gratitude on a misty February morning.

I am grateful
for the cold February morning
that wakes me too early,
because the quickening light asks
for my breath and presence.

I am grateful
for the inhalation of the
gifts of the directions:
I call into myself
inspiration, creative action,
courage and determination,
grounding, community,
and connection,
guidance and nurturing.

I am grateful
for the exhalation of that
which I desire to let go of:
anxiety, fear, laziness, loneliness,
isolation.

I am grateful
for possibility.
For the vast choices
before me.
For the ability
to surrender to
the choice that will lead me
to my highest purpose.

I am grateful
for the flux and flow
of my breath.
For the
Ong Namo Guru Dev Namo
centering and calming
me, yet also
inciting peaceful action.

I am grateful
for the sun
dissipating
the mist outside.

It is calling to me.


Advertisements

re-Connection.

We Remember ourselves
through our connections,

like these windswept dunes in sunlight
joyful crashing waves
dripping rainbow moss sunset

and these people
made of dreams
stitched together with hope
illuminated by surrender.

I Remember myself
where boundaries dissolve.

Soak me in tenderness.
Dance me with love.
Together, we Remember ourselves.

i walk through the valley of my own shadow.

The sky is a cold winter blue; a few smudged lines of peach cloud linger over the forested hill where the sun will soon rise. A mug of yerba mate sends wisps of steam into the quiet room. No one else is awake yet — my favorite time of day. I light a stick of dragon’s blood incense, watch the smoke curl. Remember, like a sped-up flashback of my life, all the times I’ve lit incense.

I think part of healing and integrating our shadows must be dwelling in nostalgia sometimes. I’ve been remembering so much of my past, and marveling at how many people I’ve been; and yet, how little I’ve changed. Remembering the people I’ve hurt, and who has hurt me. Remembering the people I’ve loved, and who have loved me. Remembering how those two kinds of people have so often been the same. 

Your joy is your sorrow unmasked.
And the selfsame well from which your laughter rises was oftentimes filled with your tears.
And how else can it be?
The deeper that sorrow carves into your being, the more joy you can contain.
Is not the cup that holds your wine the very cup that was burned in the potter’s oven?
And is not the lute that soothes your spirit, the very wood that was hollowed with knives?
When you are joyous, look deep into your heart and you shall find it is only that which has given you sorrow that is giving you joy.
When you are sorrowful look again in your heart, and you shall see that in truth you are weeping for that which has been your delight.

Kahlil Gibran, ‘On Joy and Sorrow,’ The Prophet

And yet, when I consider this, I am grateful. 

Grateful that the world is so full of paradox, grateful that I cannot feel one thing without feeling the other, grateful that life is so full of sorrow and joy, and so often at the same time.

Grateful that it is light that casts shadow, and that shadow is what gives life three-dimensional form.

I am grateful for that which has wounded me, because that which has wounded me has also shown me great ecstasy. Love has torn me apart, and made the way for even more love. Agony and despair has shifted my course, but my course has only shifted towards ever more blessings.

And this, more than anything else, is what gives me hope when I dwell on the past and feel anxious of the future: that no matter what agonies await, they will lead to ecstasies. No matter what pains await, they will lead to blessings. 

I am grateful for my Shadow, and for the Shadow of the world. Because it is what makes us real. It is what gives us form. The more we accept, heal, and integrate the Shadow — the more power we hold to dwell again in the natural rhythms of life. 

And life is blessing. And life is challenge. And life is blessing.

i am a vineyard.


“And in the autumn, when you gather grapes from your vineyard for the winepress, say in your heart,

‘I too am a vineyard, and my grapes shall be gathered for the winepress,

and like new wine my soul shall be kept in eternal vessels.’

And in the winter, when you draw the wine, have in your heart a song for each cup,

and in that song let there be a remembrance for the autumn days, and for the vineyard, and for the winepress.”

