary house.

This house held magic, you see.  The kind of magic that's still and quiet but present, always.  This house had bones much like yours and mine.  This house had a pulse.  It was shallow and calm always but a soft and steady pulse, all the same.

I suppose it may be silly to personify a house.  Buildings are not living breathing things like you and me.  And I suppose that to write in a manner that might attempt to convince a person, a reader, a friend that this house was no ordinary house and that it did indeed live and breath might be futile.  So, it is not my intent to convince you, kind reader, that this house was alive.

I will simply tell you the truth about the house, as it was.

This house was not ordinary.  Of this I am certain and that small house had quite the story to tell.

Having been built in the early 1930's, this house had stood in quiet and calm for as many years as I've been alive, three times over.  I am not certain of the stories this house held or told about previous residents.  I am not certain the previous residents knew the house or felt her breath when she breathed in and out but I am certain that the small house had its fair share of residents.

The house stood at the base of a small street, tucked in to the enclosure of a small wooded patch along its backside.  I'm certain that when this house was built, the trees were heavier. But tucked away it stood, still.  The house was yellow, pieces of that yellow melting in the hot sun.  The black shutters and white window panes made the house look a bit like a bee and the house was content with this.  Hard wood floors gave the house an added dose of warmth and the windows were many, letting in the light from the West.  Always a lovely light from the West.  The kitchen was a funny room, slightly tilted and covered in brick at one's feet.  An original brick floor, never removed, never remodeled.  It stood red, warm and slightly slanted, so that if one stood in that kitchen and focused ever so slightly, he or she would notice the slightest bend and stretch of the floor.  This was a small joke well-played by the tiny yellow house, a small token of it's sense of humor.  When the train passed, the kitchen windows rattled, excitedly as though at the tip of a roller coaster, excited by the short stretch of subtle movement.  The subtle humor and the excitement gave the house a sense of silliness.

There was one powerful measure to this house, something that made it most special and that was the lighting in the house.  The tiny house would hold the light within itself, transforming the presence in to something that cannot be described but only felt.  The light lingered inside the walls and the bones of the house as a sort of kindness bestowed it, honoring the age of the house and the long-standing strength of the house.  It may have been small but the integrity of the house's bones was steadfast and mighty.

So, it was the light that most reflected what was unique about this house.  It was the light that made the house sing and dance, light filtering the floors, seeping in through the walls and coloring the energy of the tiny house with a yellow emotion that was nothing less than magical.

Remember, I will not attempt to convince you that this tiny house was magical.  I am telling you, rather simply, that the house did not just hold and harbor magic- it was the stuff of magic.  It was not a haunted, per se.  There was no Spirit left there, dwelling in the reaches of the home...it was the house itself that held the magic.  It was in the very bones of the house.  I cannot be certain whether the house was built with magic or if the magic seeped in over the years.  But I can tell you this tiny house was a place of wonder.  There were no rambling rooms like the Winchester House, there were no secret passages, or hidden items.  There were no written stories or secret messages the house bestowed.

It simply was a wonderment.  And if that is not something, Reader, that you are able to wrap your head around, then I cannot be the one to prove it.

One day, a girl moved in to this house.

She was sad.  The house could feel it.

On her first night, the house played a small trick on her.  And she talked to the house.  Wide open and out loud.  She talked to the house and told the tiny house that she was staying.  That she lived here now and while she respected the age and the being of the house, the jokes were not funny.  And when she talked to the house, the house was given a gift.  That the girl spoke out loud to the house gave the house something it needed: recognition.  Her voice gave the house it's place.  She recognized the bones of the house.  She could feel the house breathing- and the house came to see that it was indeed a special sort of thing.

And so the house made a pact with the girl.  The house would care for the girl unconditionally in return for her belief in the house's Spirit.  The house could not change the girl's sadness but it could hold her close and offer shelter form whatever it was that hung inside of her.

And so, this is how the girl and the house came to be dear friends.  Understanding that each carried a heavy history and that each believed in the magic that resided there, quiet and steady.  The girl did not tell people of the magic in the house.  It didn't matter what anyone thought or felt in that house.  What mattered was the light in the house and the way it wrapped itself around the girl.

