Come here.

Right here.  Get closer.  Real close.

Can you feel my breath on your cheek?  Yes?  Good.

Now take off your clothes.

You heard me.  All of them.  Right now.

Yup.  It’s time to get nekkid.

Everyone needs to strip down now and then, to get naked and let the wind breeze blow across bare skin so that every last nerve ending feels exquisitely alive.   We just rang in a brand new year and there’s no time like the present.

Feeling shy?  Of course you are.  Those clothes cover up a lot that you’re more comfortable hiding away.  They hide fear and shame and all your tender and achy parts.  Bumps and bruises and those spots where your skin got sheared clear away by that wipeout.   You’ve got not-good-enough moments tucked in your pockets and repeated pleas of i-couldn’t-possibly hidden under your hat.  Why, you’re even wearing sunglasses inside so I can’t see the depths of pain behind your eyes.    Sweet girl, let me hold those for you – you don’t need them here.

We’re so accustomed to tucking it all away, thinking it more polite or acceptable to keep it to ourselves – making snarky comments at those who feel free enough to parade it all for the world to see.  We’re constantly afraid that one of our layers might shift or be blown up in the breeze; exposing the parts we keep deeply hidden and fiercely guarded.

We laugh too little, and we don’t cry near enough.  We judge ourselves with harsh words and harsher actions; thinking we’ll beat the world to the punch by taking ourselves out first.  We silence our voices, limit our choices and hide our magic under layers and layers of protection.

This, my friends, takes a ton of energy.  This keeps you from the brilliance that only comes with being seeing and being seen and loving it all anyway.  You know what?  This year has too much in store for you for you to even consider continuing this way.  This year demands boldness, and physicality and sensuality and moxie like none has before.  There are times in life for playing small, for covering up and hiding away.  This, sweetness, is not one of those years.

This year is about claiming, about living fierce with reality, about celebrating your inherent holiness and getting down with your goddess self.  And it’s hard to shake your divine booty when it’s covered in layers and layers of stuff.  Lets take care of that right now.

It all starts with getting naked.  Shedding and peeling and tearing all that does not serve you.  Culling and paring down what holds you back.  Dismantling walls and protective layers and all that keeps you distanced from your one, magical life.

That cloak of self-deprecation?  Gone.
That skirt made of long-held shame?  Burn it.
Those too small shoes that you thought you needed to be beautiful?  Garbage.
The pockets stuffed full of unspoken dreams? Empty them now.
That big old ugly sweater knitted from every hateful word you’ve ever absorbed.? Fuck. That. Shit.

It’s time to take off those clothes, dammit.

I’ll put on some music.  Get you a stripper pole if you like.  By the soft light of a hundred candles or right in the center of the spotlight.   I’ll feed you chocolate dipped strawberries with whipped cream.   If you need me too, I can help.  Look you straight in the eyes, transmit universal love and unbutton the buttons.  Spiritual Seduction delivered exactly as needed.  We can do this long and drawn out and fast and dirty.  The end result is all the same.

There you’ll stand.  Without your armor.  Without talismans or amulets and everything you always wanted and thought for sure you needed to get by.  All of it.  Gone.

And there you are.  Just you.  Utterly, breathtakingly perfect.  You’ve let it all go now, and aren’t you the beauty?  Just as you are.  None of that stuff was necessary.  And yes, you want to run and hide.  You’re cowering in preparation for the judgment and the cold air and the wash of shame that is sure to come.

Except it doesn’t. The air is warm and the room is filled with nothing but love.  No judgment.  No harsh words.   We’re too awestruck by your beauty to even consider it.  We’re blown away by your courage and in awe of your strength.  There you are, doing the very thing we know we should do but can’t quite make ourselves commit to.

And with the removal of all that did not serve, there is space cleared to call home what is already yours.

Call it home, darling, call it home.

You can dance by yourself whenever the music moves you.  You can read your poem to 300 people even though your legs are shaking.  You can submit that novel that you poured your heart into to the best publishing house in the country.   You can learn to sky dive, go back to school, birth your baby on your own terms, end your marriage, fall in love, raise your voice, speak your mind, invite the consequences of living your truest life.  It’s all yours for the taking.

