“Once there was, and once there was not…” This paradoxical phrase is meant to alert the soul of the listener that this story takes place in the world between worlds where nothing is as it seems.

(Clarissa Pinkola Estes, Women Who Run with the Wolves)

Morpheus: I imagine that right now, you’re feeling a bit like Alice. Hmm? Tumbling down the rabbit hole?
Neo: You could say that.
Morpheus: I see it in your eyes. You have the look of a man who accepts what he sees because he is expecting to wake up. Ironically, that’s not far from the truth. Do you believe in fate, Neo?
Neo: No.
Morpheus: Why not?
Neo: Because I don’t like the idea that I’m not in control of my life.
Morpheus: I know exactly what you mean. Let me tell you why you’re here. You’re here because you know something. What you know you can’t explain, but you feel it. You’ve felt it your entire life, that there’s something wrong with the world. You don’t know what it is, but it’s there, like a splinter in your mind, driving you mad. It is this feeling that has brought you to me. Do you know what I’m talking about?

Morpheus: This is your last chance. After this, there is no turning back. You take the blue pill – the story ends, you wake up in your bed and believe whatever you want to believe. You take the red pill – you stay in Wonderland and I show you how deep the rabbit-hole goes.

The Matrix is one of my all-time favorite movies. I love the action. I love the adventure. And I love that there is this permeable veil between two worlds. It feels familiar to me.

And not.

I have such a tendency to evaluate my life through objective data, through raw facts, through my five senses. What if, instead, I relied upon the subjective, mystery, and a sixth sense? What if I allowed for another entire story to be playing out around, in, and through me all the time? And what if I was able to, at least from time to time, experience myself in that tale – in a world between worlds? What if I could pierce the veil?

Thousands of years ago people did not separate the physical from the spiritual, the soul from the mind, the body from the spirit. All was as one. The veil was nonexistent. It was just as “normal” to experience a burning bush or miraculous healing as it was a day at work or the meal one had just eaten. Conscious reasoning worked differently then. There was an allowance for and acceptance of the unknown. There was no demand for everything to make sense. In fact, everything did make sense because the same questions were not being asked.

Something in me misses this. It’s as though there is an aspect of my sub-conscious or pre-me memory that spills into my consciousness. I somehow remembers and recognize this world between worlds.

I want to go there more often.

What miracle might I embrace that I now either totally miss or intentionally disregard? What mystery might I hold and embrace that I now feel the need to explain away or completely categorize in my brain? What of God? What of prayer? What of grace? What of faith?

A world between worlds…

…where nothing is as it seems.

• Fear about money is opportunity to know providence and beneficence beyond explanation.
• Stuck-ness in writing is  a mystery that beckons yet un-thought thoughts to dance across my screen.
• Frustration in parenting is the miracle of imperfect love and the embodiment of the holy.
• Questions in relationship are gifts of hearing the other’s truest emotions.
  
• Doubt about God is the vast and glorious space in which God most profoundly exists.
• Anxiety over the future is the gift of grace and faith.
• Depression and sadness are deep wells of passion and one’s heart expressed.

Piercing the veil means that I live with the unknown, the unresolved, the unexplainable – without demand. It means that I walk through my days with hands, mind, and heart wide open. It means that I expect the miraculous and amazing to occur. It means that the sacred is around me all of the time. It means my story, my reality, my very existence is far larger, more significant, and interconnected than I had ever dreamed. It means I can risk, explore, wonder, dream, and hope in wild and nearly-crazy ways. It means that I can pray – and know that I am heard. It means that I anticipate encounter with God. And it means that I don’t have to make sense of any of this. Or, that everything that happens does make sense – but I don’t have to explain it.

The world between worlds. It’s so close.

I want to pierce the veil. I want to take the red pill (or at least look absolutely fabulous in the black latex and leather).

The true mystery of the world is the visible, not the invisible.

(Oscar Wilde)

Without mysteries, life would be very dull indeed. What would be left to strive for if everything were known?