Kahlil Gibran, ‘On Eating and Drinking,’ The Prophet

I often don’t feel as though I have anything of interest to anybody else to say. Certainly I have many thoughts, both deep and shallow, thoughtful and focused, hurried and half-formed; I have many feelings, that span from dark and shadowy to light and inspiring. When it comes to writing down such thoughts and feelings, however, I’ve felt recently like I’m a bit in a dry spell; not too long ago, poetry seems to pour from my fingers like honey. Now I drink in poetry from other sources — from Kahlil Gibran, Nayyirah Waheed, Rumi, Mary Oliver . . . 

When my heart and my hands can’t seem to work together to produce its own poetry, I steep myself in poets. I let their metaphors sink into me, become part of my breath and sight, taste the wine of the Beloved on my lips. 

“Surely the fruit cannot say to the root, ‘Be like me, ripe and full and ever giving of your abundance.’
For to the fruit giving is a need, as receiving is a need to the root.”

Kahlil Gibran, ‘On Good and Evil,’ The Prophet

I’m a believer in the cyclical nature of life, in the fact that nothing can ever grow and grow and grow without ever resting; even the most invasive and determined plants have a time of year that they go dormant. There is no difference when it comes to our creative and spiritual lives. 

There are times when we seem to be unrelenting, generous vessels of creativity and light, like the grapes in the autumn. And there are times when we are the root, sucking at the nourishment of the compost the fallen fruit has become, drinking the wine that the grapes were pressed and fermented into. 

There are times when we cannot help but give nourishment to the world.

And there are times when we must receive nourishment.

It is a pity that we’re taught by our Western culture — especially those who are woman-identified or woman-passing — that receiving is shameful. In a linear, capitalistic, ever-growing society, there has been little respect for our innate, natural cyclical inner lives. 

But I see that changing. 

More and more people are seeing, understanding, and integrating the importance of self-care. Of pause. Of balance in this world of extremes.

And though I am at a time in my life when I am the root, not the fruit, and I am aware of the conditioned shame of that curdling in my stomach in my lowest moments — I am so grateful to be reminded all the time that it’s OK to rest. To draw inward. To know that change and transformation are happening deep in the shadowy realms of my psyche, of my inner world — even if the change isn’t apparent outwardly. And I am so grateful that in knowing that, I can be compassionate not only with myself but with others who are also in the fallow seasons of their lives.

Darlings, spring shall come again.

355. experiences are only bad if you don’t learn from them.

from my poetry book Cycles, picture/link in sidebar

Yesterday, after a very busy day of running back and forth around town going to a business meeting, picking up my last CSA box of the season, and doing laundry, I went to my daughter’s father’s place to dogsit/housesit for him and his partner. On the way, I stopped by the store, and decided to grab a bottle of cider made from nettles (I’m a sucker for anything with nettles in it). 

I always thinking drinking is a great idea, until I actually do it. 

It’s funny because a lot of people think just one drink once or twice a week is actually a really great example of healthy moderation, and for many people, I think it is that way. However, I’m reminded every time I have one (1) drink that for me, moderation is none at all.

My one drink feels great while I’m drinking it. That nettle cider was tasty, I won’t lie, and the light feeling I got from it was rather nice since I so rarely drink. But then I get to deal with the almost immediate consequences:

  • Extraordinary difficulty getting and staying asleep. Some people find alcohol helps them sleep. Not for me. Last night, I got a grand total of maybe 2 hours. Why?
  • Anxiety. Suddenly I’m spending two hours vividly imagining tense conversations that have not happened yet and probably won’t happen. Suddenly I’m remembering scenes from that one scary movie I saw years ago that made me afraid of babysitting for months. Suddenly I’m incredibly worried that every little thing I’ve done wrong in the last several years are going to come back to bite me in the butt all at once, probably in the next few weeks.
  • Of course, all that anxiety and no sleep means I feel very blue the next day, maybe the day after that as well. I’m questioning my worth. My value. My ability. If I’m not careful, that can make me spiral down into a week-long stormy cloud over my head.

just because something is okay for everyone else, doesn’t mean it needs to be okay for you.

It’s OK if, for you, moderation means pretty much none at all. That’s what I have to remind myself of when I’m thinking of crossing my own boundaries and doing what I know isn’t going to make me feel good (and ends up being a waste of $8.75, to boot). 