The girl transformed the house in to a home.  Books.  Hundreds of books.  Some, not so nicely shelved, and many others strewn throughout the house.  She draped the windows and filled the corners with things that made her happy.  She piled things on the walls and dressed the bedroom with antiques and warm colors.  She dressed the house with treasures and the house felt alive.  The house felt loved.  And the house loved the girl in return.

The house and girl lived in peace, each caring for the other in small quiet ways in a constant sort of way.

And one day something terrible happened.  The house could not tell what had happened but suddenly the girl's energy was heavy and dark, such that the tiny house could not get through.  It could not reach her.  For days and days, the house tried, it brought in more light.  It pulled the magic from it's bones and pushed it in to the house just so that the girl could be reminded that the house was there, always.  It could not talk to her- that was their deal.  It could communicate only in the emotional sense by which she could feel.  And the girl became daft and could not feel the house any longer.  The house feared that it would lose some of its magic and if the could could just look, just look for a minute, she would feel the love the house was trying so hard to give her.

It took some many many days but eventually the girl opened back up a bit.  She apologized to the house.  But the house knew something had changed.

Months went by and still, she kept the connection to the house at some bay.  She was stuck.  The girl was suddenly stuck.  The magic stopped at the skin covering her body.  Something inside of her pushed it away and it no longer seeped in to her insides.  She knew it was there but she had come to believe that she was unworthy.  She started to ponder the reality of a magical house and thought she might be absurd for having conversations with a house.  And so she became embarrassed and ashamed.  This thing that made the girl sad became more clear to the house.  But there was nothing the tiny house could do but insist that it keep trying.

And one day, the house had to make a decision.

The girl had changed.  She'd turned her back on the magic.  Her skin became a barrier.  She stopped writing about magic.  She stopped believing in magic and she stepped in to some grief too strong for the old house.

And the old house became tired.

So, it decided to gift her one last time.  And this gift would be something she would not be able to ignore.  This gift would be so great, that it would flood the magic back in to her.  But the house would have to gift her soon or, the house feared the girl would lose her belief altogether.

And so the house pondered what it could giver her.  The light in the house no longer touched the girl so it would have to be something of enormity.   The house was stuck on thought when it finally occurred to the house...

It needed to unstuck the girl.  Her will was strong but something had pulled the magic from her and stuck her in a spot where life stood still, unmoving and with no momentum.  And so that is how the house came to the decision to get the girl unstuck.  It would give her a few chances to see what was coming.  It would prepare her.  And if she was unable to feel or hear the house, it would keep trying.

The girl loved to read.  She had a fascination with stories and when she stopped reading, the house knew that the bad thing had taken some of the girl's spirit and love of journey away from her.  She also had a cat.  And since the girl was unable to hear the house, the house decided it was time to chat with the cat.  One night, the girl's spirit lifted.   The house could feel it and knew it had to be in this moment that it spoke to her...but it had to be something stupendous, it would have to break their pact and show her something so undeniable that she would have to let the magic back in.  And so the girl, with a Spirit just a little lighter, crept in to bed with a book and the cat at her feet.  And that's when the house decided to let them in.

The cat casually peered to the ceiling.  And when the girl called the cat, the cat was despondent.  Something was crawling on the ceiling.  But when the girl stood up on her bed to see what struck her cat's attention, she saw nothing.  And so she called the cat again, who in turn, ignored her once more.  She wasn't happy.  And finally, she talked to the house again telling the tiny house that this was not the pact they made.  The cat was staring at something and it made the girl uneasy.  You see, she was fine with the magic in the house but anything else made her uneasy and so, she told the house to stop.

But much like the cat, the house ignored her.

The house let them in so she would be startled and reminded that there is always something else.  There is always something just outside of our own sorrow and fear.  And the house knew the girl needed that reminder if she was ever going to get the magic back and so it let them in.  The girl was displeased but only for a time because suddenly, the girl eased in to the reality of what was happening.  She knew someone was there.  And her sudden fear was taken over by something stronger.  Peace.  Complete and total peace.  People get chills but not like the ones she got that night.  That night her chills were warm.

