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Homecoming

I am back in my home earlier than some of my neighbors after being evacuated due to the Woolsey fires this past week. By the grace of whoever watches and protects us all, the officer at the roadblock allowed me to pass into the canyon where I live.

I hit a breaking point. I just had to go home and for some strange reason felt the Gods were on my side. However, I wasn’t sure what obstacles I would encounter on my way home or how I would talk myself into passing through. Maybe I’d lie and say I had to get more medication or some other bullshit. I needed a break from it all. I was drooling at the thought of sleeping through the night in complete silence in the woods.

I don’t like to lie nor am I any good at it but sometimes, desperate times call for desperate measures. When I approached the officer blocking the street I needed to enter, I asked if I could get in. He asked where I lived. I paused just a bit too long before I answered. My reply was less than a mile from the truth and I sensed he knew it. He let me pass anyway. I felt terrible for a bit and then utterly relieved. I thanked whatever angels were with me.

As soon as I stepped on my property my shoulders relaxed. My rib cage dropped. And I took a huge exhale. I expressed my gratitude out loud for the officer that let me pass. Gratitude for my home, with all its quirks and little noises and imperfections. For my friend who so graciously took me in with Zeus, my handsome kitty, when many were not as feline friendly.

Now I am somewhat sequestered in my home as I don’t know if I’ll have the same luck getting in and out freely. I’ve spent the day tending to things that haven’t been tended to. Cleaning. Home assignments I had been putting off. Emails that should have been sent days if not weeks ago. I’m nesting. It’s so peaceful here with over half our town gone.

Without little Zeusy around (I left him at my friend’s apartment truly believing the evacuation would be lifted today and I could return to get him), my home is so much cleaner. I am relishing in its lack of paw prints, cat food and litter littering my floor. I needed this. Even for just 24 hours.

But I had some important realizations today as I washed clothes, cleaned floors, emptied closets, and rearranged furniture.

While my house may be a bit dirtier with Zeus traipsing in and out from the great outdoors, my heart is fuller.

No matter how sparkling your floor is or isn’t, however big or small, a home is to be cherished. Honored. Loved. Respected. And nurtured. We all have different ways to do that. It felt good for me to clean, burn sandalwood, organize and rest.

As I unpacked and re-nested I realized, like I do when I move, that I didn’t need much of what I have been harboring in my closet. I started pulling items off their hangers and putting them in a ‘To Donate’ pile. All ready to go to any organization collecting items for victims of the Woolsey fire.

I don’t have a lot. Everything I own fits in a studio apartment and my office and practice studio. I have one closet. One dresser drawers. Yet, as I unpacked I still felt too cluttered. I began emptying. With every shirt or pair of shoes I dumped into the donation pile, I created a little more space for other non- material things to enter my life. Things I’ve been hoping, wishing, and praying for.

We’ve all heard that people are more important than things. But how many of us are truly living by that philosophy? Do we ever stop to think when we buy that fifth pair of shoes (in my case boots) that we are cluttering our life, preventing the things we truly desire from entering? We weigh ourselves down with so much – food, shoes, lip glosses, purses, t-shirts.

When is enough enough? I wondered if our culture’s obsession with consumption – having more in every area of our life – may be contributing to the devastation of our planet. That our singular home – Earth – is suffering as a result of our insistence on overstuffing our individual homes.

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Finding My Feminine

I was gladly traveling in London and Paris while the debacle of the Kavanaugh hearings were unfolding. I did not hear or see much of anything until one day I opened Facebook to a slew of posts referencing Kavanaugh’s impulsive and juvenile responses to the accusations from Dr. Ford. And in contrast, her cool, collected posture in the face of what was likely a pressure cooker. Watching just a half hour of the shit show was enough to bring me back to the reality of what’s happening in our society – at home and abroad.