I also have to remind myself that one bad decision doesn’t make null and void all of my other, better decisions.

In the past week, some good decisions I have made for myself are:

  • Switching up my daily 2 cups of coffee for 2 cups of yerba mate. 
  • Drastically reducing my bread-and-cheese intake.
  • Doing 30-45min of yoga, pilates, and hooping every morning. 
  • Staving off my urge to distract myself with sex by choosing instead to work out, call my mom, go to a success seminar, going for a nature walk, read, and write in my journal.
  • Standing up for a personal boundary in a calm and respectful but clear and firm way.
  • Letting myself rest when I feel stretched thin.

My one bad decision yesterday to drink a 16.9 fluid ounce bottle of hard cider does not cancel out all the good I’ve done for myself, nor can it stop me from doing good things for myself today. 

Because that’s, I think, the biggest part of self-love: self-forgiveness and moving on. If you can forgive yourself for the small mistakes and live a vibrant and integrated life anyway, then just imagine what you can do for yourself and your life when the bigger mistakes happen.

Because they will happen. 

But because you have practiced self-forgiveness on a daily basis, you know you’ll be better than okay.

Every morning is a new day. Every moment is a new opportunity to be just 1% better than you were before.

356. you are worthy of growth.

why do you resist your blessings?

why do you put off what you know will help you?

Why do you tell yourself, “I’ll get to it tomorrow,” or, “After I….” ?

Why do you resist what makes you come alive?

I bet you never knew / there’s a universe inside of you

Can I,  by Alina Baraz & Galimatias

Are you afraid of stretching yourself? Of growing into the light? Are you afraid that you might feel…ecstatic? Content? Beautiful? Powerful?

Or are you afraid that you don’t deserve it?

That your past makes you unworthy? Incapable?

I have a secret to tell you. 

The tallest trees have the deepest roots. The most healthy, flourishing plants have the most complex and intriguing root systems. 

Roots dwell in the darkness. They are what enable the plant to reach for the light.

The darkness of your past is compost for your future.

You are more worthy than you realize. Your roots run deep. The rain that pounds overhead is what has been feeding you. The sun is waiting eagerly for you to break your lush shoots through the soil.

You will never be rid of your roots. Your roots will always dwell in the deep, fragrant soil. 

Let your roots ground you and accept growth. Accept the discomfort of struggle.

Do it because you crave it. Even if it’s scary. Even if you’re not sure you’re strong enough.

You are. You are.

The world is waiting for you to bloom.

But in the end, it’s all your decision.

are you ready to accept your birthright?

“Conditions are never perfect. ‘Someday’ is a disease that will take your dreams to the grave with you. If it’s important to you, and you want to do it ‘eventually,’ just do it–and correct your course along the way.”

Timothy Ferris

It starts today.

I recently went to a success seminar lead by a prominent philanthropist who, eight years ago, was living in a two bedroom apartment with 5 roommates, and couldn’t hold down a minimum wage job. One of my big take-aways from the seminar was this:

Today, whatever it is you long to do, whatever it is you’re trying to accomplish,

try to be just 1% better than you were yesterday.

Just 1%. That’s it.

Do it again tomorrow. Just 1% better.

And the next day.

And the next.

This time next year, you’ll be 365% better.

1% doesn’t sound like much. It may not even look like much. 

But next year, you’ll see the difference.

and trust me. you are worthy of that.

Day 358. gratitude morning.

