Day of Venus (XV)

This is the 15th 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.

This particular entry is more self-study and diary-like compared to recent posts, but it was all that wanted to come out and as I promised to myself in doing these, I am not going to edit or alter or hide out of shame or any resistance. As a warning, there are mentions of abuse and childhood trauma, so if you think that would make you uncomfortable for any reason, please do not read ahead. It’s been an intense week of therapy and solitude, so this is what is brewing in the aftermath of an eclipse. Writing is often a participation in an alchemical process that allows for healing and restoration, and with this post that is very much the case. As I write it out, I dispose of it and am lighter because of it taking a form outside of me, and I encourage others to try the same. Write out your fears, your torments, your confusion–from a place of seeking solace, understanding, peace. Particularly if you have been silent about pain for survival or out of fear–writing is liberating and allows for courage and a boldness to replace the silence and hesitation, and this more often than not trickles into every aspect of your life.


The translucent embryo of the empty space around the wic, the indigo ring at the basin, the voltaic scarlet, steady and tall, the smoke ringlets that are pulled into the air–I am made of all of the flame. Steady and enveloping, even when I am unaware, or forgetful, I still am. Patient and whole; dancing and still. May I act, speak and maneuver myself through time like I know I am burning. May the knowing replace all eagerness, all illusion of void, all hallucination of lack.



Relationships are spiritual work. All kinds of relationships, yes, but right now I am speaking on the romantic kind–the kind where the same side of your bodies ache at the same time, and they say what you are thinking and you sing what they have going on in the undercurrents of their psyche. So much work, yes, but let us excuse ourselves from the chambers of mirrors from time to time, and why not for most of the time? Let’s take a gummy and take off our heads. Let’s take off our words and our explanations of why we are the way we are. Let’s watch the rabbits and their white tails jump ahead of us and into dark green. I’ll put my playlist on shuffle while your hand is in my hair. I’ll rest my hand on your thigh and you’ll watch the sunset out the window. Let’s remember to be with one another while we are with one another, without wanting to consume or be consumed by. Let’s remember that while there is work to do, there is also loving to be done. Let’s take off the weight of commitment and unknowns and the uncontrollables of our mind’s antics, to just be companions for awhile. Let’s remember we are also friends.

In this work if we are not careful, we paint one another as villains, as the same people who have caused us harm. Because it has been those closest to us who have caused us the most harm, our closeness brings hallucinations of times past. We are learning to untangle ourselves and come undone while being close to one another. Our very closeness triggers the fears we unknowingly let run rampant. Alchemy: Let us remember to observe the impulses to make one another the enemy–the thing-to-be-conquered and put into place, the studied opponent you need to prove yourself as more-than to, the hijacker of light who hovered around you as a child. “I am not them; you are not them”–let this be our mantra. May we wrangle the hallucinations of our mind and pull it’s eyes to our own. In the middle of the flame of my existence is this anchor, and let it be your own: I wish you peace; I wish peace for myself. You wish me peace; you wish peace for yourself. When this is at the core of our being, our intentions, our motives, we have nothing to lose, nothing to fear, nothing to hide. May we grow and grow and grow–more soft, more light-footed, more joyous, more free.


We ask of the world: Please do not take my weaknesses and use them for your momentary gain. Please do not extract the lighthouses of my soul’s sailing and scrutinize their glow. Please do not take from me more than I can afford to give without becoming lost. Please do not delight in my sorrows, my insecurities, my losses, my illusions of inferiority. Please do not hide your true desires and regard me as a play-thing, a stepping stone, a cute little afterthought of a doll. We ask so politely, then we demand, then we sit and wonder how the world could be so cruel. And so it is we learn that we have to sometimes be “bad”, be a disappointment, excuse ourselves, and learn that the world will not always know how to honor this for us, will not always comprehend the value of peace and of wanting peace for another–we have to do the honoring for ourselves; we have to create the peace by being picky, selective, territorial, wolf-like. It is by creating the peace inside of ourselves we are able to view the world from this place and not be fooled. It is by actively honoring ourselves that we are unable to interact with energies that are dishonoring of us.