Over the past year or so, I have chosen to, for the most part, stay silent concerning the #MeToo movement. With exception, when the movement began, I posted one blog about my own sexual assault while in college – a memory I had blocked until May of 2017. I have been marinating in the up and down emotions of that trauma ever since, attempting to shield myself from the outside influences from the hashtag movement. I wanted to go through my own healing process and come to my own understandings of how my story shaped my life and how I could learn and grow from the incident.

At first, I thought resurrecting and coming to terms with the events of the night of my assault was my solution – my key to freedom from a heaviness that weighed on my heart for over twenty years. And while I did feel a not insignificant load lift, the truth of what happened so many years ago simply nudged the door open, allowing a sliver of light in. It turned out to be just the beginning of what has been a consistent and growing understanding of the contrasting Masculine and the Feminine energies – in myself and the world.

Let me come clean – I am not a feminist. I have struggled with the #MeToo movement since it began. Something just hasn’t sat well with me. It seems to put women in the role of victim, taking men to task and retaliating at them for all the wrong they have done. Frankly, it feels like a lynching of the Masculine. The I am woman hear me roar voice stronger than ever, castrating anyone with a penis. “Time’s up” seems to be a masculine response to a masculine issue. In my opinion, women have far more to gain from an I am woman, watch me love and forgive battle cry.

I am by no means suggesting that women stay silent. We need to keep exposing all the dirty, ugly reality of the massive disrespect for the Feminine. But maybe we can focus less on the stories of what happened to us as women and more on what those stories are teaching us and how to heal and move forward.

I don’t believe we can simply stand on our Goddess podiums and point fingers. We need to turn some of this scrutiny on ourselves. When I realized how much I myself contributed to a society that values, above all, the shadow masculine qualities of power, achievement, prestige and social status, I cried for days.

I am the queen of take control of the situation and kick ass. Get it done because you can’t rely on anyone else to do it for you. But for the past 18 months or so, more and more, I’ve been forced to surrender. To find my strength not in fighting but in faith. To turn it over to something bigger than me. To find fluidity and dance with grace. To embrace my mercurial moods and shifts. To sit with myself – my Feminine self – over and over again and watch my own resistance to it. In a world that doesn’t seem to honor this way of operating, I continue to learn to embrace everything fluid and divinely Feminine about me. For She is a part of my essence, more than I could have ever imagined.

Yet everything I learned growing up became a shield to protect the sensitive, feminine, highly intuitive woman that’s always been inside me. I learned to play in the sandbox with the men – I was the ‘guy’s girl’. I drank beer. I watched football. I thought it was the only way to succeed. I wanted men’s attention, their praise. Simultaneously, I shunned women that were too ‘girly’. I dismissed many women as petty and jealous. I always ‘just got along better with the guys.’ This worked for a long time. Except in romantic relationships. Because I was a wounded female, I attracted wounded males, with a couple of exceptions. I tried to play the games these men would play but wasn’t very good at it. Mostly I got my heart broke.

As I began to dismantle the masks of masculinity that I wore, I uncovered more of who I truly was. Returning to my most authentic Feminine form has been and continues to be a lot of work. A lot of reprogramming. But I’m finding the more I honor and respect my Feminine the more I meet men willing to do the same. I’m learning not to hate men and expect the worse from them. I’ve begun to cut them some slack and allow them the space to heal, as I have needed to do the same for myself. At the same time I’m raising the bar a little higher than what previously has been acceptable in all of my relationships.

We need men and their ‘dude’ ways. The strength, stability, confidence and purpose a self realized man brings to the table is attractive. It’s valuable and it’s necessary. We need more of these ‘real men’ in the world and we need to help them get there by encouraging them to heal themselves and embracing them as they go through their own grieving process. The more we shame and degrade them, the more they will feel the need to ‘man up’ and defend themselves with the shadow side of the Masculine. The side that puts the accumulation of power, prestige and wealth on a pedestal.

Yes, men need to take responsibility for assaults and abuse they’ve perpetrated. Especially those that have taken advantage of their rank and position. However, women, so do we. How have we diminished the most beautiful and sacred Feminine qualities of ourselves to fit into this society? How have we stepped aside, stepped down and allowed it? How have we given away our power? And most importantly, where have we failed at honoring ourselves?