It’s all yours for the taking.

And when you’re ready to get dressed again you’ll find only the finest fabrics; sheer, light and beautiful.  In colors that make you shine from the inside out.   And although you could choose to cover yourself again, you wouldn’t dream of it.  You’ve witnessed the magic of transparency and seen how crazy beautiful the world looks with your light shinning on it.

Plus – you are on badass hot mama in your birthday suit. Don’t let anyone EVER tell you otherwise.

We sit on the bed; crossed legs and open hearts. It has been a long night and an even longer morning.  I curl myself around you as you weep.  Shoulders heave and cleansing tears fall.  A truth too long held is released.

Confession.  Omission.  Anxiety.  Fear.  Agony.  Comfort.  Compassion. Love.   These all live in the small spaces between us.

Comprehension crystalizes mysteries that had surrounded us in undercurrent.   One fact arched over a span of years and a lifetime of hurt and delivered right here; to this bed, in this room, on this tender morning.

Despite the rest, there is always hope in the truth.

~~~

Oh, sweet baby, you are not broken. Not in the way that you think.

Yes, it’s true.  Your heart is cracked in a million jagged pieces.  You have carried memories of dark nights and trust betrayed. Your body has tenderly sheltered a lifetime of shame.   You have buried your wounds beneath scars and your scars behind words unsaid and pain unseen.

And you feel broken.  Oh love, of course you do.  Your soul is patched – holes stuffed with unmet hope and despair and desperation.   You have being viewing your reflection in a mirror broken over and over again by pain and shame.  You consider all of this your due.  Your secret.  Only yours to bear.

That ends now.  It must end now.

Because yes, you are broken.  And yes, you are perfect.   And you are never, ever alone.

~~~

We are in this together.  None of us truly walk in isolation, even when we cannot sense the presence of another for miles upon miles.  Even in the worst of our desolation.  Even during our coldest 3am breakdown.  Even when we shut out the world and spin in circles until we collapse.

Even then the light still gets in.   Even then the heart still opens and reaches, tendrils of hope curling and bending toward slivers of light.   Upward, outward, in all directions – seeking light at all cost.

One way or another, we all grow toward the light.

We are resilient like that.  Our hearts are stubborn like that.  Our spirits – even under the heaviest of burdens – ultimately wild and free. And eventually, when we least expect it, the light finds its way in.  It always does.

And then everything is illuminated.  And all of our aching pieces, all the shattered bits, all the places we think we must tuck away from the world are bathed in radiance.  And only then does something become clear….

The closer you get to broken, the more it begins to look like whole.  Like beauty.  Like breathtaking truth.

And the truth is that we are all beautiful.  And we are all broken.  And even when you consider all of our hopelessly fractured pieces, all of us inherently whole.

Life cracks us into unrecognizable shards of former incarnations.  Slivers of our hurt, and our pain and our shame nestle next to fragments of our truth, our divinity, our fierce reclamation of power.

It is this very brokenness that allows us to knit together, kaleidoscope style.  And we spin and shift and turn to the light until we appear brilliant, lit from within.  Suddenly we are revealed; unexpected beauty born directly from brokenness.

