These precious two stayed with me for 45 mins crabbing. They were so sweet. Owen and Shilo. I love children. They were great to be with. She was begging me to let her go swimming š³. I needed to talk her out of jumping into the muddy creek, especially so when I found out she does not know how to swim š³. A family member finally showed up, asked me my name, let them know that I was in charge of watching them now š³ I wanted to be angry about that AND for the way that adult presented (super drunk) but I consciously chose, instead, to just simply BE with these kids because obviously they need safety. Imagine being handed over to a complete stranger? OMG They so craved attention and someone who was present and available. Owen wanted to talk me out of my crabbing net, hook, bait, bucket and honestly, I almost fell for it – his eyes were so full of joy š„° I wanted to give them EVERYTHING. I wanted to steal them and take them home to love foreverā¦but instead I shared a nice afternoon with them by a muddy creek, catching crabs and talking about nature. You should have seen how proud they were to catch them all by themselves. Taking turns with the net and string. Justin and Olivia and their dad joined us too. And the two newcomers took their turns with the net and string. Of course we threw all of the 16 back after observing them a bit in the bucket. They were green crabs and way too small.
Every once and a while we are reminded that our calm presence just might be a magnet, a gift for those in need.
We are all exactly where we are supposed to be at any given moment.
We can be there for strangers yet not feel pulled out of ourselves (overextended).
We can remain in our center (not triggered) despite others trauma energy.
Material things are fine but what we all really need is connection.
We can be powerful in the lives of others simply by being ourselves.
Lastly, that having no plan, no agenda, no control over a situation makes you available for rich, spontaneous, meaningful interaction.
Maybe more adventures with these two this week. One things for sure, they need š + ā¤ļø
I told her that she could hold the net as long as she went and put her swimmies (arm floats) on creek is at least 6 ft deep right here.
The older I get I sink in to whatās now. Like a bird settling into a nest of hopeful. Accepting the upsets, the seemingly unfair aspects of my life. For they, too, are just as part of the story. Disowned or welcomed -all pieces visible, named. Nesting in the comfort of the familiar held together because I, like the bird, decided to take the time.
I wasnāt aware back then but I was preparing for my eggs. Prepping for my eventual birth which is now. The birth of Me. Stepping into my own power, the less traumatized version of myself. My presence secure, out of the scathing, scouring elements that shaped me. I
In a nest. A dwelling Iāve created, with the help of some really beautiful spiritual souls. Some winged no doubt. But this nest is a coveted solitary soft landing in a harsh world. A place of rest and birth.
Welcome home I whisper to the bird within. She smiles because she knows what home feels like. She knows the comfort of the familiar. She knows where she belongs. The older she gets.
Iām in love with sleep winding itās drowsy little fingers around my being. Like a river with no particular place to be, no destination. Sneaking past anxiety and rapid thoughts to land softly, completely. Silently. With conviction, convection, confectionā¦sweetness, efficiency and dedication. Itās here.
But I donāt notice as I am won. I am one with that which renews me, holds me, knows me by name. I am too familiar with sleepās inner child, the toddler. Two and three and four she is. Two and three and four hours of darkness with eyes open wide, open wild. Ages and hours alike. Sheās ready to party like some left the lights on. Leave me alone, I whisper, I must rest Iām working on growing older so I may rise. So someday I may be wise.
Iām in love with borrowing nothingness, slowly becoming unaware of my brainās foul mouth. āJust one more thingā¦.ā The brain bids of pressures and deadlines. I walk these misguided Randyās down the hall, to their cribs for they are just infants and need to be shown the way of time and pace. Maybe the morning grace will transform the have toās and should haves. Maybe life will slow to the rate of my heartbeat.
