As I settle into my new life, the challenges of getting here feel further away. Of course, there are new challenges, but my rabbit Gnocchi and I are stabilizing. From that budding stability, creativity is starting to flow again. Well, drip. Then trickle. THEN flow. 

I’ve always been a creative person. Making art, singing, dancing, painting, writing, whatever I could get my hands on. 

But even though artistic expression is my native language, I still go through periods where my tongue is tied. My pipes are clogged. I’m wrapped up in fear and doubt and other things are higher on the priority list.

Each time I come back and start flowing again, it feels like coming home. I’m sitting on the floor like I did as a kid, with my smelly markers, humming and doodling and wiggling my toes. 

Sometimes, I lose sight of this girl. But when I remember, she reminds me that she isn’t just a child I have to appease from time to time. 

Play is a way of being. It’s what makes life…alive. Like surfing a wave of inspiration, I’m moving  and grooving and things and people are just coming to me. I’m laughing. I’m having fun. And I’m at peace.

You can’t surf the wave forever, all waves crash. But you can develop your ability to access it, especially if you’ve forgotten your inner artist for a long time and life is feeling like a drag. This is for you if you’re overwhelmed, heavy and depleted. 

This is when it’s time to remember. It is essential to reconnect. Now. Not once you get to the bottom of your to-do list. Because the list never ends. 

So right now, wherever you’re reading this, imagine yourself putting on your FUN GOGGLES. Make them as outrageously silly and vibrantly colorful as you wish. And let yourself see the world through them. 

Ask them to help you see the fun, the absurd, the silly. Don’t make it another task for you to manage. Ask them for help, ask to RECEIVE inspiration. 

All you have to do is be willing to see it. Don’t let your naggy, critical mind talk you out of nurturing the little seeds. Maybe you notice a flower petal on the ground. Pick it up. Maybe you catch yourself in the mirror. Stick your tongue out. Do something dumb like it’s the most important thing in the world. 

Give every seed room to grow. Because every plant, every tree, every human being, starts as a seed. It just needs protection, care, and time.

Today, I got my shit ROCKED by the ocean. It was rough; I could hear the waves crashing mercilessly as I walked up to the beach, but I went in anyway. I thought, “I’m a strong swimmer, I know what to do.” I am. And I did.

I swam to the bottom, then once I felt it pass, I swam up for air. This worked on the way in to get past the break, but on my way back out of the water, I couldn’t escape a series of huge waves breaking on top of me.

One tumbled me around so bad, I used up all of my breath-holding ability waiting for it to finish tumbling me around before I could find “up.” There wasn’t enough time to catch my breath before the next one came and I had to go under and do it again. 

That was scary. Seeing a giant wave heading my way, knowing I didn’t have my breath under me enough to comfortably weather it. That set my panic script into motion. Suddenly, I was fighting for my life in a big, scary ocean. Strong swimmer or not, I was at the mercy of my best efforts and whatever the water was going to do.

After a minute or so, (I have no idea how long it was) desperately swimming toward the shore, breathing while I could, and weathering the waves, it was finally shallow enough to stand up and walk. I trudged through the current trying to pull me back. My nose burned and my chest heaved.

I sat on my towel, spitting and blowing salt water out of my nose.

My panic gradually wound down. My breathing returned to normal. The breakfast I thought might reemerge settled back down in my stomach.

My mind turned back on, trying to catch up to the body that just had this suddenly life-threatening experience.

I asked myself, “What was this teaching me?”

That I shouldn’t have gone in in the first place? Yes.

That I could trust myself to survive? Yes.

That sometimes, life sends you waves that are simply too big and all the thinking and intellectualizing and trying to wrap your mind around it doesn’t change anything?

Yes. 

An experience like that brings you right to the most basic level of life. My brain has a big ego, but all the meaning-making and mental puzzling in the world won’t save me from the too-big waves. You just have to get through it, catch your breath, and keep going.

On Monday, I started the drive from Los Angeles to Oaxaca, moving my whole existence 40 hours south.

Unlike when I drove through Mexico the first time, this time, I know exactly how hard it is. This time, I have one less rabbit. This time, my partner and I are breaking up, not starting our relationship.

I haven’t felt “at home” for a year and a half, since I left for that first trip in search of a new life.

But this time, I know exactly where home is. It’s waiting for me. I just have to get there. 

I’m 2 days into 2 weeks of this solo drive. And this time, I am really feeling the solo-ness.

As an only child and recovering independence addict, I used to do everything by myself and not think twice about it. 3 months driving alone through Mexico? No problem. 

But something changed. Since opening myself up to deeper connection, finding my people, and letting myself receive love and care, it’s not so easy being alone anymore. 

I was so used to it for so long, I didn’t realize what I was missing. I didn’t realize how much it hurt. But now those scabs are fresh, pink skin. And I FEEL it.