(Charles de Lint)

Nothing more need be said. Thanks, Sadé.

Girl you are rich even with nothing
And you know tenderness comes from pain
It’s amazing how you love
And love is kind and love can give
And get no gain

It’s down a rugged road you’ve come
Though you had every reason
You didn’t come undone
Somehow you made it to the other side
You didn’t suffer in vain

You forgive those who have trespassed against you
And you know tenderness comes from pain
It’s amazing how you love
And love is kind and love can give
And love needs no gain

You didn’t suffer in vain
You know it’s only love
That gets you through
Only love, it’s only love
It’s only love that gets you through

When I was a child, I spoke and thought and reasoned as a child. But when I grew up, I put away childish things.

(1 Corinthians 13:11)

Is please and thank you childish? What about in the context of prayer? I wonder…

When I was growing up I said prayers every night. I talked to God. In early years, I spoke my requests out loud; later, silently. I asked for lots of things: a good grade on a test, kindness from a friend, being noticed by a particular boy, a reprieve from acne. Critical, earth-shattering things. I’m sure I also included the obligatory traveling mercies, health for relatives, and the general salvation of the earth. I said, “Please…”

I also said “Thank you.” I would speak out (or name within) the things for which I was grateful; the attributes of God for which I was especially glad – or at least aware.

This was not a discipline that ended when I was a child. It carried into (and somehow remains in) adulthood. I moved into a world of journaling my prayers, of pouring out my requests, as well as that for which I was thankful. Pages and pages and pages of my heart made known to God. (Truth-be-told, my blogging, to great degree, is the same. This space in which I twist and wind words, somehow hoping they make sense; articulating my biggest, most audacious prayers, voicing my doubts, saying “please” in both implicit and explicit ways.)

But the simplicity of “please” and “thank you” – at least as cause/effect is long gone.

I no longer practice (do I still believe?) this asking something of God and then expecting or hoping for a response. Still, I model and employ it with my daughters.

A story:

We had major trauma in our home last night. At about 9:30, Abby realized that her brand new, relatively-expensive, iPod touch was missing. She retraced her steps. She scoured every corner. The flashlight came out to peer under the bed. No results. She raged. She cried. And I told her she needed to go to sleep; that in the morning, with perspective and rest, she’d probably remember exactly where it was. As I tucked her in, I prayed an out-loud prayer while sitting on the side of her bed: “Dear God, this iPod is important. It matters. Please help us to find it. And give Abby a good sleep – without worry. Amen.”

Frankly, I didn’t think much of it.

Not 5 minutes later, Emma tracked me down and said, “I found Abby’s iPod.” What?!? It was under Emma’s pillow – set there the day before while they had been occupied with another electronic distraction. The lost was found.

And the first thing through my mind? Wow! God answered that prayer in a hurry!

I went back into Abby’s room and talked to her a few minutes…hearing her exhausted relief. I said, “We probably ought to say ‘thank you’ to God, don’t you think?” And she said, “Yeah. That was pretty fast!” Emma quickly said, “And you probably ought to say ‘thank you,’ to me, don’t you think?” My daughter, indeed.

Please and Thank You.

Dare I believe in such?

I’m skeptical of the whole I-ask-you-answer God. Dani Shapiro speaks eloquently to this in her book, Devotion:

I was pretty sure there was no parking-spot-procuring God, swooping down from on high, helping out in a crisis – or even a traffic jam. I wished I believed that – but I didn’t. I simply didn’t. Still, here was a form, a ritual, a fulfillment of an ancestral commandment. It was something, rather than nothing. Another daily reminder…to stop for a moment. To take a breath. To pay attention and listen well.

I’m pretty sure on this, too. Still…last night’s events have given me pause. I stop for a moment. I take a breath. I pay attention. And I wonder if I should be listening more.

How much of my skepticism has leaked into my ability to believe and accept mystery; things beyond definition? How much of my learned-certainty (which I tend to over-prize) has dampened a childlike faith that allows for a god who actually wants good things on my behalf…and that of my daughters?