When you experience peace you value it. You become picky. You become attracted to peace and attractive to peace. It becomes the most valuable thing in the world, worth cultivating, worth holding a lot of space for, and worth excusing yourself from arenas for. May I attract more people who have experienced peace, and who are experiencing peace. May my being be what guides me.



I am made of every woman I have ever admired, and they are made of me. All of the winged and rose-aura’d-the-fuck-out women; all of the this-is-my-truth-and-I’m-sticking-to-it, stubborn-ass torch-holding women; all of the singing sly-foxed & winking women I worked with who became my mothers; all of the faeries to ever join me in studying leaf and rock and birdsong by a water’s edge. Every woman I have ever hummed alongside, and every woman whose humming put me into trance. In me is my very own castle ground–garden and stream and terrace greeting the sunlight.


May all of my exchanges with everyone I ever meet be without a sense of greed, without motive, without hidden pretentiousness. There is a richness in exchanges where nothing is being sought or hoped for. When there is a lack of eagerness both people can communicate without words, and the exchange is more a walk through the woods than transactional. I remember me–light stepper. I remember me–praise freely thrown around without hesitation, and sourced from the highest octave of my heart. I remember me–headphones blaring and weaving laps around churches and park-gatherings on Sunday morning–waving and smiling and leaping over puddle and pothole. I remember me–the I’ll-see-you-when-I-see-you and still-stays-true lover. I remember me–the while-we’re-here-we-might-as-well-enjoy-ourselves lady at the bus stop, singing opera in the rain. I remember me–pareo loose around my waist and baggy t-shirt right-out-of-bed and headed to the cliffs for a few jumps, before social media was a thing, before thoughts of capturing moments existed.

I remember me before I became so fearful, so hesitant, so unsure, so critical of myself, and I invite even more of me–more than I have ever experienced before. I invite more of my loudness, my spontaneous gestures of glee, my open and affectionate smirk, my eyes closed and singing for the neighbors to hear, my dancing and my gliding and my proposals to dance. I accept invitations and actually attend. I come out to play and become a part of a grand festival for a lifetime. All alchemical processes where peace is my anchor and my home allow for this. “You have nothing to fear honey. You are so beautiful and everyone can see it, and there is no need to feel a nervousness.” I accept words like this I have recently been gifted, and I let them permeate in my being to become me. More words I hold close to my heart said to me recently: “We see you and you belong here. You are welcome here.” “You belong with those who take your gifts seriously–not with those who spend their time merely marinating. The more you trust in the steadiness of your peace and make that your home, the more you are able to differentiate.”

To know patience is to know peace; to know peace is to know patience. All eagerness and all outward seeking vanishes when there is this knowing. Less and less you feel a need to defend or prove. Watch as you become less interested in whether or not someone else sees you, favors you, values you. There are things that matter less and less, as room is made for more more soul-sparking exchanges.


How appropriate that during the start of Gemini season I hold all truths as equals regardless of the fact that many of them are in opposition to one another. The truth is that the truth is contradicting. I’ve become tired of trying to take sides or place one as “more-true” than the other. All of them are true, and when I am able to walk along the place where they meet, there is a peace on that in-between bridge that I am learning to linger on for longer durations of time. It is better to walk along the walls that separate the voices in this way, being able to peer in and admire or observe, rather than to jump in and be consumed by. Writing is easier to do when I am this watcher of a being, and not in the midst of being tossed about in a basket of clanging mirrors. And even then that is not entirely true–I am able to write from that basket place, but everything I write from inside of that basket will then be an instrument of that place–kind of a disruptive place to be in. So a lot of my writing over the last week is this way–kept in drafts to observe later when I am not filled with voices other than my own, yet here are some recorded clips from inside of the maze:

It is my responsibility to make myself safe. The cop-out is always to blame–what they lack or do or have done that makes me feel unseen, unaccepted, rejected must be the reason I am this way–why I cannot.. what I do not… where I am unable to… There is no responsibility for myself when I place my life into the hands of someone else’s doings and un-doings. There is no redemption to be had while in a seat of blame–all victim and small-voiced and withering in the hands of my own hallucinations. Waiting around to be accepted, respected, seen or acknowledged does me no good. Do I admire myself? Yes. Do I enjoy what I exude and put out into the world? Yes. Am I proud of who I am? Yes. Do I like who I am? Yes. Remembering that the void is an illusion is what allows me to move and speak and make decisions in ways I haven’t before. And