Screenshot 2018-11-14 at 7.14.56 AM

  • I am grateful for the way sweat lets my thoughts and anxieties out when all else fails.
  • I am grateful for public libraries. I am grateful for self-education.
  • I am so thankful for yerba mate, and I am thankful for being able to laugh at myself yet again–why do I ever think coffee is a better idea when this stuff makes me feel so good?
  • I am full of gratitude for the slow, soft November dawn.
  • I am grateful for my daughter’s absolute goofiness and sweetness. I am grateful for her wild, and I am grateful that life has shown me how important wildness is, and I am grateful that I live somewhere that supports my goal of raising her with love for her wildness.
  • I am so, so thankful for the safety and security I have. For my access to healthful food. For being able to work, so that I can meet my and my daughter’s needs, and have some left over to have fun, and to help others. For this apartment, with roommates that are also best friends, with a park just a couple minutes walk away.
  • I am so grateful for the friends I have had, have now, and will have. Friends make life less lonely, less scary, more hopeful, more beautiful.
  • I am so grateful for this body of mine. For my birthing scars and nursing scars and working systems and luscious curves. For my relentless heartbeat and ocean breath.
  • I am grateful for the coming and the going. For the quickening and the slowing. For the loud and the soft. For the birthing and the dying. The growing and the fallowing. I am grateful for every microcosmic and macrocosmic, internal and external spiraling cycles of this beautiful and terrifying and serendipity-adoring and oh-so-worth-it universe.

Screenshot 2018-11-14 at 7.15.47 AM

sigUntitled

 

366 Days of Solo Sovereignty [Days 1-5] What My Wanderlust Really Is.

Screenshot 2018-11-01 at 10.42.59 PM

Wednesday, November 7th, was the New Moon in Scorpio, and Lunar Samhain — the day when the veil between the worlds is thinnest. Lunar Samhain is just about the best time to cast away the old and bring in the new. It is the Witches New Year (some witches celebrate this on October 31st to coincide with Halloween festivities as well).

For weeks, I had been restless inside.

What I desperately wanted to do (escape to the wildnerness for days on end) wasn’t possible when I don’t have a car, or proper camping equipment, and have the responsibility of working so I could pay rent and meet my daughter’s needs. I felt sad and lost and sluggish. I felt homesick for something hard to name. I felt like I was forgetting something terribly important.

Wanderlust

We long

for the

wildnerness

and forget

it is within

our souls.

from cycles

But I’m not the naive girl I once was, who didn’t know what her restlessness meant, and so chased it in places that didn’t quell it but rather, made it worse.

When the wilderness is out of our reach for reasons out of our control, yet we feel we must die if we don’t do something wild and reckless–that is our souls, crying out for us to release the chains that bind us from becoming fully ourselves.

Screenshot 2018-04-04 at 6.09.45 AM

I came home the night of Lunar Samhain, with my daughter in tow. She plunked herself in front of a movie, and I looked about me with that restlessness sparking at my fingertips. What I must do, the root-deep knowledge and need that had been swelling in me for weeks, was unignorable.

knock knock on my roommate/best-friend’s door.

“Yes?”

Leaning against the door frame. Looking her in the eye. “I think I’m going to do it.”

It took her only a moment to know what I was talking about. “I’m ready now.”

I arranged a small altar on the bathroom counter. “If I don’t ritualize things, they don’t stick in my mind,” I explained as I lit candles and nag champa.

I sat on the orange plastic bathroom stool.

“You’re sure?” she asked, holding my curling hair in her hand, scissors and electric shaver ready.

“I’m sure.”

Tug. Pull. Bzzzzz. 

My hair fell away. Inhale, exhale.

I sacrifice my hair as a symbol of my commitment to myself for the next 366 days.

This is a releasing. This is a humbling. This is a symbol that I belong only to myself.

Screenshot 2018-11-11 at 12.48.24 PM

On Samhain of 2017, I had recently separated from daughter’s father and had just moved into an apartment in the city. I was rebounding with the strength of a hundred rubber bands, and in the days leading up to 2018 Lunar Samhain, I realized that this past year has been a period of emotional detox for me. This year, I have intensely relived the relationship and love traumas and patterns that I have built up over the past decade of my life.

Since I was 14 years old, I have spent an inordinate amount of time either in unhealthy relationships, or pining after men, or lusting after them. I have never truly belonged to myself, despite my insistence in my past writing that self-love and self-exploration was the main focus of my personal life. But I have given my power away, again and again and again, and for what reasons?

I honestly am not sure yet. What I do know is that my mind is incredibly crowded with men, and not in a healthy way. I’ve realized that I don’t see men as whole beings, but rather as people I can project my traumas and patterns on. I do this because I don’t see myself as a whole being. I don’t embody wholeness, so I don’t see romantic or sexual pursuits as whole beings, either. I see them as tools who can distract me from the shadows and light that live inside me.

