Spitfire, Sass & My Imaginary Friend.
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I’m 45 and I have an imaginary friend.
She’s a non-identical identical twin. We share the same body.
Some giggle, suspecting she’s an odd quirk of mine.
But she and I know this secret: she is a high healer.
She is my altAr ego. (mis-spelling intentional)
She’s shadowed me since middle school, but was present in the shadows for much longer. We weren’t always friends.
She keeps powerful company with kindred magic makers, shapeshifters, medicine women and men. She likely knows your altAr ego and can introduce you if you haven’t yet met.
Meet Stacy Tramper, my, Tracy Stamper’s, altAr ego.
She wears red. Always. Boas adorn her on special occasions like Tuesdays. She’s fuckin’ feisty! She loves dropping f-bombs. All the f*cking time.
Sometimes, she enters quietly. Her presence always reveals itself eventually. She can speak without uttering a word. Other times, you’ll definitely hear her.
When she appears, her left hip juts out, meeting her left hand. Right toes turn out about 45 degrees. Sparkles dance in her eyes, her left eyebrow rising ever so slightly, probably imperceptibly to those who can’t tell the twins apart.
She’s got a grin, sometimes visible, sometimes not.
Coyote trickster energy infuses her, unless she’s juggling jokester monkey medicine. She can fly in on the wings of faerie magic or hold space with angels. She is an angel, but disguised.
No one, myself included, knows what to expect with Stacy. She keeps us on our toes when need be.
Heather Nova’s Truth and Bone is her battle cry. By the time the line awkward and I’m too polite hits, she’s thrash-dancing, moving truth through bone in full force, full throttle expression.
Sacred ink spans the back wings of her pelvis. Fire and gem rays shine from her power center, dripping into her sacrum, or sacred bone. She created this design of what her solar plexus power center would look like if visible, which it is.
Stacy finds the term tramp stamp laughable in its insinuation that adorning one’s body necessarily has anything to do with anyone else. She decorates her own body for no one’s pleasure and celebration but her own.
Tongue-in-cheek, she calls that tattoo her tramper stamper.
Stacy takes up space in the world. She’s got spitfire in her veins, truth on her tongue. This warrior knows when to take a stand and when to leave others be for the highest good of all. She’s wise. Discerning.
Quite simply, she is not one to be tussled with. To be clear, Stacy has everyone’s highest good in mind and heart. She speaks up, stands tall, and stands her own ground.
Some seem wary of her. They’re used to a more demure Tracy.
Some are amused by her, others bemused by her.
Those who can see that Stacy is a sacred sister cheer her the f*ck on!
I didn’t always understand Stacy myself, and certainly didn’t always appreciate her. I’ve mistakenly been called Stacy many hundreds of times. It’s an easy slip.
Someone thinks of my last name Stamper, then transposes the St onto my first name.
Constantly being called the wrong name is a shy girl’s curse. Every time I felt that familiar flush in my cheeks. Did I have to speak up and correct them? I never wanted to make anyone feel wrong or embarrassed.
Truth be told, I didn’t want to have to speak at all.
Awkward middle school years were spent with Stacy sidelining.
High school friends discovered that if the St is transposed onto my first name, logically, the Tr of my first name would be transposed onto my last. Tracy Stamper becomes Stacy Tramper.
A nickname of Tramper is good stuff for friends lovingly teasing a shy friend. I became mildly amused by this Tramper girl trailing me.
Upon graduating high school, I bid farewell to Stacy, or so I thought. Seemingly, she disappeared. Alas, a friend figured out the name flip-flopping, and Stacy Tramper reappeared in my mid-20s. I laughed, thinking I’d ditched her years ago.
Then, Stacy faded again.
A decade or so later, she burst back onto the scene loud and proud, never to be forced back into the shadows. She decided to return full force, and to stay.
Stacy sneaked up on me during a large work event. As is her style, she did so in a big, bold way. My beloved mentor was in town facilitating a workshop. In a beautifully tender moment, she publicly thanked me for hosting her.
Alas… she thanked…“Stacy!”
Immediately, she laughed hysterically, bewildered to have called her close friend the wrong name. She marveled: “I have no idea where that came from!”
Ah… It was time for me to introduce my friend to Stacy Tramper. I shared our sordid decades-long history. My friend, a mentor in many ways, loved this!