With the reassurance that this moment was harmless, she opened the book to read, her cat finally curling beside her and the two drifted off.  When she awoke two hours later, it was because her phone had gone off.

Someone had passed.  Unexpectedly.  He was a hero, a son, a brother and a husband.  And he had passed.  And she wasn't quite certain that she was ready to take the news to heart and so she slept.

But sleep. she could not. He who had passed was in her home, in that sweet space.  She, of course could not be certain but the feeling was back.  And the house drew a great breath.  Something inside the girl was awake again.  Something inside was open, even if just a little bit.  And the house breathed out, pushing it's magic back into the tired girl's skin.

The house would have to act fast, it would have to make it's final push while the girl was opening up.  It would be an extraordinary push.

Three weeks went by and the girl grieved the loss of the Hero.  She grieved the loss for his family. And the magic came back bit by bit because she could feel some comfort he bestowed to those he loved.

The house was unsure of the timing for the gift.  It would happen soon but when?  When was the right time?

And one day, the girl let the house know a secret.

And the house knew.  The house knew this was it.  This was time for magic.  An explosive display of magic that it could not be ignored.  The house knew this was the girl's chance to move in to a journey. The house also knew the girl would never leave.  She'd live with those magic bones for eternity if she could, sheltered in the light.

But the house knew better.  She needed to adventure.  She needed to leave.  She needed to move on and she would never be able to do that, trapped in the memories of what had transpired in that house. This was her chance and the house feared she might not take it, so the the tiny bumble bee house made the decision to push her out.  It knew better than the girl.  Magic always does.  The girl was on the cusp, opening back up but never fully holding adventure's hand, stilled by the comfort of the house.  She was stuck so the house would push her out.

In the early wake of one cold January morning, the girl woke up in a sudden pain.   Her abdomen screamed at her.  She dragged herself from the bed, went to the bathroom and settled back in to the warmth of her bed.  Nodding off, a crash echoed through the house and woke her from an easy sleep once again.  She'd thought to ignore the sound, so wrapped in the bliss of one of the best night's sleep she'd had since that terrible thing had happened.

"Get up."  The voice was loud.  It was unmistakable.  And it was pissed off.

The girl was lazy but the voice was insistent.

"Get out of the bed."

And so she woke.

She walked through the tiny house, looking, sure a deer was tromping about the outside of her house, stealing the pansy heads again.  And then she saw it.

Through the kitchen window, red licked the neighbor's house.  Bright and furious.  Small.  The flames sat in a small huddle, confined to one small space.

She backed away from the kitchen and she thought to leave and did not act until the house screamed at her.  Pops and echoes, flashes of red, the undeniable intake of smoke and the haze seeping in to the kitchen made her move.  Suddenly, the very air around her screamed in warning. The trees caught fire, sending smoke through the door and in to the kitchen, this time rolling and fighting.  Wood snapped, the tree branches burned hot orange and she knew.

The girl could not remember how to unlock her phone.  She knew she had to call someone but she could not remember who.  The house beckoned her to leave, to push open the door and leave but she caught herself, struck by something.  The cat.  The house screamed at her to leave but knew it was fruitless...the girl would never leave without that cat.  She would burn in that house with the cat.  And so the house staved off the flames while the girl grabbed the cat.  Blood tricked from some place on the girl and the house cried out in some pain.  It wasn't meant to be this fast. It wasn't supposed to happen like this.  But the house had a job to do, a promise to fulfill and despite the violence of the moment, it had to push the girl out.

The girl fled the house, finally.  She'd feared for those around her, kicking doors, screaming at the very top of her lungs.  The house trembled, suddenly regretting, for just a moment, as it saw fear creep through the girl at the loss of some life.  The girl would break down doors, smash windows.  She would do what it took to wake those surrounding her burning house.

And then the house saw the relief in the girl's eyes as people fled their homes.  And suddenly, the girl was still as she turned to face the house.

