Day of Venus (XIV)

This is the 14th Friday of my Day of Venus Posts, where I let wash up what is present in the undercurrents of my mind, heart and spirit. I am honored and deeply grateful for your readership as I cultivate my writer voice blindfoldedvertebrae by vertebrae, all chrysalis and soil.



In my hips is the storage of what is to come, what has been soaking, what is. Now is the only thing that is real and I carefully select the visions I allow to repeat themselves in my mind. I know my body is also a brain. I know my body is both a highly intelligent master and an obedient servant. My voice exposes the waves that I’ve allowed to break, the prayers I’ve whispered, the justice I crave, the love that I’ve given, and all of the moments spent alone and unseen and burning.


I walk onto a stage where the lights in my face keep me from seeing anyone’s faces. I adjust the microphone and learn to be slow and steady and inside of me more than outside of me. I do it again and again and again until I die. –A decision my whole body agrees to.

This week I sang at an open mic and learned about myself. The songs of others moved me to tears. The room itself almost made me cry–disco ball in the center and sunlight after it had been gray and cold all day sitting itself on the linen covered cushions all over the ground around the stage, shiny and life-giving people placing their beautiful instruments along the pretty wood of the walls, the window beside the stage showing the tops of trees and a sky changing from yellow to purple to black as the night played on. Hearing my voice sound out through the room, singing lines I conjured in moments of being in-between worlds, put a new color into my palette of existence. I felt naked, seen, exposed, both elegant and awkward, angelic and childlike.

Things that are soul spotlights: money, power, influence, microphones, speakers. They reveal what is collecting in corners, what is underneath, what has been beneath a tarp, the photographs and letters you keep in your shoebox. And I love the exposure. I reach into my throat and all that is nested learns how to fly.

I am singing at vineyards, among dahlias and tulips. I sing on benches under the sun and on top of mountains for the greens and ambers. I sing to children and they sing with me, back to me, for me. “Ms. A, I made a song–do you want to hear it?” and I listen close and close my eyes to listen like it is the most precious thing I have ever heard and I say “Please keep singing ok? Never ever stop singing.” “Ms. Alix I sang the song to my grandma?” “Ms. Alix I brought my piano book to school–look!” And I give and I give and I give, and I receive and I receive and I receive. I am singing in rose gardens and you stop mid-sentence to allow yourself to feel. I sing for lovers, and fighters and for people searching for a resting place to retreat to. I sing with harps and violins and drums that will you to dance. I close my eyes and am just as taken aback as you are by what flows through me. I am not even it itself, but the vessel the “it” dives into and out of. I choose to be more instrument than human. I know that a prolonged state of connection and mystery, of deep peace, and a joy so giving it hurts, is not a myth or impossibility. It is something in me so real and true and inviting. I give in more and more each day. It is for me. It is for me. It is for me because it is in me and always has been. So natural and so easy to surrender to. I create a place for this by both surrendering and redirecting my body, by accepting the call and staying on the line, by showing up as `I am and speaking, singing, moving from the inside out. I allow my love to bewilder if it must. I allow my love to be felt. I allow my love. I have nothing to fear, nothing to hide, nothing to be nervous about. Nothing Is Lost. All of the time spent wondering if this could be true… “Could this really be for me?” Every time I’ve attracted and stumbled into the dwellings of musicians and poets and painters and those with affection gleaming from their eyes–not by chance or mere coincidence, but by the sound living in me leading me to harmonization, equilibrium. All stiffness in me dissolves into a pool of water. My antennas receive and I transmit what creates a stillness, a revitalization, a state of bliss.



This week I felt many times both a drowning and a winning in the fight to keep my light alive and burning. I am still unable to pin down the cause, but I do have leads. My nose and my mouth were barely above the surface, yet above the surface–my hand above the water clenching the love letters of my light for the sun to hold for me while I figured out how to float. I felt like a slimy hatched chick, all awkward and gooey eyed, slumped and heavy and knowing nothing except that the sunlight feels good. I suppose this a great starting place–from nothing, from limited senses, from only the ability to know I am a thing that exists. I kept throwing up what I once thought of as me, and every time I saw it on the floor outside of me a tantrum took place, an exasperated voice said “What then? What now? What do I have that is worth anything?” and passing winged shadows beneath the sun’s light said “this, this, this right here and just this.”