Just perhaps I need to tuck those rapid thoughts in next to me. Giving them permission to rest. Rather than to send them away, send them packing just to have them return more powerful at greater volumeā¦Close is best. Covers tight around the edges, lips hushed in the most contractual way. Bargaining with my brain because
Iām in love with morning mist. Slipping around unnoticed like a forgotten shoe on the side of the highway. The moisty moist, seeping through obstacles on its path. Unexpectedly, life succumbs to the commanding curtain. As we awaken to the new day, thereās a breach in the outer bands of body aura.
The awareness of the wet, the cling, the intimacy of cool arriving suddenly. Silently. Allowing. Every Season with itās own version.
Winterās mist freezes. Preserving perfect ice spheres on each blade of grass, every dry remnant of expired flowers, berries. Frist, itās called, glittering and shimmering giving note to shapes and shadows. Naturesā icy fingers dripping, building new layers. The invisible becoming visible each air droplet pregnant with moisture. Each finding itās resting place on the earth.
Spring mist brings with it hope and cleanse. Working itās way into our lungs. Cleaning and clearing the lung cobwebs of Winter stagnation.
Summerās mist with its mysterious, muted splendor, loudly claims its plot. Arriving at the tree tops and descending heavily upon the vegetation. The greens greener the browns earthier.
Autumnās mist that hovers low as the tallest wheat stalk, gives an unexpected hug. The breath of the soul cut short. A slow n steady exhale hijacked by a disowned gasp.
The mists of Autumn. Outlining landscapes of past splendor, once showcasing lush bounty. Rich orange, red, gold, pink foliage now encased in humid, hanging, pregnant air. The foggy veil moves erringly hand picking, encasing each dead and crunchy. Breathing life into the lifeless. Fungus rising to the mist, faces turned upward toward the sky awaiting the gift of moist.
My legs. They know. They No. They ache, whine, and protest for days after heavy exercise ā biking, kickboxing, hours of garden. I awaken the beast with stimulation. Reaching into the container of stifled protest, the well hidden events of a traumatic past. Weighed down by old held trauma. Wanting to run away. To fight off unwanted advances. Secretly wishing my legs would have defied my abusers and be unmovable, thwarting someoneās plan. All that protest energy still taking up residence. A protest that wasnāt allowed. A fuck-you condensed by sad-mess. Yes, old grief, that hopeless bastard. Bringing me to my aching knees. Festering, swirling ā wishing relief.
The pain is constant. I donāt know where to put my legs so they wonāt ache, wonāt wake me. Muscular pain that is tired of waiting for the green light to release. Tired of holding. Aching at 2,3,4 a.m. Restless toss and burn. Heavy burdened walking sticks. Demanding attention for what was ignored before. This body does not forget. Tissues pregnant with issues. A high-risk pregnancy that must be watched, monitored. Until the delivery of release.
The threat of physical harm a long-ago-reality. All of my unconscious, protective holding is no longer needed ā but my legs never got the memo. A loving gesture of exercise to keep my body fit and healthy has some underlying āgiftsā. This physical pain I feel delivers me to the doorway of my emotional pain. Pain rents space, usually safe, undisturbed ā until I call it out. Then pain has a voice. When my legs speak, they sound desperate. With ex-hurt-sion they plead with me. Their quiet whispers they tell me theyāre exhausted. To please do the work. Weāre sad, broken and depressed, needing deep-rest.
My relationship with my body is tight. Tight as the terror still residing in my legs, hips and pelvis. I talk with her. Sending love to my tender, lovely, strung-out legs. They need love. I purposefully bring the darkness forward, into consciousness. Visualizing the eviction of fear, disgust, shame, etc.. calling in Spirit Animals or Angels or Spirit Guides. Sitting with strong emotions. Standing with the reality of it all outside the cage of existence I used to know.
As my legs begin to thaw from their frozen ānormalā, it hurts. Iāve disturbed a whole latta dark. The darkness wants out and thatās always painful. Painful going in, painful coming out. The trapped is wrapped in an old worn out container. My container is falling apart. As it should. As I relax, letting my guard down physically, the expression of what WAS is free to flow. These muscles and bones have known no safe place. No downtime.