Please and Thank You.

My list is long – on both counts. I wonder…

I was digging around on my hard drive today looking for a document on which I typed some notes from a phone call. I still cannot find it, frustratingly, but came across something else that I’d totally forgotten about. I wrote it almost exactly three years ago in response to a question posed in The Right to Write: An Invitation and Initiation into the Writing Life by Julie Cameron.

She asked: What are the stories you’d like to hear?

I answered:

• I’d like to hear a story about a woman who lived life larger than ever when she made hard choices.
• I’d like to hear a story about two young girls who grew up in the midst of a divorce but became amazingly strong, accomplished, satisfied women.
• I’d like to hear a story about a woman who dreamed of being a writer and became one.
• I’d like to hear a story about a woman who chose to take risks with the Biblical text and her understandings of God and stepped into a life that was far richer than she’d ever imagined.
• I’d like to hear a story about a woman who fell in love with a man who didn’t want less of her but called forth more and more all the time.

Some context:

• I wrote this just one month before my divorce was final after having made incredibly difficult choices with vast ramifications.
• My daughters spun in the confusion and ache of a broken family.
• I did not actually consider myself a writer of any caliber, import, or meaningful content.
• I was afraid that if I risked interpreting (or writing anew) from the Biblical text that I’d be dismissed by those more religious and ignored by those more spiritual (or not spiritual at all); that a reframed understanding and experience of the  Divine was a wish and a prayer.
• I couldn’t imagine that relationship with a man was possible in which I wouldn’t be compromised or lose too much of myself in the midst.

More context.

• I now live a life larger than I ever expected precisely because I made hard choices, risked, and trusted my self.
• I have two daughters who are growing into strong, incredible young women.
• I am a writer.
• My understanding of God (and particularly the Sacred Feminine) is far richer than I could have imagined; enhanced and expanded through amazing conversation and relationship with others in virtual and face-to-face worlds; rewriting/reframing traditional texts has been met with not only affirmation but the articulated desire for more.
• I have known love and heartache both, learning that I am not only worth loving, but that I am not “too much,” and indeed, that I deserve and call forth far more, not less.

I am so struck by this. Three years. A relatively simple question. Answers I’d totally discarded. And stories that have all now been told.

What are the stories I’d like to hear now? A future post, no doubt.

What are the stories you’d like to hear?Apparently there is something to making that list (and maybe even remembering that you saved the document). Who knew?

Each of us has an inner dream that we can unfold if we will just have the courage to admit what it is. And the faith to trust our own admission. The admitting is often very difficult.

(Julie Cameron)

Barbara Brown Taylor, an Episcopal priest and award winning preacher (yes…there are such awards) wrote a book a few years back called Leaving Church: A Memoir of Faith. It’s stunningly beautiful; well worth reading. Within its pages she speaks of the church and its role in her life as well as what it was like for her to leave its pulpit, its pews, and in some ways, its people.

Though the following quote is long, it sets the stage for my thoughts:

…I have learned to prize holy ignorance more highly than religious certainty and to seek companions who have arrived at the same place. We are a motley crew, distinguished not only by our inability to explain ourselves to those who are more certain of their beliefs than we are but in many cases by our distance from the centers of faith communities as well. Like campers who have bonded over cook fires far from home, we remain grateful for the provisions that we have brought with us from those cupboards, but we also find them more delicious when we share them with one another under the stars.

This wilderness experience sets up a real dilemma for some of us, since we know how much we owe to the traditions that shaped us. We would not be who we are without them, and we continue to draw real sustenance from them, but insofar as those same traditions discourage us from being with one another, we cannot go home again. In one way or another, every one of us has gotten the message that God made us different that we might know one another, and that how we treat one another is the best expression of our beliefs.

• Prizing holy ignorance.
• How we treat one another is the best expression of our beliefs.
• Distinguished…by our inability to explain ourselves to those who more certain of their beliefs.
• We cannot go home again.
  