We have to be willing to break in order to become.

~~~

Your sobs have quieted.  I hold you in my arms and radiate as much peace as I am able, hoping that some of it transmits directly to the center of your aching heart.

I cannot heal you.  I cannot fix this.  But I can help you gather the scattered and broken parts and hold them to the light.  I want you to catch a glimpse of what I see, a kaleidoscope configuration composed of color and geometry and all of your broken pieces arranged in imperfectly perfect symmetry.

You are broken.
You are whole.
You are beautiful.

I honor you.

Chaturanga dandasana.  Uttanasana.  Tadasana.  Savasana.

My body has developed muscle memories and attached them to the rise and flow of these Sanskrit words.  I bend and straighten, lift and lengthen in response.  I don’t often look to the screen anymore – just the sound of the words and the rhythm of my breath guide me in a practice dedicated daily to love.

Yoga is unlocking me.

I long resisted the mysterious otherness of this practice.  Yoga belonged to people who were not like me, who were more than me.  I negated my ability to release that fully into anything, not just bending and twisting into pretzelesque shapes, but giving myself over to something so far beyond physical.  Despite being surrounded by teachers who could have brought me here years ago, I held back.  I was not ready.

Now I respond to an inner call to move deeper.  Into the otherness inside me, into my physical body, into the depths of my heart.  Yoga called me.

So I bought a mat and began.

Cobra.  Warrior.  Triangle Pose.  Standing Forward Bend.  Downward Facing Dog. 

My body twists and bends.  My legs ground and steady.  My heart lifts and soars.  Muscles soften and strengthen. I root into the earth and stretch toward heaven.  My mantra – open, open, stay open – never more necessary than during my time on the mat. Losing my way requires only a return to breath.

My throat releases in the ocean sound of pranayama and I am free.

I feel the tearing of my right hamstring, an old dancing injury that will never fully recover.  I am aware of every bone of my back, the tightness of my legs.  I sense the tension in my hips, the way my limbs attach to my torso.  But my heart craves this as much as my body.  My increase in strength and flexibility seem irrelevant compared to the work this is doing on my soul.

There is no judgment here on the mat, only mindfulness. Growth does not always require insistence and force, sometimes we must merely learn to soften and release. I am beginning to understand what it is to be infinite.

There is a point where my practice shifts into a particular kind of worship.  There is holiness here; a scared power in the zone where body meets heart and they move as one. I am near tears and I feel myself opening from the inside out and expanding from the outside in.  Strength and vulnerability mingle with a sweetness that makes me fully aware of my own divinity.

Life has a way of bringing me back, over and over, to the mat.  I begin to grasp that all of life is practice, and that this practice is all of life.

Yes, yoga is unlocking me.

Nameste

{I want to be moved}

I want to be moved
damn it.
so move me

move me
make me
feel
push me past
my resistance
info that wide open space

give me something
beyond
the ordinary
beyond what you give
to the rest of the world

show me your naked soul
and I will gasp at your beauty
show me your unveiled eyes
and I will weep at your truth
show me your heart
cracked and broken
and I will hold it
with more tenderness
than you could ever possibly
imagine
and if you trust me
if you give me time
I will show you how
those very cracks
make you whole

I crave a depth
uncommon
I crave a meaning
deeper than
surface
I crave a glimpse
of spirit
divine
and I crave a touch
so primal and
earthly that it brings me
to my knees.

you bring me
to my knees.

I want transcendence
I want to be shattered
I want to gasp at the
brilliance of
ordinary moments
and extraordinary times
and these are the most
ordinary
extraordinary times

so shatter me

I want to know the secrets
your bones hold

I want to see drums of passion
beat
behind your fluttering
eyelids
I want to know what moves
you
Where your center lies
and just how far I can go before
I reach the edge
of you.

I want to feel
everything
push myself to feel
more
push myself past the
pain
lean hard against discomfort
fight numbness
and complacency and
comfort

in search of
more
in search of this
in search of that blinding
searing
goddess power
to touch the
muse
to
break the spell
