{Unedited} Grace-full To The Deep

 

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The past week has been difficult.  Some borrowed stress, involvement requiring the full engagement of pain.  My body weeps, wading through the confusion of physical transition.  Maiden to Mother, Mother to Crone.  Finding my youth an unwanted detriment rather than the familiar advantage.  Business is good, business is long, business is sprinting and treading water in the creative places. My lungs are struggling to find rhythm.  I am uncomfortable.  I am tired.  I am slightly out of focus and recognizing my need to reconnect. Align.

Thoughts with actions. Actions with heart.

Set my intentions.

Tonight is a new moon and this morning I woke to a gift.

A reminder of self and value.

A reminder of choice.

My days are mine to invest.  My energy to choose.

Movement becoming pain or praise.

I can hold to the surface.  Wary of the deep.  Cautious, and distracted, and overwhelmed.  Struggling with my strength.

Or fall grace-full.

Down from the shallows.  Deep to the stillness where I can breathe.  And remember.

We are the householders.

The wisdom of generations.  Reaping the wounds and growing the root.

We are the placeholders.

The bridge to tender hearts.  Sowing the future and battling the past.

We are the covenant.

The milk and honey.  The promise of grace, hope designed.

I have a choice.

Stand bound and grieve my weary or I can gather my ground, the promised land of my heart. Breath in the cool waters that the Spirit calls home.

New moon faithful.  Set your intentions.  Know your ground.

{Unedited} Twenty-One F**ks and Everything To Give

wpid-11427455_1871379959753967_1550002113_n.jpgI used to think I had no fucks left to give.  You know that’s a thing right?  No fucks to give.  Sometimes my generation makes my head hurt but in this instance I felt completely at home with the general consensus that life is just easier when you don’t care about the fucks.(Have I said fuck yet enough to be cool…because fuck makes you cool, that’s another thing that’s a thing).

Big girls saying “bad” words, further emphasizing that they have run out of the fucks and all of the pressures and concerns they bring.

I am independent.

Fuck you.

I am too smart for your boundaries.

Fuck you.

I am willful and brilliant and wild.

Fuuuuuuck you.

But it’s wrong. Beyond wrong it’s a fucking lie.

We are not built to give up the fucks.

We are built to have all the fucks in the world and never pretend otherwise.

I know that in general the intention of “I’m all out of fucks” is to empower the speaker.

A dynamic, ruthless, powerful statements of self.  To shout from the rooftops our acceptance of who we are and flip the bird to anyone who would dare challenge our right to be defined by our own mind and actions.

To be free of the narrow view of what is good and whole.

And that’s awesome.

But it draws a line where a door belongs.

It allows for thick skin and defiance, begging pardon for the gentle weeping of the tender.

The hurt and the notice and the grief.

Good Christ in heaven the grief.

The unfathomable surrender to all that is broken and wanting.

The injustice in our world.

The self-sacrifice and intercession.

What of that.

The beauty and rawness and hope of feeling.

ALL THE FUCKS.

Today a community will be burying a daughter.

Not a weathered, assertive woman with no fucks to give but the seed of a generation whose roots were just beginning to grow.

A child who looked for words to explain her fucks and found instead dismissive defiance of the overwhelming emotion she was carrying.

Be a warrior child.  Be fierce and brave.  Walk past the delicate trip and fall that is becoming a woman.  Where words and face can wound like knives and the overwhelming exhaustion of who we are meant to be overtakes the fragile reality of who we are.

Aware.  Open.  Gentle, and tender, and “needy” as fuck.

We do our girls a disservice when we teach them not to give a fuck.  It’s too general.  Too big.

It’s a breakdown in the feminine and ultimately a loss of power.

To be free.  To grow to accept, even understand another’s position without feeling responsible to it’s weight.

To carefully listen and gently know our ground.

To be raised up to stand the gap, to buckle under the emotion, to flow freely and sweetly.  Tender and unresolved towards awareness and love.

This is fierce.

To feel all the fucks.  To look them proudly in the face and allow them their moment.  To learn from them.  To grow in the shade of caring, and seeking, and wanting connection.

To give all the fucks.  Every last petty, bleeding, obnoxious, and suffocating fuck.

The bravery to do that is where our power lies.

We hobble the future when we teach it less.

(Unedited} Holding Ground

 

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This is a new idea.

Holding space.

A step outside an upbringing that roots my life whether I’m willing or not.

A gift of kind. Mercy and grace, the depths my soul feels comfort in.

Shining a light.

Common ground. Language that meets in the quiet fold of my heart. An understanding. Steady rhythm of gift and knowledge coming together.

To hold space.

Faith.

The steady hand that guides discovery and challenge.

Creating a place for wonder. Nature whispers words with ringing clarity.

This.

Knit in the womb to know.

Called.

Holding space. Holding ground. Intercession for a person, a people, a generation. Awake in the night. Painful knowing. Delight and fear. The weaving of self with the quiet understanding the Spirit brings in prayerful petition.

To sit in quiet. To meditate and pray. To open and empty for the heart of another. For the heart of the Father. The song of the Spirit. The triumph of the Son.

“And I sought for a man among them who should build up the wall and stand in the breach before me, that I should not destroy the land (but I found none).”

~ Ezekiel 22:30

{Unedited} ‘Till They Bloom’

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Recently I’ve been blessed to spend time sharing words with a new friend. A spiritual mama with her feet firmly planted in intention and love. She picks a book, I pick a book and we read it together.

Discussing twice a week over “coffee” our very different and somehow cohesive perspectives. Cultivation of a heartbeat. Growing. Learning. I have valued the time invested in reaching me, becoming a part of my days.
New month, new book…her choice. Highlighted and inscribed.

Women Who Run With the Wolves by Clarissa Pinkola Estés

“I hope you will go out and let stories, that is life, happen to you, and that you will work with these stories… water them with your blood and tears and your laughter till they bloom, till you yourself burst into bloom.”

Burst into bloom.

I connect with those words on a base level. My spirit empty and overflowing at the same time.

Several years ago trauma forced a painful change, need overtaking necessity and the grounded life I’d been living slipped. I was grieving the loss of space. Livestock butchered or sold off to make city living possible. Herbs carefully carried from space to space left to bloom untended. Roots grown deep. I was too worn to fight for them. In a storm of ruthless abandon and survival I buried the magic of earth and rhythm on twenty-five rain-soaked acres. Defeat wrapped in grace. I surrendered self and have never quite taken me back.

What was pleasure and instinct has become struggle and duty. The delight of harvest having been put off so long that I begrudge the planting. Replacing the basic relationship of earth and seed with the strained interaction of compromise and duty.

I miss the weathered relationship with sky and wind. Face upturned and seeking. Nature. The soothing quiet. Feet touching intimately the ground I walk, those connected and powerful parts of self breathing carefully, deeply. I’m lonely for the relationship of hope and earth.

Ache and fullness colliding in a battle cry of faith.

I’m ready to plant. I’m ready to grow. I’m ready to release the harvest of expectation for the wholeness of practice.

Practice.

My intention the seed of understanding and growth. Will left to reap. Fueling a moment, a thousand moments and looking towards a new reward. Energy in motion. The rooted power of spirit and connection.

Words and stories woven like memories, watered in blood and tears. Laughter, reaching for hope like the sun. Sturdy. Rested. Knowing.

Self destroyed and found in simple choice.

The deep listening of a heartbeat bursting into bloom.

“I hope you will go out and let stories, that is life, happen to you, and that you will work with these stories… water them with your blood and tears and your laughter till they bloom, till you yourself burst into bloom.”