We don’t need to change the rules, ladies. We need to change the game. We can start with changing ourselves.

Warrior Spirit

Moksh” the woman said to me, looking at my left forearm, just above my wrist. I didn’t even have to follow her gaze to know she was referring to my tattoo, the Sanskrit symbol for moksha – loosely translated as spiritual liberation or freedom. Many Hindi speaking people have commented on my inner arm marking. It’s led to some lovely conversations and connections I may not have had otherwise. This was no exception.

Yes. I knew she knew so I said nothing further.

She nodded.

Do you pray? She asked.

Every day. I replied.

Good.

There was what seemed like a long pause as I considered the black and white tile outdoor table next to me. It may have only been a couple of seconds.

You’re a warrior.

A little caught off guard, I looked at her with a look of surprise gauging by her response.

You have a warrior spirit.

So I’ve been told.

I thought she was going to drop a full on Vedic reading right there in Cost Plus on a random Thursday afternoon. Instead she stayed silent. I simply said Have a nice day and walked out.

I didn’t know what else to say. There was nothing else to say. I knew what I was.

Once outside, I paused a few feet out the door and felt a swell of emotion, a few tears rolling down my face. Ah, yes – the familiar tears of a warrior who doesn’t know how to drop the shield. The tears that came from being seen, by a total stranger no less.

This interaction has been sitting with me for the past few days and a theme that has been resurrecting itself for months.

As the Bhagavad Gita lays out so beautifully, life is not about floating around, jumping from one ecstatic spiritual experience to the next. Life takes place on a battlefield as we do our best to slay our karmic debts so that we may evolve towards liberation when we move into our next life. There is no doubt the battlefield is where I’m most comfortable. Running around, overcoming challenges, fighting for the next victory – both in the material and spiritual worlds. I’ve become quite adept at walking through the fire and in many cases, I even court and cajole it. But what to do when the fight is over or I’m just too tired to wield a weapon? Well, therein lie my most recent lessons.

I feel like there’s no time to rest. We as a species seem to be in such dire straits that it’s going to take every one of us who are called to do this work to do it 24-7. Humanity is at a tipping point and it’s all hands on deck if we don’t want this ship to sink. Yet, there are days, like today, when I’m just too tired. Sure, I want to go to kirtan. Sure I want to get out in nature and convene with Her. But on the first day of my moon cycle after teaching one class, running a few errands and some light household chores, all I can manage is a yoga nidra practice, and laying in my space with my eyes closed. Waves of cramps keep me fixed on the floor. Chanting even feels taxing. As I’ve become more attuned to my body and my cycles, I know I should rest and rest seduces me like a forlorn lover, and yet – yet. It’s so darn uncomfortable to lay down my sword and my shield and allow myself to be held.

I rub my swollen aching belly, wondering where my leaner, warrior like shape disappeared to. I feel soft. Squishy. I don’t necessarily like it.

So, like a child, I rest my head in my Mother’s lap. I let her stroke my hair and I hear her whisper It’s okay. I cry. Not working is, indeed, my work.

(WO) Man

After a morning meditation the other day I was inspired by the idea of a woman’s circle. As I often do around new ideas, I created a mind map (see photo) to get a sense of what its purpose would be and what it might look like. Instinctually I wrote down the word ‘woman’ as (WO) Man. This said a lot to me about the very nature of what it means to be a woman.

Essentially, as a human race, we are all man. The Shiva energy or the supreme consciousness resides in all of us. But check out the difference between woman and man. Two letters. WO. Immediately I thought WOMB. The thing that makes women unique is literally our reproductive organs. I know some of you are reading this and saying ‘duh.’ But think about it. Your vagina, cervix, fallopian tubes, uterus, ovaries – all of the pieces and parts and energies that involve a female reproductive system – are just that. An intricate miraculous system that reproduces. A container that houses all the forces of creation. Holy shit.