I have a choice. We all do. I can do nothing. And invite in fibro-your-algiaā¦cause NO, it will never be MINE. Never. I can wallow in vic-dumb-hood or I can stand on my own two legs and fight for my best life. I choose to evict the darkness. The thick, strangled webs of dysfunctional energy. They ooze sadness. A sadness so great I am compelled to ask them what they need. To actually have a conversation with my legs. The held trauma, wishing to take away my mobility, my health, my drive and flexibility. No thank-you.
I donāt blame my legs for the pain. Instead, I treat them like old friends. Dry brushing them to direct the fluid and energy to my lymphnodes for proper drainage. I Reiki them. I give them baths with Epsom salts for detox and relaxation of the strained muscles. I wrap them in warmth and allow emotion to flow unabstructed. I cry for the return of painless.
In a miraculous body way, a brilliant way, it handled it. By shutting down. By tensing up in protection. By stuffing all the ugly into my tissues and muscles because it was too much for a little girl to handle. The body never forgets.
How do I know? How can I not know? Miles from what I thought was me. Sheās gone now. My old self. Gone is the pleaser, the āit mustāve been meā girl, the girl who stayed quiet. The one who allowed others to overrule her thoughts. The girl who believed that she didnāt have needs. How could she ever get needs met? Having needs somehow took away from others and was self centered. Mean. Thatās what they told me. Thatās what I believed. Sheās gone now.
The girl who just wanted to be happy- no matter the cost. The young lady who kept secrets so vile – so others wouldnāt deny her truth or be moved to action, or, worse yetā¦think SHE was the problem. Swallowing shards of pain for too many moons, too many seasons. The young miss who starved herself in an attempt to kill the beast within. She who flirted with ending her own life as a second grader. Yes, my warrior was hidden deep.
She who finishes last hurts most. The suffering stuffed inside her little body, tucked in every crevice, tissue, every body system. The mini me opening and reaching for support. Then retreating when the flames scorched her opening heart. She was likened to an invasive weed, her desire to live fully anyways. Gathering my scattered pieces, discards, the parts of me that could not stay. Then. Now held in the safety of truth, sheās crawled back, taking back.
Adding to my healing resume, I was. My ground. My worth. This felt right, felt write. Healing through the pen. Words reflecting misery and agony of emotions held. Yet, these words were the very voice I so greatly needed to mend the soul of me. A healing prescription, wrapping the ugly in gorgeous gift boxes. Gifting earned resilience, grace and perseverance – to myself. This is me, the warrior. Yes, please.
I didnāt know this was correct. Following what felt right, I was my own healing mentor. I didnāt know I had the power to change my own life. Excising those who disrespected my essence. Eradicating those who used me for their own pleasure. Ejecting those who snuff my fire. Evicting those who will never be allowed in again. Gates closed. Admission revoked. This is how I know. I am warrior.
Old trauma meeting Wisdom. War. War within myself. Me doing battle with the invisible. The parts of me that knew better – speaking at last. Hard work keeping my inner wisdom silent. The knowing, the wisdom, became the boss of me, eventually. This is how I live my warrior.
Rain gifts us an invitation to heal through our senses. Our shoulders, held high with unresolved fears. Drop a little lower. We imagine the raindrops as a shower of peace and tranquility. A watery embrace from another world. Enveloping our physicality.
The smell of rain conjures up feelings of a warm summer day when time seems to stand still. We soak in the suns presence through thirsty skin. Rain tastes like fresh ideas, rich with aliveness and hope, breathing in. Taking in all of lifeāsā raingivings, we are brand new.
We may see the rain but do we really SEE the rain? Each drop, intentions pure, life giving gold. Falling with anonymity, for the greater good. The collective wet, gathering en mass. On the sidewalk, in a pond, on our body. Every liquid pearl connecting, melding, with selfless surrender. An invitation offered, to the present party. The Here and Wow.