When we are in relationships we sort of “plug in” to what they have going on inside of them, and in this we can lose pieces of ourselves that are important for our well-being if we aren’t careful. We have to learn to be territorial over what matters to our spirit bodies, while also allowing the other to have their own world and do what they want with it. There is a merging-of-worlds that naturally happens–a psychic sense of knowing when something is unsettled in their heart, even when they are miles and miles away. Suddenly the same sides of your body ache around the same time, you think a thought they speak and you sing a song they have in the undercurrents of their psyche. I find myself wanting my body back, my mind to go un-stirred, my movements to go unnoticed, unquestioned, un-critiqued–even though it is all under the surface I can still feel it being done and I feel a fight in me, a resistance to being consumed. I am learning how to remain a steady flame while being misunderstood, unfavored or disregarded, and ultimately that is a lesson worth acing.

There is a “you-stay-over-there and I-stay-over-here” which is healthy, and it is only healthy if this allowance for sovereignty is given from a place of deep and sincere respect for their personhood and soul as an individual, apart from you and sacred on it’s own. I am learning this is a love language for me–can you let me be me even when that being has nothing to do with you? Can you let me drift into myself and create a world for myself without it causing you to lose interest, seek another, or become scornful toward me?

When `I am abiding by unconscious patterns I become small and quiet and convince myself that I am smaller-than, less sacred, less important than the person I am with. What a heavy lesson to learn and what a gross learned-pattern to become aware of–to trace this pattern back to a long period of time where I sat in spaces where my abuser boasted and ranted for hours about his loftiness, his successes, his more-thans and better-thans, as well as his blood-daughter’s–my own sweet little sister–telling me that she is more-wise, more-sacred, and showing me this is so by making me a play-thing, an object, a dumping ground, while she is taught and shown sweetness. Creating envy in my heart where there was adoration. How cruel of an act–to convince a child they are not as innocent as they are, as Holy as they are, as special as they have been born. And then it is my responsibility to now see I am no longer a victim, and the things people close to me do and say are not efforts to tear me down, pin me down, show me they are better or more. I suppose even if someone is expressing something in an effort to trump, dominate or prove–if my perception is “they are in a world of their own and it has nothing to do with my world” it serves everyone involved–setting me free and letting their own intentions dance in the air around them, in a muck of a game where they are the only player. It ultimately better serves me to decipher everything around me the same way I decipher a child’s statements, and this is an inner alchemical process that is serving me well these days. When a child comes to me and exclaims “I practiced the songs for my mom all weekend”, “I went to .. before and my mom gave me..”, “Look what I did–I made a…” they are seeking acceptance, approval, validation. So in a human being’s statements of show-and-tell, including my own, there is an innocent quest for acknowledgment and praise. Remembering this sets me free. Then I trace this back to the wound–for a grown man to be parading himself and exclaiming his superiority in an unconscious attempt to gain power over, make himself above and take power from, must mean he suffers from a deep perceived sense of lack of power, a soul that had forgotten it’s wholeness, a hungry void he had been living from–never satisfied, never having an experience of peace. And in this way I rise above the hallucinations and allow peace to permeate. Everything is alchemical when it comes to healing–you cannot shove away the monsters or you become cold, mean, resentful toward God. By seizing the moment when the angry shadows come swaying in your perceptions of the world, we shed the skin of old phenomenon and enter into new experiences.



Connect to and be entranced by something other than me–something greater than human and more sky than rubble, more winged than the oil of the earth, or become a devoted follower of The Earth Herself. Show me how you pray and tell me who your teachers are–what poems? Which stories? Whose mothers? When you feel yourself slipping into shadow, tell me about your anchors–the pillars that remind you that the dark is the illusion of the absence of light. Show me how you spend your time alone–what you feed yourself and the sounds you allow inside of your mind.