I feel everything so much - the heartbreak, the incremental progress, the sweetness of companionship - life is at full volume. And I am trying to meet it with gratitude, in addition to crushing heartbreak, fear and exhaustion. 

My companion on this long drive is a seven-year-old rabbit, Gnocchi.

This time last week, I thought she was dying. She’s recovering from health issues that left her unable to breathe and unable to move. I had to wake up every few hours to clear out her nose. I had to hold up her head so she could drink.

Oh my god, how precious life is when you think it’s over. When you think you might not have another day, every moment has so much gravity. Every flop, every cuddle, every shared glance, almost wasn’t and may not be tomorrow.

But she’s getting better. A couple days ago, she started hopping again. I’m crying right now looking at her sitting contentedly under the desk in this hotel room.

I cry when I think about how grateful I am to have her with me on this long journey.

I cry when she drinks water. I cry when she’s stable enough to groom herself. I cry when she gets comfortable and rests.

I am so affected by her every movement, because I am ACUTELY aware of her fragility. And I have lost some of the beings I’ve loved most this last few months. So every little development, every little blessing, every little connection, hits my heart so hard. 

On this drive with this precious little creature, I can’t plan more than a few hours ahead. I have to live in this exact moment, slow down and take it easy enough to actually enjoy it. I have to surrender to the absolute enormity of existing in a body on Planet Earth.

I can’t take anything for granted. I can’t take anything too seriously.

The point is to feel it and enjoy it. Not necessarily to sob for all 40 hours looking at her weepy eye and bald chin and wobbly legs and stress about if she’s living or dying. 

Because she’s living AND dying. We all are. 

So I cry.

And I kiss her soft forehead.

And I laugh when she can’t get back up after a sharp turn.

This has been one of the hardest weeks. My other rabbit, Gnocchi, (Cosmo’s widow) is really sick. We’ve stayed up with her, making sure she doesn’t asphyxiate on the thick, white discharge coming out of her nose. (This is how Cosmo died.) We took her to a second vet, 3 hours away, where she stayed overnight and got fluids and antibiotics pumped into her tiny, critically dehydrated body. We brought her home yesterday, my partner’s tiny house that we’ve been sharing. But I’m moving out, we are breaking up, and I am about to make the long drive back to Oaxaca. 

Gnocchi is so weak that she can’t move around and gets stuck lying down, unable to get her legs underneath her.

I am overwhelmed, exhausted and heartbroken.

The other night, I pried myself out of the house for a walk. I went to the park across the street and stood under a tall tree. I was comforted by how big it was. How long it had been growing. How thick its trunk was. How I could lean against it with my whole body and it wouldn’t budge. Feeling so acutely how thin the border between life and death are with this frail rabbit, the sturdiness of the tree gave me peace. So I did what I always do to try and process something immense and unprocessable. I wrote a poem.

how is it

that life can be as fragile as a leaf 

that browns and shatters to dust

and as solid as the tree,

towering over my soft body

how can it be as final as our last breath

and as dependable as spring

how can it move mountains, erupt and quake  

then whisper, mist and evaporate 

why is death its inseparable shadow

the dark, silent rest 

that creation needs in order to dream

tangled in one inseparable knot

love, heartbreak, fire, stone

some days I am desperate to understand

hovering over the pieces

scanning for relief

I don’t know if it matters 

but it feels better to try

my brain wants to pin it down, like a specimen on the wall, 

accurately labeled, meticulously preserved 

lifeless

to solve it is an illusion

of safety, of completion, 

with no room for growth

that’s not how life becomes the tree

layers of wood, patiently circling outward

reaching higher and higher

rooting deeper and deeper

with so many ideas

each branch, a prayer

touch me - i want to feel the sun

shine on my tenderest leaves

bake them green

give them life

for a little while

This time last week, I was struggling. 

Writing to you now, I am on the other side of the breakthrough I couldn’t see, but trusted was coming.

For the past few weeks, I’ve been traveling around the East coast, where I lived before I was ALIVE. For most of my life, I had no faith, no self-trust and no will to live. I thought I was broken with no chance of repair. I hadn’t tasted true intimacy or unconditional love. I didn’t know my soul. I hadn’t discovered how powerful, how deep, how sensitive, and how worthy of love she was. 

I’m currently visiting New York City, where I lived from 2012-2018. I was miserable when I left. Suicidal, working in a field I had just gotten a masters in, but no longer had the mental or emotional capacity for. I had already been on antidepressants and in therapy for years, self-medicating with drugs and alcohol, keeping myself alive on obligation to others and the imagined peace of being dead. 

In 2018, I moved to Los Angeles as a last-ditch effort to see if happiness was possible. I didn’t have faith, but there was nothing to lose. 

Fast forward to 2023. 