Every time I am faced with being completely single, my patterns rear up their ugly heads and wordlessly whisper, “If you are not being coveted and loved and lusted after, you are not worthy of being alive.”

It was horrifying to realize this about myself. When did this mindset take control, especially considering the incredible amount of books and people I have surrounded myself with who have inundated me with the value of self-love?

Screenshot 2017-07-16 at 11.02.48 AM

Months ago, I came up with the idea of 366 Days of Solo Sovereignty, but hesitated to go through with it.

A year and a day (similar to the Wiccan spiritual “initiation”/learning period of a year and a day) of being completely single. No romance. No sex. Just….me.

It’s a scary prospect. My mind goes into a panic when I think about it: but but but–what if you meet someone you REALLY like? What if you get lonely? What if you really really really need intimate physical touch? You can’t get that from a vibrator. You know what happens when you’re single for a little while–you get super super depressed. What if…what if…what if…

But my heart gets fluttery. It goes, yes yes yes.

And my spirit takes flight. Yes yes yes!

And my soul settles down, relaxes, smiles. Yes. Yes. Yes.

Screenshot 2018-11-11 at 12.49.06 PM

For the past five days, I’ve experienced the discomfort I expected when I decided to be completely single: I’ve had to hold myself back from calling that cute guy from work who gave me his number. I’ve avoided the irritating-but-great-in-bed card-player I’ve had an affair with the past two months and can’t seem to tell that I’m not interested in him anymore (people-pleasing–another pattern I need to break). I’ve forced myself to stay home and get cozy with myself when I’m feeling restless and lonely, instead of going out to that bar I’ve experienced plenty of men buying me drinks at.

For the past five days, I’ve also been thinking about the many ways I could use all this free time I now have on my days when my daughter is with her father. I’ve been reminding myself that this is a one-day-at-a-time venture. Every day, it’s me making conscious choices that I know are good for me, are going to connect me with myself: this morning I am going to read instead of check social media. This afternoon I’m going to write/draw/paint/clean/hunt for a job that doesn’t have me in front of a screen all day. Tonight I’m going to watch a thought-provoking movie/hoopdance/meditate/light candles and read/make soup.

Because that’s the point of these next 361 days. Learning what my life is like when it’s me I’m seducing, not someone else. Learning what my life is like when I’m centered in my own power and channeling it into my passions and my home. Learning who I really am when I’m not putting all my energy into being who I think my romantic/sexual interests want me to be.

Maybe this doesn’t sound like a difficult journey for some. But it is for me. Which is why I’m so thankful to have a circle of friends who are willing to hold space for me. Like last night–no light but candlelight, and us around an altar we created together, breathing, crying, laughing, speaking of what we’re releasing, and speaking of what we’re bringing in. Intentional, conscious togetherness.

I want my whole life to be an embodiment of intentional, conscious togetherness. I want to be a whole person. I want to see everyone I come in contact with as a whole person. I want to be the sort of person who holds space.

so mote it be.

Screenshot 2018-11-11 at 12.49.18 PM
My living room. Last night, after our circle, I stood there looking at it, feeling overcome by gratitude for this space–knowing that my home is an extension of myself, and I can make it, and my life in general, into a haven of comfort, joy, safety, and sacredness.

cropped-siguntitled

 

I’ll never not forget. I’ll never not remember.

Screenshot 2018-10-23 at 8.07.21 PM

I forgot.

Who.

I was.

 

Forgot

the wind

even as it was

lifting my hair.

 

Forgot

the scent of

soil

even as it coated

the soles of my feet.

 

Forgot

the taste

of gratitude

even as

I bathed

in my

blessings.

 

Forgot

the ecstasy

of giving

even as

I went

through the motions.

 

I forgot.

 

But now

I remember.

 

I will forget again.

 

But I vow

to always.

Every crust of dawn

and every wholesome dusk.

Remember.

 

 

angry mom.

Screenshot 2018-10-16 at 9.56.48 AM

This blog is a place of authenticity. This post was difficult for me to write because of how much authenticity it required of me; it is a subject I have been ashamed to talk about previously.


