Normally, I like to have my blog mostly written before the day I post it. 

Today, I started with nothing. 

Normally, I identify as a life coach.

Today, I was a singer.

I made a mistake with my time zone conversion and wasn’t there for one of my precious clients.

This is a sin I used to find unforgivable. The temptation to beat myself up is still there. I take these commitments extremely seriously.

But the Universe had other plans. I agreed to sing with my neighbor at a morning gig, thinking I’d be back in time, but I had one less hour than I thought.

In the extra hour that came from my mistake, magic came out of us. 

When I got here a few weeks ago, I planned to REALLY FOCUS on coaching. This is where I’ve focused my career efforts for the last 6 years. It’s a well-worn road.

But the Universe had other plans. While I was moving in, my next-door neighbor poked his head out and introduced himself. He’s a guitarist who gigs all over town almost every day. And actually, we’d jammed together once before. (I had also made the mistake of announcing to the Universe I was finally going to learn guitar. Okay, message received.)

Music was my first passion. Since before I could talk, I loved to sing, but I had deep, internalized shame about performing. So I buried it and was too afraid to do it in public.

Until 2019, when I was 29.

As an art therapist and a creative life coach, I’d been helping other people overcome their fears and take creative risks for years. 

I couldn’t look myself in the face and keep running from my own insides.

So I worked up the courage to perform at my first open mic. I was terrified. I was sick to my stomach for weeks and would nervously practice to nail every word. 

Because making a mistake on stage felt…unforgivable. 

I got up there and made a big, obvious mistake. I forgot the chorus to a song I’d sung hundreds of times. Exactly what I was afraid of.

But I survived. 

Today, five years later, because of that brave girl who faced her BIG fear, I get up on stage and make mistakes three times a week. And I’ve taken the very scary step of announcing to the Universe that now, I want to get paid for it. 

If you are brave enough to know what you want, and you’re brave enough to say it, magic happens. You just have to let go of what you think it’s supposed to look like and be willing to receive it. 

Being stuck, waiting on something out of my control, has always driven me crazy. 

Two weeks ago, I wrote about the challenge of being human - so infinitely capable, but ultimately, still human. 

I’m getting ready to move to Mexico, which has been true for a year and a half (its own trial of patience). Last week, I traded in my car for the trip, which invited an avalanche of bureaucracy into my timeline. 

It’s tempting to be frustrated, scramble to force things to happen and curse my circumstances (all of which, I did).

But I learned something important. 

When something isn’t going “my way,” something else is happening. There is another, greater force at work - a blessing I can’t see.

Here’s an example, hidden in the ultimate mundane bureaucratic process.

Because I traded in my car, I had to update my car insurance. Proof of insurance is required to import my car into Mexico.

I impatiently emailed my insurance lady over the weekend letting her know I needed to make the switch (and ASAP because in a panicked freakout, I made an appointment with the Mexican consulate for Monday to see if I could even import my car without the new title and registration, which would take the DMV 4-6 weeks to process.) 

She didn’t respond. All day Monday.

I tried calling and leaving a message. Nothing.

Then, Tuesday morning, I get a call back, which I miss because I’m taking my bunny to the vet, another totally stressful blackhole of a task. 

Someone else from their office, James, aka not my lady, sends me a text, asking for the info to process the changeover. I text back everything. I hear nothing for several hours.

I decide, I’m just going to call. James answers, sounding stressed and apologizing for the delay. He just got back from lunch.

“No worries, you gotta eat. It’s not urgent.” I surprise myself with how chill I suddenly am.

He asks me if I still only want liability insurance. “Yes, whatever’s the bare minimum because I won’t even be using it. I’m moving to Mexico and just need proof of US coverage as a formality.” 

“Oh, you’re moving to Mexico?” 

“Yeah!” I’m always excited to talk about it. “The whole reason I’m updating the insurance is because I traded in my car for something that will work better there. I’m driving down there to start my new life.”

“Oh, wow,” he says, “my wife has been back and forth to Mexico and we’re considering living there. But, I don’t know…” He explains how they like it and how life in the US feels backwards, but he doesn’t quite know what to do.

“I just put everything in,” he interrupts himself, “but the computer is being slow, it’s not working for some reason. Sorry.”

I assure him, I’m in no rush. We keep talking. I validate his feelings about the US and how much better things feel to me in Mexico. He asks me some questions about how I’m making the move work, how I got my residency, etc. and I share my experience and enthusiasm for making it happen.

“Okay, it just went through. I’ll send you the proof of insurance right now via email.”

“Awesome. Thanks.”

He asks if I have any other questions and I realize I never asked what the new insurance would cost.

“Actually,” he says, surprised, “the premium is the same. Normally there’s some difference, but it seems like it’s exactly what you were paying. Maybe the computer is malfunctioning, but that’s what it’s saying. Weird.”

“It’s funny, the car I traded in was also exactly the same price as the new one.”

“Wow,” he says, acknowledging the double coincidence.