We hear rain as a familiar tune. āAll is wellā hymn beckoning us to listen, intoxication inevitable. Steady rhythm, in likeness of Earths heartbeat. Tamping out all the wrong, the intrusive, disturbing buzz of life. We sit. We listen. We open to greatness only rain can stir.
Iām in love with sleepy smiles. Gently spreading east and west. Following a long nightās rest. Transforming the expressionless. An open invitation to hang out deep as shoulders sag. Head tilt welcoming each moment without expectation.
The glistening morning sun sweeping across my tired face, caressing my smile with golden warmth. I lie still basking, breathing, planning. Nothing. Existing fully in my expression. Of pleasantry, of nothingness, in the space between thoughts.
The gentle childlike energy swirling amidst my unassuming grin. Keeping me whole. Wanting me present. Between my lips, gracefully ushering in the newest, sweetest oxygen. To be ushered out in turn, discarded purposefully. Taking with it, everything challenging the grandest of facial postures.
When you werenāt looking I was having fun. When you werenāt looking I made friends. When you werenāt looking I got all Aās and Bās. When you werenāt looking I got trophies and ribbons. Praise and encouragement from teachers and strangers. When you werenāt looking I followed all the rules.
When you werenāt looking I was unraveling. When you werenāt looking I was starving myself. When you werenāt looking I kept our family secrets. When you werenāt looking I hated you. When you werenāt looking I was planning to die. When you werenāt looking I felt isolated and weird. When you werenāt looking I wished it was you who died. When you werenāt looking I could feel crazy.
When you were looking I told you I loved you. I keep our family secrets. When you were looking I followed your fucked up rules. When you were looking I believed all your fabrications about people and the way life worked. When you were looking I believed the beautiful, sweet story of our tragic, broken family. When you were looking I was the perfect daughter. When you were looking I silenced the truth I felt so I wouldnāt upset you. I silenced who I was because I always felt defeated. When you were looking I made it seem like I had a sane Mom.
Your looking, an uncomfortable look of ownership, dangerous caged rage. Those eyes tho, burned a hole in my soul. A hole so deep, my lifetimes fell in, waiting to be rescued. But you were still looking so theyād have to wait. Because when you were looking, it wasnāt safe for me to own anything. It would be taken. Any semblance of aliveness was forfeited. No choice at all, the need for food, shelter and love was ever present. When you looked, I surrendered it all, smiling. Set on fine China, dainty flowered setting that hid the tears. Because when you were looking, appearance was Queen.
When I was looking, the color turned to death. I could flirt with pink and green and orange and red but only for a minute and it surely would be detected and devoured. This fed the hungry beast inside you. When no-one was looking. It slithered, smiling, through the caverns of our existence. Spreading itās brown paralyzing slime onto our child lives. Twisting n turning so we never could sense direction. When no one was looking. Your inner beast ran through our home salivating, relentlessly stalking. This was not a safe existence for children, when no one was looking.
Intolerable and exhausting. Swimming upstream from birth. We surrendered, we yielded to crazy, to the killing of our innocence, our right to be free, to live unburdened. There really was no choice. We handed it over because weāre just children. We craved belonging, safety, love, softness, easy breath, dreams. Sacrificing our well being over and over. The darkness victorious, stamping out our light, our dreams, our drive. When no-one was looking.
Mission accomplished. Torched souls, we assist you in drawing the shades of life, a smiling mask donned in public, living āas ifā so as not to raise any suspicions about our fucked little lives. All this darkness placed inside, the saccharine sweet lies conflicting with and twisting our fight for sanity, lucidity, transparency, space.