I do not want to return to religious certainty. In my movement from the patriarchal church I have stepped into realms and relationships (with others and the Divine) that have far surpassed anything I’d known or experienced prior. But I’ve also left much behind.

There are days when I miss hymns, communion, liturgy. Even more, there are days when I miss the surety of boundaried belief, of doctrine, of dos and don’ts, of language that rolled off my tongue and lodged in my heart, of God as Father.

Saying goodbye is hard, no matter how amazing and glorious the new “hello” might be.

I cannot go home again. I don’t want to. But that doesn’t mean I’m not homesick now and then.

There are conversations that matter; specific ones that somehow see through us, speak into us, and change us profoundly. For me, those conversations have been, and are, about Faith, the Feminine, and Telling the Truth.

I’m working on a project that invites you into those conversations – with yourself, with me, with others, and with the Divine. Stay tuned for details. In the meantime, thoughts about conversation from another woman who has captured me with her imagery, her words, her penned beauty.

The Conversation

A woman moves close:
there is something she wants to say.
The currents take you one direction, her another.
All night you are aware of her presence,
aware of the conversation that did not happen.
Inside it are mountains, birds, a wide river,
a few sparse-leaved trees.
On the river, a wooden boat putters.
On its deck, a spider washes its face.
Years from now, the boat will reach a port by the sea,
and the generations of spider descendants upon it
will look out, from their nearsighted, eightfold eyes,
at something unanswered.

Jane Hirshfield

I had a fabulous conversation with Victoria yesterday. We talked of many things – in common and disparate; but as is wont to happen in most fabulous conversation among women, far more of the former. She told me of the upcoming retreat she’s leading this summer that includes a one-day vision quest. She was quick to point out that it wasn’t an overnight-live-at nature’s-mercy kind of thing. Still, I’m willing to admit that my first (internal) response was total and utter fear.

A vision quest? Time alone? You mean with myself? The thought made me more than cringe. It illicited a strong, potent reaction.

As much as I’d like to ignore it, I know myself well enough to pay attention to this kind of an unmistakable visceral response. I know there is another question begging to be asked.

I delayed answering for over 24 hours. But earlier today, while alone in the car for an uninterrupted 90 minutes, I let myself ask and answer the question:

What are you afraid of, Ronna?

• Silence
• Being unseen
• No response
• Being alone
• Being unpaid
• Shame

I am not happy with this list. But that’s not really the point, is it? This is what spontaneously came as I drove. (Yes, I admit it: I wrote it down while I was driving. Clearly my fear doesn’t extend to life and limb.) These are my first thoughts – not second or third; not edited or censored. And, now that I see them—even knowing you will as well—I feel (a little bit) less afraid.

Deep breath. Let’s take ‘em one at a time:

Silence. There was a time, for sure, when this was the most terrifying thing for me to consider. It meant that something was wrong, that someone was angry, that misunderstanding was rife.

That may still be true, but I can now (mostly) hold on to myself in silence. Presence and absence can coexist. Breathing can ensue. Thoughts and emotions can dance freely without restraint of incessant words. And even if its uncomfortable – for me or for you – I can allow it. I don’t need to be afraid.

Being unseen. This was a predominant experience (at least perceived) in adolescence, for sure, but clear through my 30s. Whether completely accurate, or not, I felt invisible, insecure, insignificant. And ironically, these emotions existed in nearly opposite realities. I was (and am) a leader. I was (and am) enjoyed. I was (and am) worthwhile. Still, something deep within could not align the internal and external. Still, the voice lingers.

That was then, not now. Now I let myself be seen; and even more, heard. Doing so is not dependent on another’s response (or even lack thereof). I don’t need to be afraid. (And she repeats the mantra: I don’t need to be afraid. I don’t need to be afraid. I don’t need to be afraid. Where are those damn ruby slippers?)

No response. I’m not entirely sure where this comes from, though I know something deeply seeded within me is afraid that if I write, if I speak, if I tell my truth that it will be met with silence (oooh, there’s the first one) or being misunderstood (oooh, there’s a close kin to the second one).