And when the girl looked back, suddenly, the tiny yellow house was wrapped in fire, burning hot like Kali.  There was no yellow.  There were no pansies.  The tips of trees were dressed in the fire.  Smoke filled the night sky and the trill of sirens sang though the air.  The girl looked at the house.  Behind her men in uniform piled around her, lights flashed.  So loud were the lights.  So strong that the momentum of the lights made sound, pushing.  People were wrapped in blankets.  People milled about.  People were smoking and asking too many questions.  It was so loud.

But the girl could not hear the voices.  She could not see the lights.  She felt only arms around her while she watched the tiny house burn.  The girl did not cry.  She did not make a sound.  She did not move.  She could not move.  She watched, only.  Talking to the house one last time, she said goodbye.  She felt the bones of the house breaking, the magic, she hoped had left with her, fleeing from the house. She felt such a sadness for the house, for her inability to save the house.  She felt sorrow, not for herself but for the loss of the house.  She asked if the magic got out but in her bones she already knew.  She knew this magic had to move.  It would not die but it had something to do.  It burned hot in the house and the girl liked to imagine that with the smoke of the fire, the magic burned hot, burning through the air and rising to the sky where is belonged, traveling to some new place, outside of the chaos of the moment. The bones of the house released the magic in to the air where it would move in to some new space. The girl knew the magic had lifted, safely.  But this did not stop her from mourning the loss of the bones and material stature of the small old house.

The girl's memories went up in flames that night.  The sorrow the girl held on to died that night.

Days later, the girl knew.

She understood.  And she was grateful.

On Wednesday, January 29th, the girl's past died.  And a new beginning was born.

Fire purges.  It rages.  Fire cleanses and releases.  Forests are reborn in the fury of a fire.  Seeds and trees and things grow from fire.  Fire is real and it is a myth.  Fire has always been and it will always be.  It will destroy and it will force things and people to rise from it's ashes.  Fire bestows blessings.  It's a fury not unlike madness.  It's personalities, cleansing, angry, broken and hot are many.  Fire is the end.  And it's the beginning.

Fire burns hot.  And when the smoke burns black and fills the air, something is born.  A choice to rise up.  From the ashes, a Pheonix is born.  Orange and red.  It is the color of that which made it.  It exudes strength and courage.  Wings are gifted to the creature, red, yellow and orange, brightly contrasted to the black from which is rises.  The weight of black ashes are no match for the wings of this creature, born of fire.  Pushing, this creature rises to the sky, above the loss and above the black ashes.  It's wings meet the air and it's eyes face the sun, moving always to something new.

I am the girl who loved a house.  And I am the girl who was loved, in return, by a house.  And some will call me the Pheonix.  But they are mistaken.  I am no great mythological creature.  I am just a girl. It's my future who is the Great Pheonix.  My future is the one who rises to the challenge of a new start. Of a new path.  I am simply a small instrument through which that journey happens.

Aside from the house itself, the greatest loss has been that of my books and my journals.  But, I guess the Universe knows better than I do and she's forced me to read new books and write new stories.

Un-Stuck

It's Saturday morning.

And it's so quiet.

I'm pretty sure it's so quiet that I can hear the delicate push of the tomato plants, in the back, pushing their tiny sun-yellow buds to the sun.

My Mom would tell me that if I tried hard enough, I might hear the stir of faeries tromping through the dirt and the leaves, the petals and the trees.  Never to be seen, only heard.

The small piece of silence is a funny balance to the chaos of the past few weeks, months...and year, really.  With plans each weekend, I feel some delight at knowing that my life has carried on and that I've acknowledged that when bad things happen, life doesn't wait for you to keep up.  And, I've taken that train and moved.  Such movement isn't done in the spirit to forget.  I've moved at 1,000 miles per hour because those were the circumstances offered me- and I wasn't going to pass up weekends spent on the water with friends.  Nor would I pass up the opportunity to celebrate the accomplishments and celebrations of friends.  The weekends of social craziness swept me up in their arms, have introduced me to new friends, have forced me to keep my head to the sun and have supported a transition with such effortlessness that I have a hard time tracking the events of each and every moment.