May I build a world of my own and still be loved? Without my attention on you do you lose interest in loving who I am? Does knowing you are not what or whom I live for make me less appealing? When I am not privy to your every move and motion, am I boiled down to only a mirror of all of the faces who have hurt you? When I am taken by the sky do I become less attractive? Do you suddenly fill with scorn and critique and smugness when I am hypnotized by wonder? Do you scoff at my thirst for and enjoyment of something greater than you and I? May I have my world and have love too? May I go to the event, and stay out all night long? May I sing a song with all my being about a love story from another lifetime? May I be excused from the order of things for a longer period time than you think realistic? May I play? May I be happy to be alive simply because I am alive? May I be proud of who I am just because I am? May I be at peace with myself without needing an external accomplishment? Am I less wise because I don’t know the name of the theory, the doctor, the book? Do I have to wither and die and be made the loser in your story in order to come alive in mine? Are your thoughts menacing things like “Ha! We will see if you actually..” “Ha! What do you know about…” “Ha! I have.. and you just have..” “Ha! You think you’re a .. but you are..” “Ha! I am.. but you are..” “Ha! Ha! Ha!” Because sometimes mine are. Are you bold enough to bring these to the light? Because I am. I am ready and en route. Will you come? Do you want to be lifted into the sky with me? Because I want you to come. But I am going–I am going and I am going.


I allow the perceptions of others to be the world they live in, and I stay in my own. I eject myself from the need to defend, prove or steer another. I steer myself; I lay my anchor down deep. I am unmoved; I am slipping into the horizon line.


You call it pulling away; I call it saving my life. When I return I’ll be washed anew. When I slip into the sheets beside you at 3am I’ll be a petal you can rely on. Let me go be a storm sometimes. Let me save my life.


The Day of Venus (XII)

(If you are new here): I started doing these “The Day of Venus” pieces every Friday as a way to hold myself accountable as a writer, and really just as a person who finds immense solace in consistently expressing and putting into form the inner workings of my mind and heart. I sit down and unleash everything I’ve been noticing, carrying, working through. I let myself be surprised, amused and embarrassed by what is painted. I call upon and obey my dreamworld. I let what wants to be said, be said, and then I leave it where it is. I play with words, listen to the murmurs of my heart, reference notes I’ve scribbled during the week, on receipts and gym paper towels and the 3 notebooks I keep around me in rotation; I look up synonyms and antonyms, grammar rules and poetic techniques, and sometimes get caught in rabbit holes of research until 3am.


I remove myself from the play. I exit the backstage, and it locks me out anyway. I bring the harmonica I bought at the thrift shop for $22 to the back of the building where it smells faintly of piss, and take refuge in having a part to play right there. At the busstop to my left is a grandfather who has been washing dishes all night. He just clocked out at a computer screen where a customer approached and tried to place an order. “Oh no, no sorry I am leaving now–errr–” and he looked around for the cashier as the customer rolled their eyes in victimization. Beside the metal rain-spotted bench nobody is sitting on, leans a Ross sack filled with the basic household needs of a 23 year-old who just broke up with her narcissistic boyfriend of 5 years, and is living on her own for the first time. She holds her umbrella at an angle above her, watching a YouTube video explaining how to change your self-concept. Next year her credit score will go up by 22 points and she will still be living in the $400 plywood make-shift room of an elderly woman she is caring for in exchange for rent, but she will meet a best friend and become known by the french patisserie down the block where she sometimes is given dessert on the house. I’m just a bald lady with her back against brick, a professional amateur playing a harmonica on the ground where her body is shielded from the rain, but her slippers act as a sponge and gutter water carries dust to the crevices of my toes which I carry home with me.


If you were to create a social media account without any previous internet presence, the algorithm will offer you a curated and intentionally designed array of options as your first choices, which would be the same offering to your neighbor, and their neighbor and theirs. Maybe across town where the houses are owned there is a slight shift, but you are offered up the most profitable clips to be exposed to, the most material-inducing of entertainment. These curations are internalized as the standard, the aim, what we should be striving for. How to talk, where you fit, and what to do with the time you spend breathing. It is in your best interest to question, analyze and reject the unspoken rules you’re given. Run into the room and clang on the xylophones, open your door and yodel absurdities into the suburban night sky. Do whatever it takes to claim your aliveness. Tell everyone and no one that you aren’t buying it. Show your teeth, your tongue, your toes. Go outside and touch the ground, the telephone pole, the rusting chainlink fence and the legs of a dead moth.