All this ālookingā but no seeing. Your eyes glued shut Mom. You didnāt really have to āseeāyour food to be able to eat it, now did you? You could smell the life force, the need to be stripped of our aliveness, our need to be silenced and gutted. Sensed like an animal in the night. Just to feed your emptiness. She fed from and possessed our every emotion, when no one was looking. She took everything. Our joy, our anger, pain and peace. And handed us back blankness, autopilot, apprehension, lack of self trust, hate and suspicion of others. Insanity. We learned so many things about darkness and dancing with crazy.
Iāve transformed, Mother. And what a trick this MOTHER word! Iāve stripped your ugly from my existence. No longer a subscriber. I was the one who escaped, by some small miracle, I made it. My Spirit rose up to assist me. I was made for greater things. Without your sad influence. Without you looking, Iāve dug and scraped and washed and scoured you from my loins. 30 years is a long time to live, surrendering oneās essence, in service to another. āOut of serviceā an outstanding book title I foresee in my future. Although, āwhen you werenāt lookingā could work, too. My mind is free. Free to roam without restriction, censor or proper.
Thank you Mom for leading me to the edge and shoving me off. Body sinking to guaranteed demise, my Higher Self was there to catch my fall. The Human Spirit is a powerful force that can lift you up and beyond what you thought was possible. Listen to the call, take the difficult challenge of putting yourself first, staying the course and rising from the asses.
Iām in love with the smell of October rain. Arriving upon a cool, warm, wet, chilly breeze. Coating crunchy leaves and crispy flowers. Gathering dusty, dried earth for a communal autumn hug. The rain slowly arrives, moving in on the quiet. Settling into its resting place, lukewarm and lovely.
Making up for Summer drought, it falls. And falls. Smelling like forest floor. Like rich brown soil. Like the underpinnings of fabulousness with a side of mushroom spores and pine bedding undertones. Resurfacing the foundation of new life. Possibilities. Rich mineral magnificence.
The fragrance of possibility. Of spent corn stalks, cold harvest moon mist and pumpkin spice. In the air, previews of icy rains and solid precipitation. The falling away of what is no longer needed. That which weighs us down. Rain showering off the unwanteds, the old, the haggard, tired. The dead crunchies in our lives.
Washed into tomorrow on an endless cycle. Each rain flushing our discarded patterns. The old, worn out becoming new again. Replaced, reset, realigned by fresh new growth. Breathing in a little slower today to fill my empty spaces with the smell of rain in October.
Iām in love with warm blankets on a chilly night. Held and comforted in thick fabric. My soul oozing deep appreciation for cotton crops and birds of flight. Suddenly, cold is put in its place, made to observe the newly created heat boundary.
Heavy heaps of edged material, happy to be in service. Fresh from the dryer and smelling so. An olfactory field trip to a well drained forest floor. To a string of laundry overhead, dangling from a sun drenched, tattered rope. Without dampness. Without apologies. Without leaving my bed.
Weighted, grounding, reassuring me of universal support and temporary safety. Shield me from imagined, knocking horrors that come to visit in darkness. Cover me in kindness and compassion, nothing and everything present and promised. Iām in love with warm blankets.
Iām in love with loud purring. Body shaking and telling of fondness for life. A soft, rhythmic blanket of furry love. Unscheduled pleasure. Rising and falling, sleeping and waking. Our eyes closed tightly, savoring the tune. Your whispers of fuzzy somethings at the foot of the bed.
The 3am motor, my favorite engine sound. Sheets ripple, erupt with fluttering plaid flannel. Sleepy pats offered. Met with nudges, of the predictable kind, to carry-on. Purring the kind of purr that becomes more audible with a rub.
This is where sensory joy lives. Comfortably. Amidst the pitter-patter of sounds from this warm furry throat. No troubles in this moment. Or this one. Or this one. I lay my heavy head on your fat, warm belly. Your kitty pillow accepts my forehead. Riding with the gift.
My ear bathed, absorbing the peaceful concert. Feeding my needy inner child soul with fizzy sound waves. Soothing even the most silent of frazzles. Within.