When I became a mother, a part of myself that I thought I had worked through reared its ugly head: my anger.

At first, I thought it was just pregnancy hormones; after all, pregnant women are known for being rather touchy. I would become unnecessarily angry over, say, the dishes not being done: I would yell about it, then devolve into uncontrollable tears. Then I thought it was the stress and sleeplessness of being a new mom: how can I be calm when I’m getting an hour of sleep a night, and my colicky baby is screaming her head off for hours? When it didn’t go away after those times passed, it became one of the many factors of the breakdown of the relationship between my daughter’s father and I: every slight on his part evoked a response of resentment and sneering, all-too-eloquent poisonous words on my part. After our separation, my friends convinced me the anger was a survival mechanism my psyche used in response to a toxic situation.

Yesterday, Luna and I were in Dollar Tree. She was cranky from having to be dragged from place to place, usually having to hold my hand or be stuck in a bus seat or grocery cart seat. All she wanted was to go to a playground and play, like we had done that morning. Errand days are always a bit stressful. Today I had to pick her up and put in the cart on the way to the checkout line, so she wasn’t grabbing everything off the shelves, and she was not pleased. The whining began. The very loud whining that feels like a physical grating on my every nerve.

“Stop it,” I hissed. “Stop right now.”

She whined louder. “But I love you!”

“Then stop!” I hissed more as I put the items on the belt.

She became irritated that she didn’t get to help put the stuff up on the counter belt. The whining continued. She grabbed my card out of the chip reader while I was hurriedly trying to put things in our bag.

I yanked the card out of her hand and shoved the cart away from the counter. “You need to stop right now. I’m done with this. I’m over it. We’re not going to the playground after this.”

I could feel everyone’s eyes on me, and I felt embarrassed, and my anger grew out of my embarrassment. My vision felt tunneled, my breath short.

“But I want you to be happy!” Luna whined louder.

I hurriedly paid, the cashier wisely ignoring the situation with a straight face, and practically ran out of the store.

Luna repeated her beseeching.

“Then stop! Stop right now!” I said, anger bordering on desperation. “Stop whining!”

I grabbed our bags and pulled her by the hand down the street, my anger prickling at the edges of my skin, making every sound and image feel like a physical assault on my senses.

A couple blocks down, as Luna walked on a low wall, I abruptly stopped and sat down. She stopped as well, her eyes downcast, and sank down onto my lap.

I held her, this little girl that I had grown in me in the paradisaical heat of Maui, where I bounced from one bad housing situation to another, and felt completely emotionally unsupported. This little girl I had spent days, months alone at home with in the darkness and isolation of the rural Alaskan winter, where my only emotional support was the internet, the mountains, and my own notebook, other than the occasional phone call with my parents in Australia

This little girl I had roadtripped with from Alaska to Oregon. This little girl I tried to teach how to be around other kids while also protecting her from the disdain of others, because she is wild and strong and female, words society does not like to be in the same sentence.

This little girl who had to watch her parents fight, and who had to learn that we both loved her even while we no longer were going to live together.

This little girl who holds so much of me and so much of her dad. This little girl who, last night, as I tried to get her ready for bed, said to me with tears in her eyes, “I miss my dad.”

And I held her and said, “I know. I understand.”

Screenshot 2018-10-16 at 9.55.01 AM


When I was growing up, my anger was not well received. Because I was wild and strong and female, and despite Alaska being a state filled with wild, strong females, American society still poisoned the population’s subconscious. I used to–still do, sometimes–joke with people about how I got kicked out of five day cares and most babysitters wouldn’t watch me. In elementary school, and as I transitioned into adolescence, I learned that the way to ensure I would have any kind of friends at all is to make sure all negative emotions are tucked away fully.

I thought my calming down was a result of becoming intensely interested in spiritual matters such as meditation; when I left home at 18, I learned this was not the case, as I descended into a dazed, years-long subliminal depression that drove me to get drunk on a weekly basis and indulge in other things that fed an internalized hatred of my Shadow-self as I desperately tried to follow a niggle I didn’t understand that arose from my soul. My burial of my childhood anger and loneliness were buried even deeper when I became homeless, and being agreeable became a survival tactic.