To heal is to find refuge in a cyclical art form of sorts. It is catch and release, a series of returning to that place in your mind’s eye, that room where you position yourself in objectivity to your fears. It is observing the impulses that were left to roam unchecked–and then grieving those moments you spent so far away from yourself. It is holding space for the redirection of your eyes, your voice, your hands and feet. Honor the Power to Pause. Give yourself time before you speak, make a decision, act. Give yourself the time.


I make sure to be thorough in the notes I take in my mind of the moment as I am in it–the mauve rose of your cheeks, the pressing of my inner thighs around your hips. All day I struggled to stay present, then it became easy to do. Suddenly the duration of a breath becomes a photo in my collection, a poem I want to write, a song I want to sing.

She reminds me that love is an action, energy transmitted, exchanged, released. She reminds me I am flawed and perfect and in motion. She gives to me with deliberation and she gives to me when she is not giving to me.

Companionship is spiritual work just as much as it is a retreat on Sunday. I do not have control over what I do not have control over. I want to be here while I am here.


Each day is a dismissal and an arrival, a reminder that Change Is. Hear the cliffs crumbling into sand; Feel the floors of the ocean widening. Meet the earth with acceptance as it receives your skin, your breath, your bones.


Get into the habit of asking your Dream maker to send you the medicine you need–comfort, signals, reminders of impermanence, reminders of what is infinite. Develop a line of communication with the curator. Trust in what comes and say thank you. Add all of the dream to your Palette of Existence–it’s aroma, it’s curse, it’s atmosphere, it’s language and it’s music. As much as you add your waking day this-ways-and-thats, uphold the visions that come to you while your conscious is at rest, accepting them as being closest to truth, as symbols of the energy dormant and within, unseen and fettering. If you want to live without shame, you must not be ashamed of yourself.


How to bring out the Kali in me: Make your mind up about who I am, who she is, and who they are in totality, and refuse to acknowledge the complexities and dualities of life, of us all, the little we really know, the reality of our ego’s limitations. Analyze something I said or did, or they did, or he mentioned, like it is the only evidence needed for your conclusion in a study we didn’t agree to being the examinees of. And so it is that I have come into acquaintance with what I have in secret called my “Jester Faces”. Pure affection is poured from my eyes into yours–a real and truly intended softness, an acknowledgment of your Holiness, quickly followed by the crudeness of a tongue extended and out, eyes wide. The flash of an announcement is registered by the opponent-seekers and sleeping puppeteers within you as: I SEE YOU; you have been exposed. I return to the softness just as easily as it came, just as generous as the moment before. A shapeshifting angel/beast, because both exist–the rich night of the earth, and the air of the sun-drenched sky, the wildfire and the flood, the blooming and the decaying. I have little tolerance and yet too much patience for the posturing, the prodding, the pretending that we don’t all carry the blades and matches and fungi, just as much as we carry the sky, the wings, and the nectar of the earth.


What will always be more important is the ability to see it inside of yourself–both the beauty and the monsters. All that is pushed away and down becomes amplified in the circumstances of your life, but that can be a toxic new-age message to be sending to people too. Then, all that you fixate on when your attention is out the window also makes appearances. These are both laws of the universe and manipulation tactics, depending on who is speaking. Just as well, tend to your garden like it belongs to you, like it responds best to you and you alone. A new kind of weed has begun growing around the edges of the bed, and so you dig them up by the roots only to discover they weren’t weeds at all, just seeds you pinched into the dirt 3 months ago that you forgot about, apparently spiraling up to the surface at an angle you weren’t expecting. So you sulk and forgive yourself and take note and move on.


Forgiveness is important to practice because you bring ill to yourself when you are ill-wishing upon another, regardless of what they have done or have not done. The laws of the universe do not care about deserving-ness. It is an electrical current in your body you participate in that does what it does to your cells, your organs, your blood. If you are mad, be mad–punch the bag and run 5 miles and write until your wrist aches; sing until your voice cracks and dance until you’re dizzy. Then let it stay there. Let the salt of your sweat go down the drain, the page in your book be a tale to refer to, the song that comes out be a mode of release for another.