Stacy was obviously here for a reason if she hadn’t gone away for decades, she pronounced. Barely masking her smile, she declared that Stacy had something to teach me and it was time for me to listen.
Damn if she wasn’t right!
Since I couldn’t shake Stacy, I invited her in to help me shake things up.
The road to befriending her was admittedly rocky, given Stacy’s ways.
Initially, we played tricks on others, creating Stacy’s Facebook page, photos and all. Red horns were involved. I sent friend requests to my mentor and a handful of friends who knew Stacy’s shady background.
The trick was on me.
Mere days after creating Stacy’s profile, Facebook changed, as Facebook does. I had done my research to ensure that a user could opt to not make a profile public. This private joke was going to stay private.
I didn’t want my colleagues, bosses, or those I see at my son’s school, while wearing my mom clothes, to know about Stacy.
Stacy’s profile went live. She started receiving friend requests and strange private messages. Gulp! Facebook had changed the rules! I cursed Facebook.
Facebook didn’t care, as Facebook doesn’t, and all red-horned hell broke loose, if only in my mind. Stacy’s profile — with a ridiculous picture of me — was out there in the ethers, no thanks to the new Find Friends feature.
My cheeks were redder than Stacy’s accouterments.
I’d been played by Stacy!
Why would I expect otherwise?
What would be weirder: to delete the account right after it appeared, or to keep it?
I remembered my mentor’s invitation to learn what Stacy had to teach me.
But… people might think I’m weird. Or silly.
They’d be right. I am! Ha ha! A liberating truth! So Stacy stayed, making her presence known in the cyber world. And my work world. And my son’s school. We both survived. Stacy smiled.
Stacy’s still playing me.
Recently, I shared a photo and my professional introduction in an admired Facebook group of women. Next time I logged in, I discovered that the creepy auto-recognition photo function tagged Stacy Tramper!
So, while I had posted a sweet photo of Tracy:
{Photo credit: Tracy Stamper}
this account was linked:
{Photo credit: Tracy Stamper}
Quadruple gulp!
Through the shenanigans, I discovered: I need Stacy.
Stacy guided the painfully shy Tracy to find her voice, lift it up, and speak her truth. Stacy wants Tracy, silent for far too long, to come out and be heard.
In her medicine-woman way, she calls forth my higher self, coaxing my strength back into my body to heal wounds that shut me down and shut me up for too many years. Stacy ups the ante on my blossoming power.
Stacy doesn’t hold back. She speaks up for herself and others. She is not fearless, but willing to face fear while telling Tracy to take a breath. When the sh*t hits the fan and Tracy is in trouble, Stacy’s there.
Most times, I can step into my altAr ego, bringing my power back online.
Despite popular admonitions to not care what others think of oneself, Stacy does give a flying f*ck what others think. Neither Tracy nor Stacy are convinced that it’s possible, or even desirable, to not.
In the past, concern about what others might think could paralyze Tracy. Stacy? She gives a f*ck, then f*ckin’ does what’s needed.
Stacy surrounds herself with those willing to stand with her, speak their truth, and believe in Tracy. Stacy and Tracy have found playmates, including their ShamaMama, a friend named Sharly, and one Pollyanna Spissed.
Delving into names, I discovered that the meaning of Stacy is Fruitful or Productive. Tracy’s translation is Brave. True to form, Stacy helps Tracy bear the fruit of her bravery.
What a blessing to have a companion on this sometimes frightening, oftentimes painful, beautifully blessed journey of healing wounds and learning lessons that Life bestows upon us all.
I’m blessed by brave, strong, supportive beloveds by my side. And when I forget that I’m standing in this circle or forget to lean into Stacy’s backbone, I’ve got red undies with flames on them, glitter and truth to remind me.
***
Tracy Stamper is a dancer at heart, in mind, of body, and with words. She is blessed and blissed to call dancing her profession, thanks to the transformational conscious movement form of Nia. She teaches Nia classes and offers Nia White Belt Trainings for fellow dancers at heart, in mind, and of body. Tracy lives in St. Louis in a home on a little hill, with a whimsical wind sculpture out front, and two crazy rescue beagle boy dogs and the two human loves of her life inside. Her current favorite colors are purple, orange and glitter. She likes her chocolate dark, her little bubble of a world Personalitics-free, her inspiration flowing, and her car dances to be uninhibited. You can connect with her on her website, Nia website, and Facebook.
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