There is an oldness in me that I have felt my whole life–old enough to know the pointlessness of competition, the meaninglessness of cuffed jeans and white shoes in photographs. Bored by teams, my attention never held in conversations with invisible score-boards. A keen knowing and understanding of when something is said from a place of rivalry vs. from a place of building connection. The noise of what our man-made systems have deemed as note-worthy, popular, standard and “the best” becomes a background static hum I check out of, and I nod my head and say “mmhm” and try to find a clever escape without becoming a rival. I have often pretended to not know, or have chosen to give praise and accolades in order to dodge a part in someone’s play. Action-packed movies have always put me to sleep, and then a film about the life of a single petal has me on the edge of my seat enraptured. It is an oldness that takes refuge in what is not asking to be seen. An oldness that easily deletes all traces of who I claim to be in the world, satisfied with only being where I am at. You met the queen and made 10 grand and I got the same surge of satisfaction from the conversation I had at the busstop with a 19-year old who bought her best friend a gift at the mall. ~

I write a lot about busstops and I guess that is because of how much I learned about myself and the world, and who `I am in the world, during the formative years of my life as a writer, taking poetry classes, attending slams on Queen street and in nooks and crannies of Chinatown, and immersing myself in literature without knowing how on earth anything I was doing with my scholarship, my time and my place in college was going to make me money in the world. I just kind of always followed breadcrumbs that felt good or were interesting to me at the time. This was before social media had such a strong presence in our lives. I had a facebook account I’d get caught up in scrolling, writing, expressing myself, but also kept careful watch of my data usage, using it mainly for the bus app or for academic emails and assignments, then sometimes the games like Words-With-Friends, Tetris and then a My Cafe game where you had to bus tables and take orders as fast as you can (why I played this stressful game while also working at such places I have no idea). At busstops and on busses I befriended all walks of life–the houseless, children, elders, criminals, the lonely, the popular, the forgotten, the tourists, healers (I met my dear friend Sylvia who later became my Reiki Master at a busstop in Honolulu), mothers, and people who never learned and never cared to learn English and so spoke to me in poetry and spoke to me via humor and loving mannerisms and gestures. So naturally my subconscious pulls from and I even have dreams of various bus stations where I spent a lot of time. I especially learned that I was an elder in a young girl’s body during those years. Observant and soft-spoken and journal-scribbling and attentive. I pretended to care about things peers my age and then society in general cared about, but at heart I never invested time or was curious enough to watch the shows, pay attention to the celebrities, understand what is socially acceptable and not socially acceptable.