And it is a practice–an action, a process, an ongoing and ever-unfolding ritual incorporated into your life for as long as you live.


I promise to slip out from your grip of any understanding you think you have of me, the world, our neighbors, our perceived enemies, and our idols more human than we let ourselves believe. I promise our priorities, our reasons, our fuel sources differ. I promise I have no plan, no motive, no hidden intention or hoped-for outcome. I promise to tell you when I’ve eaten a piece of chocolate `I found on the staircase for breakfast and to include it in the highlight reel. I promise to keep the highlight reel real. I promise I am aware of how mainstream and slogan-on-a-target-shirt that sounds. I promise I am both basic bitch and weirdo. I promise I am at ease with my unpredictability. I promise to stay content. I promise I would burn everything I owned if it meant being true. I promise I am not an angel. I promise to break promises. I promise I will express myself as I am–uncool, unchosen, and callous-footed, yet still smirking at you snaggle-toothed from across the table full of love and jest. I promise that my dreams do not orbit around your approval of them; I promise they are not made more realistic because of your ability to articulate or understand them, neither do they need your support or inclusion to exist. In fact what are my dreams? I promise I live to just live and the blueprint is a vanishing rainbow in the sky. I promise my favorites change by the day, by the week, by the decade. I promise to both break your heart and enrich the soil it lives in. I promise I’ll love you while you’re here and when we’re gone. I promise I loved you before our eyes did their first dancing introductions. I promise I love you even though our eyes have not embraced. I promise I will never run out of this. I promise there are times that sometimes last for longer than I am able to admit, where I am a deserted town of brittle ground. I promise we have too little time to be wasting it on resentment or the bitter aftertaste of a fallout. I promise I can sense the mycelium under your words. I promise you can exit the scene of somebody else’s production and let your character be what it is in their tale, without it having anything to do with the story you yourself live in as the main character. I promise you that forgiveness feels better than clinging to scorn. I promise the process of forgiveness is personal–between you and you, more than between you and anyone else–and can be the greatest, most heaviest battle you’ve won. I promise we are not the same. I promise we have more in common than we dare admit. I promise to admit it. I promise I would still be doing what I am doing now if I knew it was never going to see the light of day. I promise I am A Tool of Loosening, a slouched and cheery and sometimes fumbling enchantress that doesn’t keep track of: the time, where lines are drawn between properties, or the role you’ve designated for the life that is mine. I promise I will always be a ribbon come undone. I promise you will find me when you are not looking for me–on a branch, in a song, in a poem I didn’t write.


Though I look on with admiration and respect–their crimson and bronze hues at dawn, and the unmatched effectivity of their motherhood–I am not a hen. I mind my spine when it tells me to move. My spine moves the way it moves. You have yours, and I have mine.

I am a feathered flute, and the talons that bind me. I sing away the excess of anything until I am once again light. I lean into the squalls as they come.


I am both innocent and accountable for all I am not innocent of. I walk in the center of the point of contact between scarlet and indigo, all prism and shadow and vein.


Listen to the voice that says “not yet”. Let it teem for awhile, just because.


The Day of Venus (X)

What nobody says about Life After Trauma, after healing, after the credits stop rolling and you say “what a strong person”: the characters have to keep living. Healing doesn’t just “end”. Spiritual and emotional cleansing—a consistent returning to your inner world for a conversation—becomes absolutely imperative for survival. And I do mean “survival” in terms of life or death. The memories still appear from time to time, and we are left with the feelings those memories gave us. Daily tune-ups, small and sometimes large doses of heavy lifting, solitude, rest. Check ins with our teachers, our guides, our therapists, our friends.

A seriousness sometimes pervades my aura that I can’t shake off until I’ve bowed my head and wiped my tears and held my heart home. A deep and frozen sadness sometimes permeates throughout my bones and lingers for too long, so I drag myself into the fire again. Then sometimes because of my specific wound, of being told I had to stay quiet, then staying stunned and silent for as long as I did, I have a fury-like desire to write, to share, to sing, to use my voice in any way.