to move the world

I want to be moved
dammit
so move me.

{4.22.11}

I could pull incredible quotes from this all night long, but some things are just better experienced first hand.

This makes me want to learn new things.   Push my boundaries.  Practice really and truly being in the moment.  It makes me want to be a little larger, a little bolder.  It makes me want to explore the edges of my limits and the center of my passion.  It inspires me to live.

you can’t take your eyes off of me.

can you?

not now
not here

yes
there have been plenty of days
{there will always be plenty of days}
where I am the forgettable
wallflower
turning myself almost
inside out
to keep you from seeing

please don’t look

but when I move into this space

this one

right here
right here

with hips swaying
and head held high
mouth in sassy
smirk till lips part
almost ready to
speak

you lean forward

yes. you do.

you lean forward,
transfixed by the moment
before the moment
the potential tucked
inside my breath
just waiting for
my exhale to
lay claim to
something extraordinary

and
in that moment

i own you

yes I do.

it is not pretty face
or strong body or
divine catwalk style
{though those may be lovely to some}
it is not sway of hips
or curve of lips
or anything superficial
that captivate right now

because baby,
floating on the surface is
far too easy to
to rely on

and this isn’t about easy

nothing so peripheral could hold
such power.
not really.

it seems silly
to think there were days
when I believed
{and still, I sometimes believe}
that I could measure
the value of
my existence
in a reflective
piece of glass

look at me
look at me

my eyes would plead
am I good enough?
see me please
prove to me that I
exist
am not invisible
show me I do not blend
chameleon into
this beige life

and in my desperation
I became smaller
and you looked away

of course you looked away

but that was then

before the
knowing

knowing that
it is not profession
or skill
not intellect
or accolades
not even talent or passion or drive

no, it is nothing
that comes from
my looking
or my doing
I can’t write it with slick words
or capture it in bright pixels
I can’t paint a pretty face
or saunter in stilettos and
expect to hold
your attention

no, this is not about easy

but it sure isn’t hard.

the secret to this
particular
spellbinding
is my

being.

it is my being that
holds sway
keeps captive
your attention
and desire

you want

the very act of being
fully
to be content with
no elemental
half-life
but with expectation
of every breath flooding
every last atom
in this universe
into pulsing awareness

I am an
enchantress
when fully engaged
in being
vibrational frequency
shimmers liquid
across depth and breadth
and I am on fire
from the inside out

and then you are lit
from the outside, in.

and when I am no longer
content
with the effort of
not contracting
but instead choose to
expand

I expand

and I fill this space
refuse to be contained
by labels
or expectations
or boxes designed to keep me small

hell no.
not now.

now is my time
this is my space

and you can’t take your eyes of off me.

I’m not growing up here
I’m growing out
out
in all directions
possessing this space
every last inch,
every last fiber
every last sound

and all of you.

yes, this is poem is about
being
this life is about
being
and right now

i am all about being

but
this is not just about me
did you think that it was?

no, I own this particular swagger
only because I know that
this spark
is in every last one of us
and we can all strut
and smirk
and own the room
just by being

I know the fire that burns
in your gut
and I know your fears
of being seen
and of being invisible
and I know the tears that crack you
wide open
and the chasms that threaten
to swallow you whole
and I know your heart sometimes pounds so
hard that you’d swear
it could be heard around the world
if only people would wake up
and listen

and I know you are so ready
to expand
ready to
embrace
your particular
way of
being

So no, this could never be just about
me
because
quite frankly
you
are so damn amazing that

I can’t take my eyes
off of

you.

she doodles everywhere.

faces and shapes and lines. simple and complex. fantastical, nonsensical free flow and elaborate, deliberate worlds.

on letters, and envelopes, and the back of her sisters advent calendar. on the clipboard attached to the wall above my desk. on checks waiting to make it into my bank account. on my to-do list. on her homework.

blank space? property of another? no, it’s just an expanse of paper waiting to be filled by what spills from her brain and hand and heart.