I want my words to illicit response, to invite conversation, to inculcate hope and passion and life. The idea that I would write, speak, and tell my truth and not receive response, I can now see, is faulty; though clearly, still resonant. It is old. It is no longer real. I don’t need to be afraid. (And the Cowardly Lion comes to mind.)

Alone. I know where this one comes from. I am alone! That’s not even remotely true, of course. I’m surrounded by so many people who love and support me, by my family, by my daughters. But this has to do with that other kind of love. I want the whole deal: the romance, the laughter, the serious and intense conversations, even the fights. I want the proximity, the collaboration, the shared coffee. I want the passion, the angst, the understanding, the compassion. I want the companion, the movie-goer, the yard-worker, and oh – the passenger seat!

I may remain alone. That is yet to be seen. But ahhh, when I stop for even a moment to think of it? The beauty of this life I live as an independent, unconstrained, no-longer-silenced-and-bound woman! I have often said that I would choose no relationship over an unhealthy and painful one. That does remain true. I was afraid of being alone when I was in relationship. I know better. I don’t need to be afraid. (I have a heart, Tin Man.)

Unpaid. I know where this comes from, as well. I am in high-anxiety over money these days. 15 months without fulltime work. More than fulltime effort expended on developing a business, doing contract work, eating up retirement monies, and scraping together a mortgage payment. When I add this to my (now unfounded) fear of “no response” and “alone,” it’s easy to become nearly paralyzed.

To work through this and get out of my own head (and fear), I had a 10-card Celtic Cross reading done by the amazing Tarot Mama. She saw my fears in spades; well, mostly in Pentacles. Her words: “…your fears are what stand in your way on your path to financial freedom and abundance.” “Absolutely you can trust in what you are creating and building to support you! As I was shuffling the cards for this question, I heard the words, ‘Her fear is in the way. Tell her to get out of her own way and allow abundance into her life and being.’” I need to get out of my own way and realize that I don’t need to be afraid.

Shame. Of all the words, this one throws me for the biggest loop and packs the biggest punch. Not surprisingly, it’s what I spoke and wrote last. I’ll be honest: I don’t know what to do with it. It carries tremendous freight. When I read it on this page, I can feel its bulldozer-like presence in my life; primarily past, but still hovering and haunting in the present. It’s dark and heavy and nearly asphyxiating.

This is most definitely tied up in places of religion, of patriarchy, of dogma; places in which I no longer place power – or authority. Still, they’ve left a stain. I need it scrubbed away. I don’t want to be afraid of it. I don’t need to be afraid. (Not entirely convinced, but trying…)

Is it true that when we name our fears, their power diminishes? I’ve just named them. I’ve even hit “publish.” (I think…)

I can let them go.

But will I?

Were I to attend Victoria’s retreat and take part in a vision quest, I’m quite sure I’d be given ample opportunity to find out. Victoria says this about these 6 days in wilderness beauty:

…discover and converse with your Authentic self within. She is the one who moves easily from her own inner knowing of what truly matters to living that vision in the world. This gives her a powerful presence – magnetism that enables her to stay centered and grounded between earth and sky, regardless of the winds of culture pushing their agenda.

This woman is not afraid. (Doesn’t she remind you of Glinda, the Good Witch? I know…way too many Wizard of Oz references. Even better, Elphaba, Defying Gravity in Wicked.)

Whether I go or not (on a vision quest or to the Emerald City), this post, this exercise, this time in thought and reflection has afforded me something of great value and worth. Rather than ignoring the question – and the fear – I need not be silent. I can let myself be seen. I am not alone. I paid July’s mortgage. And I am not ashamed.

Definitely worthy of Friday’s champagne.

All this said, I cannot begin to express how hard it is for me to hit “publish” on this post. If you’re reading this, clearly I have. Still….

Maybe I’ll pour the champagne first and then decide.