And then, life gives me this quiet.

A quiet so profound, all that's left is appreciation and calm.

Finally some calm.

And, herein, lies that thing of "balance."  It's that space that forces one to recall, stew and move in to memory.  And I realize, we move so fast, all of us, just to keep up sometimes.  Sometimes, we move without thinking or pondering because the moment is ripe, right there in front of us, and we take it.  We move at a speed, forgetting the broken parts of who we were so that we can move in to the solidity of who we are becoming.  Even in my thirties.  I am not yet who I am and this quiet reminds me that of the world and of experiences, I still know and realize so little.  And I have so much to gain from this quiet as it pushes me in to this space of something rather curious.

At 34, I know I'm good at "handling" the stuff that comes, the sadness that comes.  The surprises that change families, that  stuff that stills us in step.  And while I understand the logistics of coping, I also must surmise that I am not who I was even a year ago.  I am not the badass I told myself I was.  I am just not the same person.  And in my stubbornness to find my place of success, life broke it all in to a million tiny pieces because life knew me better than I knew myself.  Life broke that girl because I was too stubborn to change on my own will.

Life breaks us to make a point.   I believe this to be a cliche as much as you do, trust me.  But there's truth, here.  When we are so wrapped up in being and trying for something so dissimilar to who we are, innately, life reflects lies, sometimes in ways that are so tragic and so dark, that we cannot help but question "why?"  Life is not fair.  It's not about what's fair.  It's about how we choose to cope with those pieces which "seem" unfair.  It's about choosing to be who we are, innately.

And, while I may not be who I was even a year ago, there's still more in knowing that I'm not sure who I'll be in another year.  And that, my friends, is such a trip.  I am enjoying this shoot down the rabbit hole.  I have never adventured as I do now.  That I cannot see a destined place for me might frighten the hell out of who I was last year.  And now, that adventure seems so wide open and the joy at discovering the reality that "it's never too late to be who you want to be" is a journey I am happy to take.

I am a mess of seriousness and light-heartedness.  In the quiet, I am quiet right alongside it.  And in the open air, I laugh because I can.  I make mistakes now more frequently.  I make a fool of myself and I play harder.  I laugh louder and I smile more often, just because I can.  And for all of this, I am grateful for the broken bits because I see now that the broken bits don't "define" us, really.  They push us.  And rather than fighting to fit in some measured box of "success," I just "am" right now.  I am measured not by my past or what ever may have happened.  I am measured by who I am in this instant and by who I choose to be moving forward.  The freedom of that is profound.  There is so much to be in this life, and the fact that we get to choose is something I will never take for granted.  Ever.  We get to choose.

"I am happy for the trauma" said no one ever.

But, I am grateful for the trauma.  I am grateful for the trauma.

Perhaps to say that I am happy for it is a stretch, but to be grateful for it is something so real in me that it is hard to ignore.  I am a lighter person for it.  I am a happier person for it.  I am starting over because of it.  It's not often we give ourselves the chance to adjust to a new person.  We meld in to what has existed.  We mold to the expectations set before us by a set of beliefs and people who don't even know us.  Yes, I pay my taxes and I have a job.  I pay bills.  And I know that some day I will die, just like the rest of us.  But I also know that there is so much kinetic energy out there, pushing us to be.  There are so many chances we pass up and so many journeys we fear because they remain outside of the sphere of "practical."

Those who know me best know that I am not innately a person who is "practical."  And my drive to be so has diminished in to something so open, that the magnitude of such an opportunity sometimes takes my breath away.  I am in awe of my own luck and good fortune.

I would never have stumbled upon this stretch of my journey had things remained as they were.  And I will never take that for granted.  Ever.

There are so many colors, so much kindness and so much adventure in this life.  Had the events of the last year not taken place, I would've remained stuck on the wrong trail.

And while re-building has it's tough spots, I am more than grateful for the freedom of a new trail.

So, a high Cheers to those who choose the freedom of an un-stuck path.  Life will not wait for us to keep up but she will always push us in the direction of the open spaces we need.  We just have to be open enough to see them.