Rain gifts us an invitation to heal through our senses. Our shoulders, held high with unresolved fears, may drop a little lower as we imagine the raindrops as a shower of peace and tranquility enveloping our physicality. The smell of rain conjures up feelings of a warm summer day. Time stands still as we soak in the sunās presents. On our thirsty skin, rain tastes like fresh ideas. Rich with aliveness and hope. Breathing in, taking in all life has to provide, we are brand new.
We hear rain as a familiar tune, beckoning us to listen to its intoxicating message “all is well”. We may see the rain but do we really SEE the rain? Observing the watery veil that forms at our feet, may we accept or decline the invitation to be present. In the space between our thoughts. If onlyā¦..when it rains.
I can fabricate the scariest circumstances as possible outcomes in my life. And it’s all in my mind.
So why donāt I know this? Why donāt I stop myself before I get on the 3 a.m. terror train? This is something I learned as a young child and perfected as I got older- we are all good at something, right? Lol. In sitting and observing, noticing how I do this to myself today, I realized that although at one time (the scaring) was useful as a motivator to be prepared, organized, have a plan and keep me safe from harm, this is of absolutely no use to me as an adult and actually has me functioning from “fight or flight” response.
None of it EVER transpires anything like the scenario I’ve created! None of it EVER will! Things always work out for the best in the end. Things always work out for me – yet when I’m faced with difficult circumstances ā¦I scare the shit out of myself.
Just watching. Noticing. Remembering that everything always works out, everything. Every time, over n over. But for some reason I need to scare the shit out of Me so I can prepare all the possible scenarios that MIGHT transpire. This is no longer a useful pattern today. I need to lean into this is scary and watch myself be scared and also be a witness to myself preparing and controlling NOTHING. Iāll wait it out and know that everything will be just fine.
Dear ME,
STOP scaring the shit out of us!!! preparing for an ancient, silent battle that no longer needs to be fought. You know things always work out. Cut the shit and know we are ok. Sometimes just naming the fear lessons itās grip on us. Call that fucker out, itāll be less potent once named and seen. As many times a day as you need to, call on your breath to replace the need to ādoā.
I’m in love with cool breezes through open windows. The desire for fresh, no matter the season.
Craving the cool air pushing its way up and around, over and under the window cracked ever so slightly.
Craving even warm air pushing its way up and around, over and under the window cracked ever so slightly. A fuzzy, cozy air-blanket full of promise. Refreshing life’s staleness, one molecule at a time.
Air sneaking around, unnoticed, without a peep. Sudden and uninvited but nonetheless, met with an open airway.
Curling around each hair follicle. Hairs bristle, stand at attention. A welcome change and renewal. Breathing life into tired lungs and foggy minds. Diluting heavy thoughts and rigidity.
I’m in love with cool breezes though open windows.
So, the Holidays, hmmmmm. Iām guessing that some of my readers may be very excited for Holidays. I am also knowing that thereās a whole other section of the general pop who are digging themselves a large hole, preparing to jump in to escape all things āfamily celebrationā. Iām a proud member of the second, gasp less acknowledged group. Actually Iām a charter member, with 10 years of sanity under my belt š (and all over my body, actually LOL).
Tis the season for hushed-toned conversations, multiplying in frequency, āOh, she doesnāt come aroundā and āHe doesnāt bother with usā even āI think sheās crazy, she doesnāt talk to any of her familyā. āWho could walk out on their family?ā Well, thereās ALWAYS a pretty good fucking reason why someone would cut the ties with their tribe. Always. Period. Itās usually one badass warrior mother fucker who can pull this off in search of a wonderfully joy-filled life. Someone like umā¦ like umā¦ ME. Turning out to have found peaceā¦away from their tragic family of origin. This, my friends, is the elephant in the room.
