Having grown up a stone’s throw from a convent in rural Ireland — and the school in which the sisters taught me — my formative years were shaped by three female archetypes: nuns, mothers, and old maids.
The latter were heavily in the minority and viewed with derision, suspicion and, I’ll wager, reluctant envy.
At some stage in her development, a girl begins to envision the woman she will become, and I found myself, in weighing the merits of each, leaning toward the latter two.
Living within arm’s reach of the convent chapel, and being a frequent interloper, I grew to appreciate the fertile ground of silent contemplation in which one may birth a deep and vital connection not only to one’s inner self but to the seat of divinity that abides at its depths.
In tandem, the merits of being beholden to no man, be it partner or pontiff,...
I want to be a part of, and help cultivate, communities where people come together with this philosophy of love at its core. Where writers and artists can be the voices for those who can't find the words. Where we can connect, and feel our hearts grow closer as our minds expand, our hands grow warmer even when the world feels cold. Where free expression is honored, and unique voices are encouraged. Art, writing, every form of inspiration that we create is a story that should be shared, widely and with a whole heart, because it will make a difference in someone's life, today. And that should never be stifled, or guarded with jealous, small hearts and fearful, grasping minds.
Think of it like clearing a space in your soul for something new and amazing to blossom. Like turning the soil, planting seeds, and tending the garden that comes… except this is in your spirit. If there's something in particular that's troubling you, write about it. Write about your ideal outcome, your options, your resources; writing about these things helps you to work through and ultimately get past them.
Misguiding us to mold into the mundane, coercing us all to consume, controlling us to conformity, lessons learned of lust not love, the world has imprisoned us in individualistic ideals in insidious intent, our freedom falsely given for it is only found in our intrinsic connection to everyone and everything. Malnourishing our souls. I've had my fill of fallacies, banquets of bullshit.
You think you must be the only one in the world without a redeeming quality left, as you wage war against these secret creatures of yours, begging to be loved. The only straggler amongst all the others who've got their shit together. The only one who can no longer see your own face behind the masks. The only one fissured and flawed. The only one with guilt and shame seeping out of your eyes. No, darling, this is a human experience. We are all kindred in our universal brokenness.
But then he came along.
He wasn't in alignment with what the world saw as the perfect formula for a happy life.
He was different.
He never did what was expected.
People didn't understand him.
And the true beauty of it is -- he still doesn't.
This is why he is magic.
He's just her beautiful, magical autistic boy.
Now I am impulsive. Now I am bold. Now I am none the wiser. Now I make mistakes -- the same ones. Now I fight for my dreams, but I'm not sure I'm fighting for the right things. I am no longer innocent. I have damage in my journey. I have regret in my past. I don't just have rain… I have a hurricane.
I was engulfed in therapeutic grade essential oils, Himalayan lamps, immersing my body and charging my cells through healing crystal baths, deep states of meditation which opened up my kundalini channel, binaural and isochronic tones, sitting with the echoes of my inner child, revitalizing Yoga postures combined with deep rest, raw organic juices and wellness shots serving as gateways that take me deeper into my divine blueprint, reading and writing, crying sacred/healing tears and (finally, eh?) attuning myself to higher vibrations through deeply restoring release, flushing and cleansing.
Why didn't she just tell him the truth? Because then he would think she was crazy, and not want to see her anymore. She fell onto the couch and stopped fighting the tears, letting them stream down her cheeks, warm and salty as they reached her lips, and dripped from her chin.
Sometimes the magnitude of beauty one finds in Montana can be crushing -- reducing one to feel small and insignificant, the way some people might feel while sitting under the night sky with billions of stars overhead.
That's when it hit me like a ton of bricks -- whenever I find something rare, precious, special, perfect, I tend to grab it and cling to it with a frightening ferocity. Whether it's a relationship I treasure, a person I care about, a perfectly formed sand dollar, or something else that strikes my fancy, my greed in preserving and protecting it can be suffocating at best, damaging to a breaking point at worst.
I found myself in the moment, while standing in Tadasana. In chanting Om, I found a sense of community, In Child's Pose, I felt support, In Bridge Pose I felt strength, in Happy Baby I found happiness, in Downward Facing Dog I found stability, in Vinyasa flow I found a source of release, in my first handstand I felt free, in Tree Pose I found life, in Butterfly Pose I found openness, in Savasana I found lightness, and when I brought my hands to heart center, I found love within myself.
We were one.
And yet, you haunt me still.
Leave me in peace now. Let my heart rest a little now.
Let my limbs know the world without you now.
Let me dance alone for a time, without your fingers spindling my thoughts.
Let me free.
When we first arrive, we are plump and juicy expressions of the divine mystery, still perceiving things that adults would tell us are 'not there', still in tune to the pulse of life -- we are it. Methodically, we are indoctrinated to living in a certain bandwidth called 'reality'.
Yes, you are in for a lot of heartbreak in the years ahead. You will live through it. You will love again. One of the greatest things about you is your big, wide, all-encompassing, compassionate heart. Yes, betrayal hurts, but you will be okay.
I write this for those who need a boost over the fence. Who need to know there are five fingers waiting for them, always, to give them the support and extra push they need to say Goodbye to victimhood and Hello to strength and rebirth and power. I write this for those who are alone in the dark, knees pulled tightly to their chest, hair hiding their eyes. Those who have been paralyzed through no fault of their own. Those who are stuck and suffering in that stuckness. Those who just need a sign that it's not only okay, but absolutely time to move on and reclaim themselves. All of themselves. Their sex, their strength, their power. Those who need to hear that it's not only alright, but essential to be seen and heard.
What’s the point?
On the Yoga mat, my belly twisted over my thigh bone, my thigh bone burning like hell, my hands held in a prayer, shaking, sweating. My breath so loud the whole room can hear it: in, out, in, out.
Another rejection letter. Thank you very much for your time and effort; however, we regret to inform you…
Facebook. 489 friends. Less than her. More than him. Status updates crafted like flash fiction, all those tiny stories dipped in half-truths. Trolling through pictures of diamond rings, baby bumps, straight white teeth, girls who can’t possibly be that pretty. Instagram. Twitter. Tinder. Text messages.
An inbox full of tens of thousands of electronic messages. How my fingertips touch keyboards instead of skin. How I type instead of talk.
The last five years — well, almost anyway. Four years, eight months, and an odd number of days....