Last week, I wrote about slowing down and hibernating during the winter. Allowing life to be more…less. 

This week, I’m sick and work is slow. AKA I’m being forced to practice what I preach.

I feel like shit, I’m bored, and I’m asking myself, “why is it so hard to just BE?”

And guys, trust me, I’m doing all the things. I meditate. I journal. I spend time outside. I stretch. I exercise. I am in touch with myself. (Like, REALLY in touch with myself.) I’m super comfortable being alone. And I have great friends and a loving relationship. I love what I do and it feels important.

And yet, I can’t escape the tedium of existence. 

So this week, I’m going to write as raw as possible. Because life isn’t a tidy blog post about how I’ve figured everything out and here are 10 ways to everlasting peace.

I always get to the bottom of posts like that and feel…well, nothing. I want to feel closer to the person that wrote it. I want to experience their mushy center. I want to know there’s another vulnerable human out there, trying. Being real, not perfect.

It’s soooo tempting though. I catch myself ALL THE TIME. Thinking I have to have it all figured out, presenting a shiny shell and thinking that’s what makes me “good.” 

But that’s how we miss what’s really there. I think what makes me good is my humanness, my energy, my presence. Being and listening with my whole heart.

When I listen like that, the path reveals itself. 

Listening to myself right now, I’m tired. My face hurts from holding in the contents of my brain. My throat feels dry and scorched. I want to feel “complete,” but there is no complete. Life just keeps going. Maybe I wrote something that will touch someone. Maybe I didn’t. But my body says, “I’m done and I’m thirsty.” So I’m going to post what I’ve got, put my laptop away and drink a glass of water. See you next week!

I think this is my third post now about receiving. I keep learning how important it is.

This time last week, a very special rabbit named Cosmo died. He was 9 years old. He’d been sick multiple times, and this time, he didn’t come out the other side. 

At 6 months old, he was a feisty and fearful little escape artist. He was found abandoned in a New York City apartment building cowering in the corner (his favorite place to cower).

I took one look at this terrified little creature, hiding at the back of the cage in the shelter, having clumsily bolted behind his box of hay, and said, yes, that one.

He was with me for 8 and a half years. All this time, I thought I was taking care of him.

2 weeks ago, he started sneezing.

I was leaving for Mexico in a couple days and the boarder was going to bring him to the vet that same day. But he was getting worse leading up to my departure.

The night before he died, I watched him eat and struggle and sneeze. I sobbed, and occasionally laughed at how weird and gross his mouth sounds were.

I hoped it wasn’t the end, but I knew I needed to be with him and express what I needed to in case it was.

I sat on the floor next to him and thanked him for the time we had spent together. 

I thanked him for his presence in my life. I thanked him for moving across the country with me. I thanked him for getting me all the way to Oaxaca and back. I hadn’t planned to take him on that trip, but he needed intense care to remove an abscess. I had to do warm compresses twice a day and squeeze puss out of a tube coming out of his cheek. Then after several weeks, remove the tube myself. It was disgusting.

But those moments, where I got to care for him so intimately, were some of the most meaningful. They were an initiation into a deeper mothering than I had ever experienced.

I noticed myself wanting confirmation that I had done a good enough job. Feeling guilt and self-doubt over the times I wasn’t there or didn’t know what was best. Recognizing that, I emailed my own mother, letting her know she had done her job well, that I was a complete person, thriving and standing on my own two feet. I forgave her, I apologized, and I offered permission for her to release any fear or doubt she may have been holding.

I turned back to Cosmo, having released what I’d been carrying in both directions, as the mother, and the child. I looked in his eyes, my heart open and free, and just listened. 

The air between our eyes warped, like how the air warbles over a flame. Two distinct pulses. I recognize this as energy moving between us. He shifted into a different posture. 

I knew intuitively that he had received what I expressed, and he was now giving something to me. 

Because his nose was stuffy, I could hear each exhale. The rhythm was consistent and specific. He was using his breathing to soothe me. 

From his sweet little furry body, he was beaming his breath and attention, creating a frequency of love, assurance and nurturing. FOR ME. 

I was stunned.

Trying not to assume I knew better than the wisdom of nature, I laid down, closed my eyes and accepted it.

His breathing maintained its rhythm, steady and uninterrupted, as if to say, yes, it is still okay for you to receive. I am here.

I let his energy flow into my body. It felt like magic. It felt like mothering. It felt like love. 

I felt my body progressively relax. Starting with my heart, softening and washing over me in waves. Relaxing my own breathing and my chest, then my throat, my neck, my mouth, my jaw, and releasing tension I’d been holding for as long as I can remember. 

I felt cold air in parts of my nose that had never been open. I cried, humbled by the power of this deep, instinctual wisdom. And his generosity in offering it to me. 

When I got caught thinking “How did I not realize this the whole time” or “I don’t deserve this,” it disrupted the connection. And he simply kept giving, so I let it go, in honor of what was unfolding beyond my understanding.

Putting down my doubts, my stories and my fears unlocked a deeper connection to this being and the insane magic of this weird, wild world. 

Cosmo, I love you. Thank you. I will continue to receive. And I will share your magic rabbit medicine.

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.

?

What if 

I let go of the thought

that perfect is out there,

somewhere else.

?

What if 

I have everything I need,

but never stopped

to check.

?

What if

I bathed in the warmth

of what’s here,

right now.

Here, my inner richness sits,

while I search the whole world

for the treasure I’ve painstakingly carried

every, single, step.

The gold inside

waits patiently to be discovered

the moment you open the door.

An ocean

waves, and waves, and waves,

knowing someday, you’ll come home.

Your hands reach out

to hold you.

Your heart bursts forth

to feel you.

Your eyes long to close

so you can see.

Okay, so that’s the poem I wrote for this week. But here’s the very first thing I wrote:

“Oh god, what am I thinking, I need to get into flow, how will I do that, just keep writing. Listen to something that will calm me. I feel really good about being here. I have some anxiety.”

Sometimes, there’s more to clear out before inspiration strikes. But today, this was enough. Every time I sit down to write, I’m afraid that nothing “good” will surface. But, 9 times out of 10, patience yields something I’m proud to share. If I can stick with it through my mind doubting and struggling to adjust its rhythm, I can find the flow. It helps me to think of it this way, to remind myself that my job is not to try to write. My job is to stay open long enough for my thoughts to get out of the way so something more interesting can come through. Of course, I put my brain to work finding the right words, and shaping what comes out. But if I let it get too involved, it strangles the magic. Here’s to the mindfuck of trying to not try, just the right amount.