“I’m telling you, you move to Mexico, you start experiencing all kinds of magic, baby.” It just came out of me. I don’t know why I called him baby. We both erupt into laughter.

“Thank you,” he says. “You’ve given me a lot of hope. I really appreciate it.”

“Thank you, and you’re welcome. You have my number, in case you need any more hope.”

What seemed like an annoying delay yesterday, revealed itself as a miniature miracle on the other side.

We don’t always get to see it. But we have the option to trust that the things we think are happening to us, blocking us, frustrating us, are happening for us or for someone else.

Sometimes, magic just takes a little longer than we want it to.

I have really high expectations for myself. Bordering on impossible.

It’s sort of an unavoidable byproduct of believing I can do anything. 

That’s my platform. I believe it for myself and I believe it for you. (We are all magic. That is a fact.)

I believe it because I’ve done things I never could have imagined. I’ve seen myself do supernatural shit beyond my wildest dreams. (Literally sitting in my own brain, watching my body do something and thinking, how am I doing this?)

Any prior concept I had of what my life could look like has been completely blown apart. And I expect it to be blown apart again and again. Because that’s been the pattern. (And patterns are science.)

I am unlimited. 

BUT, I am also limited.  

I am unlimited and limited. (I DON’T GET IT. Me either.)

I have superpowers that transcend time and space. 

AND, I am a human being.

It makes no sense. It’s infuriating. It’s weird. And it’s…humbling.

I think we all feel the struggle of toggling between different levels of functioning.

Some weeks, this very blog pours out of me like Niagara Falls. Other weeks, I’m wringing out a dry towel.

I can use insane wizardry locked in my body from a past life to locate and clear a past life wound in someone else’s body…but I can’t cook rice?

Sometimes I’m on fire, and other times, life is burning me to a crisp.

How can I be so good at some things, and so embarrassingly bad at others? Why do I regress to an angsty teen sometimes? Why can’t I just be at my best all the time?

Because our capacity for greatness doesn’t rescue us from our human-ness. And being a human means progressing, then falling back. It means certain people and situations bring out parts of us we don’t like. It means…sometimes, there is no answer. 

We can’t transcend being human. We can have transcendent experiences, but at the end of the day, we all still poop out of our butts, ya know? 

If I expect myself to be 24/7 god-level, I’m going to be disappointed in myself for just existing. And I’m going to miss the jewels hidden in the weird, gross, normal stuff. 

Having a body means we get to do amazing things. Having a body also means we have to do mundane things to take care of it and get through life.

If we don’t accept our humanness and our limitations, we overburden ourselves with perfectionism, frustration and disappointment.

But if we don’t believe more is possible, we miss our unimaginable potential. We don’t express our divinity. We feel isolated, lonely and depressed because we don’t realize we are all a part of this crazy, contradictory magic.

If you don’t know this about me, I love rabbits. Bunnies. Bunny rabbits. Whatever you want to call them. If they’re small and soft and hop around, it’s a yes for me. 

I have a rabbit named Gnocchi (pictured above). She’s white with a little brown mustache. It’s hilarious. 

She is third in a lineage of Italian-named rabbits: Gepetto, Cosmo, Gnocchi.

This delights me. 

A friend asked me recently, what is it about them that captivates you?

I got so excited to answer this question I melted into a pool of goo. I had never really put it into words. 

You know how most people react when they see a dog? Their faces light up, they want to be near it, they want to talk to it in a goofy, animated voice. They want to touch it and know its name and be its friend. 

Dogs don’t do it for me. BUT RABBITS…

Talking about them, I feel myself lifted into childlike excitement. My defenses dissolve and my heart softens. Some of my earliest, fondest memories are of the kids’ book, “Pat the Bunny,” which is basically a tuft of hair in a piece of cardboard that you can pet. And boy did I. 

THEY ARE SO SOFT. I’m in awe of the “awwww!” They ignite curiosity and sweetness. They hop around with their little paws and their little tails and their little personalities. They’re funny and wise little tricksters. 

Think Bugs Bunny, the Trix Rabbit, the White Rabbit, rabbit holes. They are the literal magic magicians pull out of a hat.

Across cultures, people have observed the Moon as having an image of a rabbit, over a mortar and pestle, cooking up some magic.

BUNNY MAGIC.

Sub-consciously, we just know they are magical. Like the keepers of some secret formula of silliness.

Some sweet little part of you must be amused if you’re still reading this. Cuz it’s cute. It’s fun. It’s absurd. 

It’s magic. 

Our souls crave it, whether we let ourselves seek it or not. A mystery in the Moon. Something beyond comprehension and reason. Something to keep us fascinated. Amused. Creative. Childlike. Open-hearted. Wild.

That’s divine. That’s spiritual as fuck.

Magic, mystery, delight, LOVE. These things fuel us. They fill our tank when we’re depleted by the daily grind. They transcend time and space and cultural differences. That feels pretty important. And for me, that’s all contained in the captivation I feel when I see a rabbit.

Where’s the bunny magic in your life?

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.

?

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.