~~~

have you noticed? i ask. she is drawing everywhere these days, it’s amazing. maybe we should find her an art class.

maybe she needs boundaries, comes the reply. yes, boundaries – so she won’t draw on things that are not hers. there is a time and place for this.

maybe, I hesitate. maybe. but maybe this is something magical. something to pay attention to. maybe we could cultivate it. encourage it. help her let loose what is bubbling inside.

like the drumming, i add. like the way she makes rhythm on the window pane, or the table, or her legs. like she’s got music inside her. that could be magical too.

it’s just doodling. everyone does it. all kids draw. and drum.

~~~

of course they do. but not all adults. we don’t all draw. we don’t all drum out the beat of our hearts on every available surface. we forget all of that and shrink into ourselves. we say we’re not artists, not musicians, not creative. not good enough.

ever ask a kid if they can draw or sing?

YES! they’ll exclaim. YES! lets color princesses on this shopping list, and don’t you hear how this bowl sounds like a heartbeat if you tap it just so. rainbow colored trees and guitars from cardboard boxes and elastic bands. lets have a parade! YES!

they are artists and musicians and dancers and dreamers and everything else we’ve forgotten how to be.

boundaries? lines to stay inside? limitations of space or logistics or equipment? too loud? too messy? not good enough? these things are the domain of grownups.

what if our real job as parents is to nurture the magic that already lives inside our children? or, just maybe our only real job is to step out of the way. they all ready know how to give birth to their own genius, if give them enough space and trust to let it all flow out.

and what if a small part of what they are tasked with here on earth is to help tease back the layers of boundaries we’ve placed on ourselves? what if they have more to teach us about letting ourselves go than we could ever teach them about reigning themselves in? what if we just relaxed and let them help us remember the days when we lived our own lives without holding back?

back when our homework doodles and our cardboard box drum solos and our living room ballets and our bath time operas were delivered with gusto and moxie and pure bad-ass belief that we were invincible. that we were enough. that we could be artists and movie stars and trapeze artists and doctors and astronauts and mommies. all at once or one after another.

let her doodle. i say. let her remind me of my own greatness. my own wonder. let her remind me to color outside the lines of my life, to forget about self-imposed limits. that I can swing on a trapeze if I want, or fly into space. let her remind me that the heart of the story is more important than the misspelled words. that I don’t need to be dylan to make music or picaso to make art.

let her doodle. it could be the beginning of magic.

(and yes, this poured out so fast that I let capitalization be dammed.  it just seemed to interrupt the flow.)

Hey you….Remember that great idea you had?   The one that came to you at 3am and kept you awake with it’s magic?  The one that you just knew would take the world by storm if only…..

And you…You want so badly to be a part of something meaningful.  You’ve got mad skills and endless drive. If only you knew where to meet your muse…

What would you do if you knew that you had access to all of the people and resources you needed to bring your greatest dreams to fruition? How could you justify sitting on your great idea if you knew that you had dozens of people holding you accountable, believing in you, and supporting you?

There are a lot of dreamers in the world. There are also a lot of doers.  The dreamers have entire universes existing inside them but have trouble crossing the divide between idea and action.  The doers know exactly what to do, and they would do it – if only they had that one great idea that would capture their heart.

The real magic?  That happens when dreamers and doers unite.

The only way to cross that divide and move forward is to take the first step (don’t be intimidated, it can be an itty bitty baby step, as long as you take it).

This is a call to action.  We’re moving forward, but we need your input to make this happen.  We can’t do it alone, none of us can do it alone.  This is the first in a series of questions we’ll be asking that will help us bring our dream to life, and in the process we hope to nurture (and kick start) yours as well.

Tell us, are you a dreamer or a doer?  Do you have big ideas that you are keeping tucked away inside because you’re afraid to set them free or are you searching for the perfect outlet for your particular kind of practical magic?

We were in Julie’s room one night, my eldest daughter and I.  I wanted to show her how the canvas painting she had carefully labored over for Julie’s Christmas gift was framed and hung on the wall.

I said, gazing at her masterpiece with no small amount of motherly pride, “Now it looks like a real work of art”.

Bella looked at my quizzically, wondering yet again how her mother could possibly understand so little about the world.

“Mama, every time you make something, or draw something, or paint something, it is already real art. There is no such thing as art that is not real”

And so I said that she was right, and didn’t it look nice, and once again, daughter became guru and mother became willing student.

Which is, I sometimes think, the way it was meant to be.

~~~~~~

{art is always real. all of it.  even the stuff you don’t understand.  even the stuff you don’t like.  even the stuff that you made that you would be embarrassed to show your best friend}

that photo that you took when you first got your DSLR, when you captured her spirit perfectly but the focus landed on her shoulder?    still art.

the painting you did last year the first time you picked up a brush, the one your mentor critqued to death?  it’s art.

the story you are holding in your heart and so desperately want to tell the world?  definitely art.

the scarf you knit for your son with the funky messed up rows?  art. art. art.

the poem scrawled on your dry cleaning receipt at the red light.

the dress you want to sew. the song you want to sing.

the clay you’ve not yet molded.

everything you have made

or will one day make

{it’s all real, every last bit.   because there is no such thing as art that is not real. bella said so}