The hardest part of becoming a parent is not the tantrums, or the responsibility, or the sleeplessness.

The hardest part of becoming a parent is facing your own deeply buried wounds. Facing the child inside you that is still fuming, still crying, still demanding the acknowledgement they desperately need.


Screenshot 2018-10-16 at 9.56.16 AM

I’ve become intensely aware of my anger lately, perhaps because I’ve increased the level of meditation, yoga, and intentional movement I’ve incorporated into my life recently. In an article on mindbodygreen by Tom Cronlin, he talks about how the deep physiological rest of meditation helps suppressed angers become unlocked, the body recognizing a spot of deeply buried tension that is not meant to be there, that is foreign to us.

Last night, I tossed and turned in bed, my heart plagued with guilt about my public impatience with Luna that day, and on other days. Impatience that illicits her desperate comments of “But I love you! But I want you be happy!” and wrenches my spirit. I want so much to be the perpetually calm mother she deserves. I remember with painful clarity when she was a baby, and she had been screaming for an hour, and it was still hours until her father got home so I could get even a five minute break, and the physical assault of her cries on my senses pushed me to scream back, “Stop crying! Just stop! Please just stop!”

I remember when that little crawling thing looked at me, appalled, and gulped back her tears. And the guilt that even now crashes over me when I remember.

I know that, to avoid wounding her the way I was wounded, I must heal myself.


Luna is now 3 and a half years old, and I know better now that she is my mirror. When I am tense, she is tense. And when I can’t stand her whines and cries and anger, it’s because I can’t stand the whines and cries and anger of my own inner child.

Like a child, I am intensely sensitive to sensory stimulation. There’s a reason I tell people I have a low stress tolerance, and that I don’t like having more than one or two or, at most, three things on my to-do list a day, and it is because of my deeply buried anger that I don’t like to talk about. That I don’t like to admit to people, because I know that to most people, I seem sweet as can be.

I’ve found that the key to handling this anger in my parenting (and thus, most of the time, avoiding personal meltdowns like the one I had the day before, when I felt too paralyzed by the sensory stimulation to act true to myself) is to remember that my ability to handle stress is directly linked to my ability to have fun during whatever I’m doing. This is my parenting strategy in every situation. I tell people it’s called playful parenting, which I’m sure is a thing that there are books on, because I can’t possibly be the only one to do this. But if I can treat my daughter, in her anger, the way I wish I had been treated for my anger, then perhaps she won’t need to bury her anger.

If she starts freaking out, first I’ll honor her feelings. I’ll tell her it’s OK to be angry, but that _______ (it’s not OK to hit; we need to do this thing because ______; I need her to be patient for me until I finish _____ ). I’ll give her a hug if that’s what she needs. If it continues…I’ll try to make it funny. She screams at me, I scream back, but with a smile and a laugh afterwards. Pretty soon it becomes a game.

A benefit of her getting older, too, is that I’m able to talk to her. Last night, when we got home–and she was tired, and hungry, and probably still sensitive after our argument earlier—she started whining again, and I threw up my hands and walked quickly to the bedroom. She followed, starting her beseeching statements again. I put my hands up and said, “I need…I need…us to just breathe for a minute.”

“Ok,” she said, immediately calming.

And we stood together, raising our arms up and down, inhaling and exhaling deeply.

Her little voice saying, “Just….breathe.”

And my own inner child calmed.

And I felt so grateful for the way parenting can be a journey of healing the child within ourselves.

Screenshot 2018-04-07 at 4.08.34 PM


My to-do list for helping my inner child release her anger and sadness:

  • Get a gym membership, or sign up for a martial arts class. Something physical and aggressive to channel that inner anger.
  • Make some angry art this week.
  • Curl up alone in my room and let my inner child cry and punch pillows.
  • Be gentle with myself in moments of sensory stimulation and busy-ness: feed a mindset of playfulness, and wear soft cozy things, and hug Luna a lot.

What is your inner child telling you, in your worst moments? Don’t put their words and feelings down. Honor them. They are you.


xoxo,

cropped-siguntitled