Learn more about Victoria and True Life Coaching, as well as her Summer Retreat: Quest for Your True Life – Embracing Change with an Open Heart.

“A battle cry for women who have lost themselves…and found themselves.”

(Oprah – on Mary J. Blige singing Take Me As I Am)

She’s been down and out
She’s been wrote about
She’s been talked about, constantly
She’s been up and down
She’s been pushed around
But they held her down, NYC
She has no regrets
She accepts the past
All these things they
helped make to make she
She’s been lost and found
And she’s still around
There’s a reason for everything

You know I’ve been holdin on.
Try to make me weak,
But I still stay strong.
Put my life all up in these songs
Just so you can feel me.
so you can get the real me

So take me as I am,
or have nothing at all.
Just take me as I am,
or have nothing at all.

Now she’s older now
Yes, she’s wiser now
Can’t disguise her now
She don’t need
No one tellin her
What to do and say
No one tellin her
Who to be
She’s on solid ground
She’s been lost and found
Now, she answers to G-O-D
And she’s confident
This is not the end
Ask me how I know
Cause she is me.

You know I’ve been holdin on.
Try to make me weak,
But I still stay strong.
Put my life all up in these songs
Just so you can feel me.
so you can get the real me

So take me as I am,
or have nothing at all.
Just take me as I am,
or have nothing at all.

So it’s all or nothing at all,
All or nothing at all
Don’t you know I can only be me.
(I can only be me, yeah)

So take me as I am,
or have nothing at all.
Just take me as I am,
or have nothing at all.

Take me as I am.
Take me as I am.
Said it’s all or nothing at all
Said it’s all or nothing at all

Just take me as I am,
or have nothing at all. (This is me)
Just take me as I am,
or have nothing at all.
Just take me as I am,
or have nothing, nothing at all.
Take me as I am.

I find myself in these lyrics. I have found myself. I know who I am and what I offer. Enough. Not too much. Me.

And you?

Emme left a comment on one of my posts a few days back:

The thing that trips me up sometimes about “following my heart” is that danged bible verse that reminds me ever so “gently” that the heart is deceitful above all things. I mean, seriously. WTF? And I don’t use that phrase lightly. I’ve been a very “good girl” for a very long time, bible reading and believing included. I still believe, but dude. That verse is really a downer! (and a confuser!)

And then these words from Meg:

I would love to say to Emme that although the passage she quoted is definitely disheartening, being advised not to dim our lights is a worthy and clear message too. Being a ‘good girl’ in the shadows is overrated. This is why Matthew 5:14-16 is one of my favorites. Holy guacamole, I can’t believe I referenced the Bible! It’s been a while since that’s happened. Apart from Ezekiel 25:17, of course. Because I’m a Pulp Fiction fan.

Despite our ever-maturing age and changing (or abandoned) theologies, there are verses, stories, and songs that stay lodged in our heads, often without our conscious awareness of such. In odd and surprising moments they come back to us and cause responses like Emme’s, “WTF?!”  or Meg’s, “Holy guacamole!”

What is their hold on us? Why do they shockingly re-emerge and send us reeling into some twilight zone between the logical, learned thought we pride ourselves on and the fear of complete and utter religious craziness?

Here’s the thing: I do not think these verses, stories, or songs are crazy. What’s crazy is the way they’ve been interpreted and (mis)applied throughout thousands (but mostly hundreds) of years of organized religion, constructed theology and accompanying praxis/politic.

To return to my reflection on Natalie Goldberg’s words, the verses, stories, and songs are “first thoughts.” The ones that haunt us are not just second or third thoughts, but 30^th or 40^th. And sadly, we don’t know anything other. We need first thoughts.

Emme’s flashback on the words, “The heart is deceitful above all things,” compels us straight into the well-known traps of guilt and shame. 30^th or 40^th thoughts. But first thoughts would call us back to the original text and invite us to wonder anew about the recorded words of a prophet named Jeremiah. A man who defied all structures of power to say what needed to be said. Who suffered much and spoke anyway. Who trusted his own heart. And it was not deceitful.