I write about this in support of thosebadassreaders I have. The people who donāt feel entirely settled when the Holidays arrive. Those who are depressed, anxious, angry, revengeful or indifferent when it comes to āfamilyā. For those of you who are new to my blog, I use quotation marks when I write āfamilyā because the word is LOADED ā yaāll know what Iām talkin bout. Itās in no way a normal word for me and can be very heavy. Youāre feelin me.
Chances are, your āfamilyā wants you to just forget everything thatās happened in the past and smile, be pretty and pretend like everything is normal. Hell, deep down, you WANT to believe you have the best family ever (who tf doesnāt?) ā So you, against your better judgement, attend the family Holiday party ā- thinking it will be fine this time. You got this. Fuck them. Iām not going to let them get to me this time. Letās do this. Put your party clothes on and grab a bagā¦to carry all those triggers that are waiting for you. Happy Holidaysš³
It can be very very diff to go through the motions and attend Holiday gatherings just for the sake of keeping the peace. As if. As if you want to be there. As if. As if. Usually, thereās a priceā¦ predictably sacrificing your own needs and boundaries for the sake of othersā needs and happiness. That shit never feels good and the next day we make ourselves pay for it in whatever way feels familiar to us.
Me? well, the day after, Iām curled up in a ball, feeling punched in the gut, filled with regrets, swearing to God Iāll never say yes again. So much crazy shit swirling in your head- hate for them, hate for yourself and guilt. Guilty for hating everyone and everything. Enter mind-fuckā¦maybe it IS me. Maybe Iām making a big deal out of nothingā¦they all seem happy š³. Ewe, WAIT! NO.
So how does one survive this scenario? this gathering of triggers, this no-thankyou portion of family, this nothing-is-as-it-appears celebration? I am so glad you asked
put yourself first. listen to your heart and do what feels correct for you. It is your decision. No-one knows what it is like to be inside of your body. Eyes wide open, ask yourself what you need, what would make YOU happy (for a change). What makes you feel good.
know that you are making the best decision for you ā only you, because onlyyoucan.
create a holiday tradition that touches your heart. Something specific to honoring what is important to you around the Holidays. Whatever brings you joy, keeps you centered and grounded and calm. Giving your time/talents to others or creating something for yourself with no outside influences.
write about how things will be different if you do spend time with family over the Holidays. (write it out, read it to someone or keep for next year ā so you can chronical your growth. If youāre into ceremony and ritual maybe you meditate on your written ideas and set fire to it when it feels complete. Sending your intention out to the Universe for manifestation)
surround yourself with people (outside of your family) who support your feelings. Do not expect your family of origin to understand what you are going through. They donāt. Period. Find those outside of your āfamilyā. They wonāt be triggered by YOUR āfamilyā shit ā they most likely have different baggage and can support you in an unbiased way.
stay away from alcohol if you can possibly help it. Your guard will be down and you may end up saying and doing things you prob wouldnāt have. Seriously, resist the urge with all you have. It can be so tempting to numb yourself out but save the drinking for when you are with more supportive, less triggery folks. Youāre welcome.
give yourself an energy bath ā wipe that nasty energy off with a washcloth and down the drain it goes. Replacing the nasties with clean white or golden light. Filling in the holes that were punctured intentionally and unintentionally during your āfamilyā time.
envision a shield protecting you prior to entering a sketchy situation. Especially your heart, solar plexus (core) and sacral chakras. In no way are you a bad person for protecting yourself from negative energy. Itās brilliant and gives you a slight giggle as you try on, āYou canāt have meā or āYou canāt get meā or āIāll decide what you get from meā! delicious, absolutely delicious. Self empowerment, strength and self advocacy sure looks sexy on you. Only you can do this for yourself.
be gentle with yourself!!! itās exhausting work to challenge your familyās structure. The emotions of guilt, anger, betrayal, sadness, frustration are all a normal part of creating boundaries with people who do not respect our āNOā.