I also have always had great surges of flight, a rush of emotion I couldn’t make sense of or name, and this happens all the time still to today, but `I get better and better at knowing what to do in those times. I remember once when it happened I was in the parking lot of the Polynesian Culture Center, about 16, and it was after all of the tourist busses left the lot one by one, back to the hotels, to Waikiki, to the resorts on the westside. It was about 11-midnight. I will always remember this particular surge because of how overwhelming and unexplainable it was, and how the people around me looked at me like I was crazy, another person, like I had flew off the handle and was possessed. And the truth is, I felt possessed, and during these moments that come I do feel a certain beast in me. I often wonder if I could go back in time with the understandings and awareness I have now, if I could pinpoint what triggered or caused it. What had been sitting and building up? What provoked the desire to run? I was with 3-4 people, one of them being my first relationship of my life, whom I had lived with in high school and crushed on beginning in the 5th grade. We were scheming to venture somewhere, do something, hangout somewhere–probably deciding on who to call for a ride or where we would be at for the night–whose house, whose yard, whose town to roam in. All of a sudden I felt like running, and I was angry and wanted to fight. I didn’t want to fight anyone around me–I just wanted to use my body in a way that now `I would translate as needing to push and pull heavy weight, or literally go for a run, or put music on loud and shake and dance my body through the air until the beast in me is satiated. So I remember saying things that caught everyone completely off guard, and I cannot remember what I said. I remember they were not words that hurt their feelings or served as demolitions to anyone’s spirit, just words and sentences I felt gushing out of me–maybe about my surroundings, myself, my “self”, our “selves”, the sky, the waves? I wish I could replay and witness and hear. And so I darted off running across the empty parking lot, passed my house just across the McDonalds I worked at which was across the street next to PCC, through the yard with pokey sharp blades of Japanese grass that grew in round tufts and bundles, onto the sand, blue Portuguese man o’ wars under the moonlight with tails I dodged over and around. I sat in a concave part of the tree roots of a yard where an artist lived, my body breathing rapidly and heavily after the maddening sprint. I never saw the artist or met the person who lived in that house, but my mom had. In their window facing the ocean were two manikins clothed and drinking tea. Their outfits often changed. In the yard there were statues, shapes of bright colors hanging from tree branches, gnomes and trolls and figurines that were moved, replaced or gone from time to time. And I instinctually knew that this spot was my hiding place. Everywhere we lived `I had a hiding place to run to, and it was during the years of my poetry classes and English major happenings that I realized this. I can sit and recall every hiding place I ever ran to. We moved about 5-8 times between the ages of, (well, probably birth, but when it comes to Hawai’i recollections), 4-17. I have lived in Waialua, Haleiwa, Mokuleia beach in a tent, Sunset (across the street from V-land, where they eventually built a bunch of celebrity’s houses and a big gate/fence everyone has to walk around now to get to the beach), then on the “Big Island” or the island of Hawai’i where my mom was a caretaker of a property in exchange for housing, then Hau’ula, Ka’a’awa, Punalu’u, Laie. And for every single place we lived I can recall the colors of the rocks and creatures that inhabited my hiding places. I sat and pet snails, touched water with my feet, leaned my back against roots, imagined I was a menehune and used the leaves as blankets. I spoke to God and acted out scenarios in my mind. I held bugs between my fingers and looked at their faces close-up until I scared myself and threw the bugs into the air away from me.

Portuguese Man o’ War (Pic Credit: TreeHugger.com)

Anyway, nobody ever mentioned that night and nobody ever mentioned any time I ever darted off and away. It’s just always been something I’ve done. I don’t even remember walking home that night or the events that followed, but because of the intensity of the surge in me, and the look on the faces staring back at me before I took off, it has always been a particular moment I reflect on with curiosity.

I feel like for me, solitude and reclusivity breeds authenticity and helps me go back into myself when I get too caught up in another person’s, or other people’s version of the world. I take comfort in periods of no contact with the outside world because it helps me be a better listener, translator and friend to myself. It also helps me get more clear on what I am wanting, and the clearer I am about what I want, the more rapidly it can come to me.


My only real desire, my ultimate goal, is to cultivate more joy. Through joy comes creation. Joy is the highest intelligence of the universe, and it lives with or without the knowledge of or a need to understand it’s mechanisms. There is no language that could ever bottle it up enough for consumption.

Joy is not the lack of or dismissal of sadness–joy is what allows great sadness to be filtered, to be moved. Being guided by joy is not to be a stranger to the dark–but to be able to fly through it, like a bird at dusk and dawn, close enough to the dark to know better than to be consumed, and so welcoming of the light that it becomes your daughter.



I am in the middle of training myself, once again, to cultivate and allow joy to become my being. Dr. Dispenza says “your personality creates your personal reality” and it is a reminder to me. I am training myself to wake up and dwell on the beautiful visions in my heart. I am training myself to take my life into my hands be responsible for myself. I am training my “self” to participate in what brings melody to my life and allows it to come out of me.

I speak life into. I surround myself with others who speak life into. I give energy to what I want to see grow.


With every passing moment I become more loose. My hips remember an expanding, like it is in the blood I am made of and the blood that came before. It is older than grandfather time. It is a memory in my body that my mind doesn’t know as well. I interrupt and redirect the lineage into song, dance, spell, invocation. There are stories to be told now. And my grandmothers know and they cry tears of liberation. “Rest. Play. Sing. Dance.” To see that I am free now is to be free now.

The Power of Being Aware of Your Power feat. A Freedom Field Meditation

Wanaka Lavender Farm, South Island, New Zealand

We all have an inherent composition of the divine components that make up God, then we experience the world and absorb a collection of Less-Thans, leaving us forgetful. The purity of a childlike spirit who remembers this connection, then becomes a threat, a fear, a symbol of what they think they themselves do not possess.

There are people who mistake gold for worthiness, marble floors for validation, a picture next to the captured as proof they are above. Their very nature then becomes a game of conquer and claim. Having forgotten their blood runs sovereign and complete, they gather temporary moments of reign, by way of meddling with your pretty thoughts, making you question the sun radiating from your insides. They become addicted to placing you into the illusion that you need them, that you are less than, that your very existence is a lie, that you have no business beaming the way you do.

In the same way coconut husk smoke and citronella keep mosquitoes away, we are able to repel and neutralize the occasional encounter we have with what we will call “forgetfuls”, and this is by engaging with and staying in close communication with that seed-like ball of energy that lives, that beckons, that remembers. The Knowing, and the very awareness that this spirit-dwelling ember can never be taken away from you, is at the core of your sovereignty. This presence with yourself, this idea of basking in the company of your very own aliveness, is at the core of refraining from giving in to the illusion that you lack anything, or need something external to make you feel complete.

Awareness of your inherent power is what neutralizes and redirects the forgetfuls that appear within and around us.

Awareness of your inherent power is what neutralizes and redirects the forgetfuls that appear within and around us. Practiced enough, this daily choosing yourself, and this consistent awareness of invitations to leave, becomes a dance you do by default, an automatic deflection of what doesn’t pair up to what you are emitting. Your existence becomes so blinding, and so sure, that it causes any internal or external forgetful, to remember how unnecessary it is to spend time in pursuit of what never left them in the first place.

…for if they knew they were inherently worthy, they would not be trying to “take” what they already have.

The external encounters are mirrors, as everything is, whether we like it or not. Everything is either energy, or potential energy–but it is all energy. Energy is able to be transferred, manipulated, and dissolved into it’s core component(s). The source of any forgetful’s need to “take”, “prove”, or “dismantle” is that they have not taken the time to remember their inherent worthiness, for if they knew they were inherently worthy, they would not be trying to “take” what they already have.

These forgetful mosquitoes are within, just as much as they are outside of us. This is because our own thoughts about ourselves, others and the world around us, can be just as, if not more life-draining than an external vacuum of energy. Left to their own devices and going unchecked, the ideas we absorb from our external worlds can morph into ideas we allow to stay swimming in our minds for sometimes years on end. Awareness is the key–if you can learn to observe where and when this is happening, you are able to study the pattern and it’s origins, in order to turn it on it’s head for the lie it is.

When in the midst of The Great Pressure–an idea that promotes lack is either coming from within or without–(sometimes you can’t be sure which came first, eh?), as if you see a yellow light in the distance, practice telling yourself to slow down, your foot gently moving the break-pedal close to the floor. Speak, move, and even think in slow motion, as if you are watching your thoughts like subtitles along a screen, like they are detached from your soul-body, and belong to a slow-moving commercial. What are you being sold by way of this message? What is asking you to leave yourself? Where is the source of the offer to forget how wondrous your very existence is? Are you able to see far enough into it’s origins–the way every hurt was birthed from another hurt? You have the power to transform this into an energy that is in everyone’s best interest, leaving you lightweight and free to move in the world in accordance with the highest version of yourself.

At some point in our lives, we were sold an idea of being “less-than” something or another. When we evaluate what these purchases were–when they happened, from whom they were bought from—studying the pattern’s lineage, we come to the point where we open the closet door, and look under the bed, to see nothing actually there–all of the invitations to leave ourselves just empty fearful signals.

Once upon a time, these amnesiac ideas of lack, were transferred, and in a vulnerable disposition, The Less-Than Cloak was draped over your shoulders, and you kept it on. Your wings, your scales, your voice, and your bones as mighty as mountains–hushed, hidden, told to keep silent..

If you feel you have absorbed limitations placed on you by way of family, society, or somewhere else, or perhaps you just need a quick tune-up for remembering how perfect and incredible you are, as you are, give yourself permission to shed what doesn’t belong, and return to yourself:

Meditation (Script):

Come on an experience with me now.. Close your eyes if you are able to. Imagine what your Cloak of Less-Than’s might look like. Where do the pieces of cloth that made it come from? What colors, textures, and components would it have? How is it tied around you and what is that tie made of?

Imagine it is enveloping you, grazing your forearms, the fabric touching your skin when you lean back into your chair. Is there a hood attached that you keep over your head–eyes low and watchful, feeling unseen and small? Maybe there are words on it that were said directly to you, or maybe they are the labels, categories, and assumptions you’ve taken on from society. Holding the image in your mind of your Less-Than Cloak, sit with it, in all it’s heaviness. Know that right now, acknowledging that it exists, and you have been wearing it, is the key to being able to take it off. Do not run away from the feelings. Do not speed through. Feel all of it’s weight around you. Imagine the way it has been training you to move in the world–walk a certain way, stumbling and cautiously stepping in a fashion that accommodates for it’s placement.

Now acknowledge that it is a removable item, disposable and irrelevant. Recognize that you have been wearing it, with the capability of removing it at any time. Say out loud: “You are a cloak and I can take you off. You do not belong to me. I was not born with you.” Say it as many times as feels good–repeat until you really feel it.

Now, lift your right hand to the tie that keeps the cloak in place. Pull on the string that binds it to your body. Feel the soft tug of it’s unfastening. Lift the hood up off of over your head, to feel your forehead greeting the sky. If it sits on your sweet shoulder blades, shrug it to the floor. Look at it now, beside your feet–a thing, a pile, a once-was-worn. Now take notice of your bare shoulders, the tint of your skin changing in different lighting–every spot, crinkle and hair like the flowers, trees and fruits of the earth–free to grow and reach and twirl in the wind.

Imagine yourself moving freely through a Freedom Field all your own–grass soft and cool under your feet, the horizon of the earth all around you, the sky a splendor of colors that are easy on your eyes. What plants are around you? Are there trees in the distance? A row of valley towering beside you? Envision yourself leaping over and away from the cloak on the ground, the sky now able to kiss your skin, your feet able to move in a rhythm you remember as your own–without stumbling or reducing your prances to mere shuffles. You can dive into the air in front of you, swirling and swaying and playful, your head looking up and around and in front of you with ease and gentle strength.

Now take a moment to picture yourself resting in that Freedom Field you have created–notice the way you are able to sit or lay without altering or adjusting anything–you simply decide you’d like to rest, and so you do it. Your body is welcomed by the earth beneath you, the ground a bed that knows your body like it knows itself. Feel the expansiveness there is in simply resting when you feel called to rest, wherever you are. Imagine you are in the safest place on earth. Now let us stay here a moment.

Move your hands to be palm-down over your belly-button, one hand placed over the other, and then move about 1-2 inches down, your hands resting in that space between your navel and your pelvic area. Notice the way that space in your body feels below your hands–simply notice without any judgment. Is there a surge of electricity? Does it feel like a knot? No matter what it feels like, simply observe and accept that that is what it feels like.

Now visualize the clean air of your Freedom Field, is being swallowed on your next intake of breath, those very particles from that open field of skipping and rejoicing, is being led straight into that place at the base of your spine, deep beneath your hands. With every intake of breath, the lightness of that sky is filling itself into your stomach, those loving air particles snuggling up against your bones, veins, muscles, organs. Visualize the tiny crystallized elements in Freedom Field Air making their way through your body and swirling through the halls of your inner palace, decorating it with petal, forest and sunlight.

Imagine that as it sweeps through your body, on every single inhale, it works it’s way in deeper, that each time there is an intake, a river way is cleared of debris, more water is let in, more space is made for it’s flowing. Slowly and surely, even if it is millimeter by millimeter, then maybe sometimes it is by inches–space is made, more is let in, and more stays there for longer, before making it’s way back up.. And as you ease yourself out of this meditation, may you remember that you can return to this field as many times as you need to.

You can take off any Cloak of Less-Than’s, and prance into your Freedom Field to be who you truly are, daily. It is a daily practice, a daily decision, and in the process of recovery, consistently returning to yourself in your Freedom Field allows for this to become the default state you live in. Return, and return and return, and stay. Forgive yourself for wearing the cloak as long as you did before you were aware. Then forgive yourself for sometimes placing it on again absent-mindedly, out of a pattern you abided by before you remembered yourself. But always return to your Freedom Field. This is your home, and you can guide yourself back, anytime, all on your own.