My most recent moons have been signals that something is needing to move, make it’s way out, be made into form, brought to light out of the shadows, transferred, be given a name. It is as if my veins need a larger pot, and new soil, or perhaps not even to be a potted plant at all, but to be scattered in the wind over valley and nest. All of the symptoms women experience are boxes I can check off, and for all of my life that has never been the case. The one that started for me just yesterday, on the eve of my 33rd birthday, is exercising it’s power, it’s right, to invoke a special kind of out-of-body madness, as if my body is a doll in the living room of a jester spirit, fed poison to spit up and eat again. Memories I’ve banished, reappeared–along with their helplessness and confusion, along with their fear. But there is no external entity to blame, because my abuser is dead and I am responsible for my healing, responsible for my protection, responsible for my choices in each moment–especially the ones made within the holy chambers of my mind.

Gabor Maté, in his lecture “Why You Are Haunted by The Past” explains, “The way we adapt to early stress helps us endure that difficult period in a life of the helpless child, but those same adaptations become sources of pathology (which) threaten your health, threaten the length (of) your longevity even, so what’s adaptive in one situation–what’s meant to be a temporary state–becomes a long-term trait” and this is most often The Case with these visiting tremors, these requests from within to acknowledge suffering, bring light to the contained–the Deep Sorrow makes an entrance, the self-pity wraps itself around your ribcage, suspicion and distrust, and The Refusal to Be Loved presents their pleading and empty cases, and we do not associate them with the memories they are attached to, because we don’t always see those first blows, those earliest conditions that weaved defense mechanisms and reactive impulses into our present-day default settings.

So we welcome them in–those old familiar faces, then we close the files right where they’re at, as if that is all there is to it, that is just how it is, how it has been, and that that is just who we are. But our moons remind us that there is more, that these visitors are nimble in posture, to-be-altered and alchemized–made to move, to bend. And we are infinite, we are capable of overcoming, of being made new, and allowed as much goodness, as much richness in the experience of being alive than we often let ourselves see. However, to come to know you are capable of moving is to accept the malaise of the transformations, the turbulence of the excavations, the gray of the dissolving comforts and the isolation swam through to reach a shore. If The Sun says “Medicine is made available to us when we ask for it”, then The Moon says “Medicine is made available to us, whether we ask for it or not”, and both of them are true.

If The Sun says “Medicine is made available to us when we ask for it”, then The Moon says “Medicine is made available to us, whether we ask for it or not”, and both of them are true.

I believe our moons have their way of communicating the invisible to us, sending us codes for the locks in our spirit bodies that have harbored water for too long—breaking the damns, setting loose, revealing, expanding. In our animal bodies truth is detected. Desire becomes exposed. Sadness is spotlighted. Where there is a jar of angry and biding ghosts, there will be an escapee. What has been hidden will find relief. What has been unspoken has it’s way of demanding deliverance. Our Moons, with their great magnetism in the cosmic sky that is our bodies, and their longing for the ocean floors of our unconscious’ to move, rely upon the tools we keep within our reach–our imaginations, our rituals, and then they trust that we will not pretend to know better when the time comes to take ourselves into the dark, remove ourselves from the familiar, leave our tools on the table, giving voice to the hidden and most unappetizing of truths. It teaches us that the personalities of the masks we wear, that they are fictional and malleable.


I recently read a tweet by Nate Postlethwait that says “Healing is complex. While we are making room for our truth to be known to find relief, we’re also becoming a target for those who benefit from us hiding. This is where your truth becomes sacred, & not always shared. Not because you’re denying it, but because you see it’s value.” I feel it to be true within me, but who would be benefitting from me hiding? Who would I be a target for by sharing my truth? It is like I can feel there are people or is a person who would be offended, or threatened by my voice and truth shared, but if you were to ask me to give names I couldn’t give you one. So I am still living as if my abuser is alive, like there is a need to stay silent, play small, feel pinned down, feel unworthy. The liberation is in realizing my voice is free to ring where it rings, and furthermore, even if there was someone who my voice would threaten, they’d probably deserve it anyway.