My five years in LA gave me exactly what I needed. Happiness, healing, spiritual connectedness and purpose in a deep, unshakable way.

But this trip to the East coast resurfaced the depression I worked so hard to heal.

On Monday, I went on a walk through one of my old neighborhoods and stopped in a spiritual store. I love them. I can’t get enough of them. Let me touch all of the crystals. Anyway. I decided to get a tarot reading.

It was a much needed affirmation of what I already knew. I was doing the right thing. I was on my path. And the emotions I’m feeling are guiding me. They’re telling me what supports my aliveness and what does not.

My soul knows that my next chapter is in Mexico, but I’ve been trying to hold onto the partnership I built in LA.

Unlike leaving New York in 2018, there’s a lot to lose this time. So I’ve been keeping one foot in as I poke the other out, doing everything I can to see if it’s possible to have both.

I still don’t have the answer to that question. But I needed to be clear about one thing.

My soul knows what it needs to be alive, and I’m not willing to sacrifice that.

I had a difficult conversation with myself. And I had a difficult conversation with my partner. Setting that boundary freed me to lean into the uncertainty of the present moment. To weather the emotions. Trust myself to listen. And enjoy the ride.

Last Monday, I arrived in Mexico. Since then, so much has opened up. I’ve learned new words, met new people, walked down new roads…you know, things you do when you’re in a new place.  But the most profound opening has happened inside me. Thursday, some mild stomach issues suddenly became unbearable cramps, fever and an inability to do anything but lie down and occasionally hobble to the bathroom, for hours. It was brutal. It was gross. It was humbling. And there was nothing I could do. 

Except, I’m a badass witch that can move energy. So as I laid in bed, moaning through waves of pain, I breathed and shook and held different parts of my body, helping it pass whatever was moving through me. 

For the last year, since a mysterious download from the Universe, I’ve been learning from my own body and others’ to figure out how this crazy shit works. Each time, I unlock deeper discoveries and validate wilder hypotheses from my intuition. Being so sick and forced to surrender so hard to “something else,” I got another peek behind the curtain. Consider this poem a recipe.

There’s a splinter in my chest. 

I can feel it. It feels like heartache. 

Old,

and deep. 

I’ve been pressing into it. 

Hard. 

Squeezing the skin and muscles. 

Trying to force it out.

But that doesn’t seem to be the way. 

Okay.

How do you extract a splinter? 

You soak it. You soften the surrounding flesh.

With time, and the right conditions, 

it works itself out.

And so I gently bathe it, 

in warm, soapy love.

I sit patiently beside it and say,

“Take your time. I’m here.”

It aches? I ache with it. 

I place my hand on my back. 

I can feel the muscles start to relax. 

A tear bubbles to the surface.

Do we all carry hardened hearts? 

Bony spines, laid brick by brick

to protect our tenderest parts.

But hardening doesn’t keep us safe 

from the hardness of the world. 

The wound inside remains, 

quivering within its cage. 

I’m reminded every time someone gets close,

or I’m in that certain pose, and my neck hurts. 

But my neck hurts all the time. 

A cold, dull pain I drag from place to place. 

It sits, like a stone. 

Heavy shield

I’m too tired to hold.

Every time I crash, I learn a new way to break. 

A new corridor breathes.

Life flows back

into parts of me I didn’t know were there.

The slower I move, 

the more my bones start to speak.

The cartilage unkinks.

My heart 

wakes up from the inside.

Pumping fresh blood,

a primal hum

shakes itself free.

It doesn’t want to be 

anyone I’ve ever been, 

only who it always was.

Born to swim, 

and dance, and run.

Go where there is life and take it in. 

Wherever you walk, create a path.

Smell flowers, light fires and laugh.

Sit in small, dark rooms with the walls painted blue

and cry.

Most of all, give it time. 

You can’t unfold all at once. 

You’re not a house of cards. 

Your being was built over years and years. 

And the threads of its coding are the oldest fiber. 

You can’t rush open space.

Gold only knows how to whisper.

So listen close,

and wait.

Tell me, 

what is alive in this forest?

Where is the ripest fruit?

I cut down every tree growing green,

searching, swiping, staying 

on the surface.

I take a bite, 

and spit it out.

This flesh is bitter.

I know there’s something else that’s better.

I go on testing and discarding.

There’s no resting, 

cuz I’m starving.

Arms outstretched, 

eyes glazed over,

belly never full.

I’ve leveled the entire forest, 

and not found one worthy fruit.

What am I missing?

With sorrow and pity,

I fall to the floor.

Cheek to the dirt,

an earthworm squirms beside me.

Crawling, gnawing, writhing.

It eats and eats, 

longing for wholeness. 

Aching for more than it is.

Its hunger

feeds the soil.

Its struggle

completes the circle.