Meg’s recall could send us into PTSD-like memories of singing a simple Sunday song: “Hide it under a bushel, no! I’m gonna let it shine” and “Don’t let Satan blow it out. I’m gonna let it shine.” At least 10^th or 15^th thoughts. But first thoughts would call us back to the original text and invite us to wonder anew about the recorded words of a revolutionary named Jesus. A man who defied all structures of power to say what needed to be said. Who suffered much and spoke anyway. Who trusted his own heart. And  did not hide it (or his light) under a bushel.

If we could return to them, to first thoughts, we would undoubtedly find them to be quite beautiful and profound – whether poetry or prose, myth or miracle, archetype or historical narrative. Few tomes trace thousands of years of history and give us deep and penetrating glimpses into entire cultures of people. Few texts invite us to the origin, development, and implementation (as well as misuse) of beliefs that have shaped history more than any other force. And few collections of verse, story, and song have the power to compel millions of people throughout time to places of profound meaning and hope.

The first thoughts of scripture are hard to come by. But so are our own. Both are needed – to keep us from religious flashbacks and PTSD, for sure – but more, to invite us into places of truth and beauty oft’ forgotten, sadly lost, and achingly absent within and without.

First thoughts have tremendous energy. It is the way the mind first flashes on something. The internal censor (or external reality of religious history) usually squelches them, so we live in the realm of second and third thoughts, thoughts on thought, twice and three times removed from the direct connection of the first fresh flash.

The first fresh flash. What if that’s what Jeremiah spoke? What if that’s what Jesus spoke? And what if that’s what we were able, somehow, in our own first fresh flash to hear? And not only hear, but speak? Ah, truth-telling. And beauty.

Everything would change.

I came back to my computer today to find myself the recipient of the Beautiful Blogger Award, given unexpectedly and generously by Josie of SafetyComfort.

Such a surprise. So beautiful. And a gracious stimulus to the thoughts that follow; beautiful thoughts I needed to hear myself speak, see myself write, feel myself live:

You know how you just do what you do? How you write what you love? How you talk about what makes you nearly vibrate with passion and ooze energy? How you laugh freely and with complete vulnerability when in places of trust? How you labor tirelessly for what matters?

This is where beauty dwells.

And then you know how some days you second guess everything? You wonder if it’s all worth it. If anyone notices. If it really makes any difference. If you’re actually accomplishing anything. If relationships can mend – or last. If bills will be paid. If business will grow. If the tyranny of must-do’s will cease. If wounds will heal. If kids will survive. If books will be written. If dreams will be manifest. If horses will fly.

Well, maybe you don’t. Maybe it’s just me that endlessly asks these rhetorical questions, that spins in such spaces, that makes myself nearly hyperventilate at times.

This is not where beauty dwells. The more questions I ask, doubts I harbor, and worries I hold, the further away I move.

What happens when I allow beauty to pervade, to exist, to be named, to be true?

I breathe again. I go to Beautiful.

• Beautiful: Words, concepts, themes, and ideas.
• Beautiful: Faith, the Feminine, Telling the Truth.
• Beautiful: Work.
• Beautiful: Holding the intangible.
• Beautiful: Letting go of pain.
• Beautiful: Conversations with friends.
• Beautiful: The man with whom I laugh until I cry.
• Beautiful: Touch. Embrace.
• Beautiful: Hope renewed.
• Beautiful: My strong, courageous, and winsome daughters.
• Beautiful: My past.
• Beautiful: My family.
• Beautiful: Mistakes. Lessons learned. Grace extended.
• Beautiful: The face I see in the mirror each day.
• Beautiful: The presence of the Divine.
• Beautiful: My heart, my desire, my life, my love.

Thanks, Josie. I needed to be reminded of this place. It is ample, available, ripe, and infinite.

I only need to step forward. To move. To go.

To Beautiful.

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If all this isn’t beautiful enough, I couldn’t resist adding one of my absolute all-time favorite songs: