The Liberation of Loss


It’s wild to remember a time not too long ago, when I used to write every day, because I had nothing else going on, and it was a structure that I clung to for sanity and salvation.  That was twenty twelve.  Now it’s twenty seventeen, and I have to breathe fire and wield exotic weapons to claim this modest sliver of sacred space for words to flow from my heart into your mind and Beyond.  There are so many consuming demands constantly leaping at my throat.  And when I finally touch down on the page, I doubt my mind and the content of my life…. the world as it lives inside me feels like primordial soup, so far from coherency and definition.  Maybe it always will… I keep waiting for a day to dawn where my Self is a bold, articulated form, emerging from said ocean of soup.  The Self of my wildest dreams– activated, aligned Priestess.  Fearless leader and lover of a new world.

But meanwhile I cocoon in my little house in the woods, making literal soup.  Not an ocean of soup…. but an impressively substantial, woman-made lake of soup.  Yesterday’s soup turned out mediocre (the flavors wouldn’t blend into a smooth, alchemical romance, and no matter how long I cooked the chickpeas, they refused to become perfectly tender…) and as a result, I went to bed wondering if I was depressed.  Actually, I woke up wondering if I’m depressed too…

But nah… I vote no.  I think it’s just impatience… mingling with the small creative failure of offering sub-par soup.  Nothing a deep breath can’t alleviate.

And now for one more semi-frivolous “aside”, before I dive into the meat and potatoes of my soul and life:  At the urging of a few of my “fans”, I submitted my last blog entry (“The Death of my Ma”) to Elephant Journal.  I was pretty certain there was no way they’d be able to resist this offering of poetically woven depth and raw, naked sharing.  But they did.  Because it was “too autobiographical”.  They said that they are a publication “by the community, for the community” and only accept pieces spoken in the language of “us” and “we”.

To that semantical nonsense, I can only reply “Get fucking real, Elephant Journal”.  Isn’t it obvious that my story, my unrelenting commitment to nakedness is FOR YOU?  Even a halfwitted moron has the intelligence to read my heart-stained words and touch something intimate and essential within their own life and depths.  Sigh… I guess that wasn’t my venue.  Because I will not compromise my voice.

And now for the main course.  Today it is three weeks since my Ma’s exit from this fabulously rigorous earth drama.  I’m not sure if that’s a looooong time…. or short.  I bet you would say it is short.  But consider that we talked EVERY DAY.  So three weeks without her actually feels like wandering an infinite loop of barren existence.  Actually, I was being dramatic.  The past three weeks have been anything but barren.  But God, I miss her… and in that gaping dimension of her physical absence, I am wandering said infinite loop.  But thankfully, I am a multidimensional bitch.  And I’m actually delighted to announce that losing my Ma is nothing like I imagined it wold be.

I feel simultaneous shame and elation to admit that there is a part of me that is relieved that she has moved on.  Because… I am an outrageous creature… And as much as I endeavored to full throttle BE myself… I held back on her account.  Or maybe on MY account…. Because I didn’t want to make too many waves in our relationship.  A few waves, yes.  But I tried to be in control of the quantity and size of the waves.  And honestly, that was a subtly draining endeavor.  As she lay on her deathbed, I exclaimed to her, “Now I can write whatever I want in my blog!”  She smiled and acknowledged this to be true.  There was always a sober and moralistic Jiminy Cricket perched on my shoulder, hissing in my ear that I oughtn’t say this or that… because it would offend my Mama.  Who knows, maybe he’s still there.  But if he dares to pipe in now, he’d better be prepared to have his adorable cricket guts squashed out!!!

Do you want to know the truth of me?  I am a wild and timeless tantric Priestess.  A sexual healer.  My path to and through and with and for God is through the my heavenly body and deeeep into this dense and wondrous world of form.  I always felt the need to hide my sexuality from my mom.  Sexuality was something she never addressed with me.  She never talked to me about the blood that flowed from my womb… the sacred power of desire…. the beauty and holiness of my pussy.  I suppose this is because HER mother never addressed it with HER.  And I suppose this is a result of our line of ancestral wounding.  And the collective suppression of the Divine Feminine.  But it aches me to carry this wound.  I am here to bring the wound of my lineage to the Light for ultimate transmutation and healing.  I am here to reunite sex and God.  For the healing of this planet.

At a personality level, this statement probably would have made my Mama squirm.  But at a soul level, she is ALL FOR IT.  My powerful ownership of my sexuality as whole and HOLY is a healing for her and her mother and all mothers and grandmothers and daughters backward and forward in time.   

I don’t know exactly HOW to execute this essential alchemy.  It is far beyond “me”.  But I do know that the entry point is honesty.  Honesty about who I am and what I know deep down in my soul.  My path of healing is to integrate and embody the divine wisdom that lives in my soul.  My body still carries the wounding of my ancestors… to some degree… though I have already healed a lot.  But there is more.  I still feel a gap between what I know inside, and what I embody.  It is my destiny to live as the unimpeded, ecstatic radiance of LOVE.   And if you think that sounds outrageous…. IT IS!!!

…But WE (eat your heart out, Elephant Journal!!!) are the Second Coming.

And our time has come.

Blessed BE.

Skin Shedding In AthenaGraceLand

I can feel myself changing shape.  It feels weird to blog… now that I’m not leaking caffeinated rocket fuel from every orifice I posses… shrug.  Lately I just don’t feel like I have that much to say… No, without caffeine amping me up, I feel like I somehow managed to swallow the Grand Canyon and there’s so much serene empty space, lazily sprawling out inside me.  Suddenly, every day is Sunday and every meal is leisurely brunch.  Every racetrack is full of domesticated snails and ever clock makes arduous and constipated ticks… and… t-t-tocks.  I feel like I am dissolving… and I’m glad for that.

I have gotten some positive strokes recently for being particularly *profound* here in AthenaGraceLand.  Groovy enough, right?  Yes I love positive strokes… but I noticed that my attachment to that sweetest of fruit was hindering the full spectrum of my expression.  And repeatedly performing the same crowd pleasing circus tricks just ain’t how I roll, yo.  I step onto the page as a wild horse steps onto the mesa~ to embody freedom, make love to the wind, to make the earth tremble, to be fluent in the language of thunder.  Not to be stroked for my exceptional profundity.  Nah, leave that to the PHDs and the MFAs.  Ladies and Gentlemen, the LMNOPs of the world let it all hang out.  I AM.  That’s about as profound as it gets today.  I am.

I am a human being struggling to break free from the bondage of my own mind.  And I am doing pretty good… but I sure hope that all this sweating and bleeding I’m doing now will pay off later.  I betcha twelve bucks that most people would tell me that I’m taking life way too seriously, being way too hard on myself, blahdy, blahdy blah… but listen, if you’re one of them, just you wait.  This might BE the modern day rendition of Henny Penny after all.  Wasn’t Henny Penny the one who worked real hard while all of her barn yard friends just dicked off and poked fun at her for being so focused and ambitious when she could have been simply dicking with the best of ‘em… and then a day came when tragedy struck and the whole spray of smelly animals were desperate to partake in the fruits of Henny Penny’s labors… I can’t remember if she was merciful and shared or whether she hoarded her booty in the end… but for the sake of time-transcending parables, let’s just say that she was virtuous and shared… Because I’d like to think that’s what I would do.

Yeah, I’m a modern day, under-cover, spiritual Henny Penny, working my soul’s fingers to the bone in the name of breaking free from the relentless insanity of the mind… And some day, your ass is gonna come wimpering to me, begging for a grandiose slice of peace pie… A sumptuous lump of Love flambé.  And you know what I’m gonna say?  I’m gonna say fuck* yes, I’ll hook a brotha and a sistah up… Eat up and come back for seconds, Pilgrim!  Come back for thirds… and thirty thirds… because the All Pervading Cream-Filled-Center is footin’ the bill!

*Yes, I said the F word.  Remember, a while back, I took a poll to feel deeper into the general consensus of this matter.  The results?  Spliced right down the middle… (Thank you, by the way, to all who exercised your voices pertaining to this matter!  I always love hearing your voice from my perch over here in Amnesiac Heaven…) which reminded me that ultimately, I get to say.  And since today I am a wild mare, snorting gratuitously and giving thunder a run for its money, I opted to toss a fuck into this decadent linguistic soup.  Sure… I could have said a million different things… and I might still.  But I believe that when used mindfully, sparingly and with rebellious reverence, fuck can sometimes be the spice that rounds out this holy-ish soup.  It’s kinda like cayenne pepper.  Mykael has a tendency to get heartburn when he eats spicy food… so I have mostly refrained from adding cayenne pepper (which I previously dashed into just about everything) to the [exceptional] food I prepare.  Now you could argue that cayenne pepper is a cop-out.  It’s just plain spicy… but it doesn’t have much flavor.  You could challenge me to find more culinarily innovative ways of expressing myself, besides just the cheap, hollow theatrics of garden variety spiciness.  Shrug.  That would be entirely valid… and I could rise higher than the occasion and ring bells you didn’t even know you had.  My cooking would STILL make your toes wiggle with primitive bliss… but sometimes this bitch likes it spice-ay.