make a plan. escape route, get away line, time limit, certain people to avoid. Identify what is off limits for you and what youāll spend less time around ā these suggestions all go a long way to create a sense of control over the situation. No-one has to be IN on this plan. Use when triggered and repeat if necessary. Creating and sticking to boundaries will feel MEAN initially, mostly because we were raised to not have/expect boundaries. But if practiced enuff, youāll get over it, trust.
makealternateplans for the Holiday ā out of state, out of the country, Mars? And divulge these plans early so people have time to get used to the idea! There, now you can breathe deeply. Canāt see the dysfunction from there can ya?
fake an illness ā who wants to be with someone who has strep, chicken pox, cock-sakie (good Lord), or the dreaded flu? Not only will you get sympathy but people will be GLAD you didnāt show up. And BONUSā¦ you will get lots of sympathy.
even if you do not attend, and youāre anything like me, you feel like shit because youāre not with your family. You feel like shit because you donāt want to be with them. You feel like shit because you are feeling relieved and happy because you didnāt blindly agree to attend. You feel like shit because you canāt imagine it will EVER be any different. You feel like shit because you feel so alone and unloved and cast aside, betrayed, crazy. Thatās a whole lot of shit to shovel. This can be very, very difficult to push through. I went through this on several holidays. Itās so important to create your own Holiday rituals and traditions.
Happy Holidays!!! ššš Do YOU. and let me know how it goes šŖ š
Today I am so thankful to lead a normal life, messing up things as I go along. Getting angry with people or things or circumstances. Expressing my anger, stuffing it in or bending someone’s ear off about it. I’m a mess. A beautiful mess. A beautiful mess filled with gratitude.
Thankful that I am afforded a functioning brain to process info. Thankful that my heart is privy to the underlying truth of what is/what has been/what will be. Thankful that my body moves precisely, immediately, and with strength.
I’m normal in an abnormal way. I’m ridiculously inadequate and over reactive and just too sensitive. And that’s perfect because life is to be experienced. Mud waded through, clear water floated on, impossible mountains traversed -while wailing and park bench seated while the warm sun holds my thankful, tear streamed face.
Bring the love, the rage, the guilt, the grief, the elation, the fullness, worry, and pride. All allowed. All present anyway. All rich with information, lessons to unpack. No returns. Just integration into ourselves one way or another. Trust, one way or another.
Iām an unmade bed and thatās ok. Not perfect. Shitās gunna happen, sometimes all in one day. Sometimes all in 5 minutes. Life does suck. Then it doesn’t. Then we can’t even imagine saying it sucks. Dig deep and muster GRATITUDE even when LIFE feels like a dirty trick. Even when it feels like someone might be filming you. Even when everything you touch turns to shit. Even when.
I am flirting with gratitude and grief this morning. Grief and gratitude. The grief I feel for the losses in my life – some who have left this realm, others who have moved to the outside of my circle. All circumstantial, lives playing out, people on their paths – yes, everyone has a path!
Gratitude though. The kind of gratitude that has you smiling just because you are breathing. The kind of gratitude that comes with full body chills of grace and warmth with the realization of connectedness. The kind of gratitude that moves you to tears when you see a good Mom in the grocery store. Or when you realize that life happens exactly as it should for your own best growth.
May you make room for GRATITUDE. If just for today.
Thatās right. Sit in the woods, collect seed pods, watch the sun rise above the crisp Autumn landscape, take naps, long baths, create a sacred space in your home, on your land.
Spend time connecting with your children, your family, friends, stranger. Stop what youāre doing and look into their eyes, listening with presence, without agenda. Growing older is a privilege. Cherish the time you have and the vessel that supports your existence, otherwise known as your body.
Make every day matter. That’s right, sit in the woods, collecting seed pods, watching the sun set through the autumn landscape, draw a warm fragrant bath, create a bedtime ritual, a sacred space in your bedroom, on your land. Spend time in connection with yourself.