This is our Shakti energy and women, this is the true source of our power. Our ability to create. Our ability to nurture. Our ability to give birth. Whether to another human being (I’m always blown away by that quite frankly), an idea or a movement. Our power does not come from shaming others – male or female. Our power does not come from executing a witch hunt or crucifying perpetrators. Our power comes from our ability to heal – ourselves and others – in the kindest most loving way possible. Which, by the way, may include a bitch slap every now and then if the nice approach doesn’t work. In fighting for our right to feel safe and free, let’s not lose what makes us so powerful. Our softness. Our nectar – the very source of our divinity.

My next question was Can men be included in this process? Yes. Should men be included in this process? Absofuckinglutely. They NEED to be included. But unfortunately, we’ve created a culture such that when either a man or a woman wants to explore, heal, and/or share their sacred feminine, they feel unsafe. Because that which has made women absolutely beautiful and unique and sexy and oh so powerful has been objectified. The very essence of our divinity has been scrutinized, disregarded and disrespected. We have all contributed. Men and women. We have allowed it. We have participated in its growth and dominance. We all must take responsibility for our part and we all must do our own work to heal it. Women cannot simply point our well-manicured fingers at men and vilify them.

Until we re-create a culture where it is safe for all of us to fully express and celebrate Her, it is necessary in some instances to hold separate containers for the work that all of us need to do. Thus, for now, my offerings will be limited to females so that they feel safe to be naked, vulnerable, and soft. I wish we could all dance with Her in the same room. To proudly express to the world all incarnations of Her and join and unite with Him in unabashed joy and pride. We are not there yet. But it is my prayer and hope that one day, sooner than later, we will be.

#metoo

I awoke in the middle of the night last night. My groggy body and weary eyes told me it was not yet time to be up. I opened my iPad to confirm that fact. 2 A.M. I was pissed. I had collapsed into bed a mere four hours prior, exhausted from a long day at work and an even longer two months of life. I hadn’t even been able to muster enough energy to wash the day off myself and shower. I barely could collect enough strength to bring my toothbrush to my mouth. So, given the opportunity to take deep rest, why the fuck was I up at 2 A.M.?

My mind immediately began examining what I ate earlier that night. Was there too much salt in the soup? What about that one bite of chocolate chip cookie? Or had I simply snacked too late? It seems I’ve been super sensitive to what I’m ingesting lately and I was determined to blame the culinary culprit.

As intrusive as the light from my iPad felt to my eyes, I attempted to distract my ruminating mind and lull myself back to sleep with a glance at the sludge of social media. About 5 minutes in it hit me. I am super sensitive to what I take in. And not just food. As I scrolled through story after story, post after post of ‘#metoo’ the pain began to well up in my heart until it could no longer contain itself. What awoke me in the middle of the night was not the cookie or the salt or any other crap food. What awoke me in the middle of the night was the poison we’ve been ingesting collectively for years. Decades. Possibly centuries.

I began to weep. Not only from my own pain and shame of the sexual assault I experienced – something I repressed for 22 years – but also for the generations of women and men devastated by a culture that continues to shove aside the Divine feminine in the name of advancement, progress and growth. In the name of money, power and status.

All actions bear fruit. Maybe not immediately, but eventually. It is the law of the Universe. It is called karma. What is being played out in our society is a result of all our behaviors. Not just of a few. Generations of it. Years and years of disregard for Her and the world which She created. The Goddess will be repressed no more. She is awakening. She is rising and she will do whatever is necessary to wake all of us up in order to restore the beautiful balance of Divine order. The masculine and feminine must dance in love once again.

This is painful for so many of us. Too many to ignore. But never forget we suffer at the hand of Her love. The tears must be shed, the blood must be borne. The past must be so painful we have no choice but to choose a different present. Sadly, it’s the only way we monkeys known as humans seem to learn. The sickness of society must become so prevalent that it touches and affects a majority of us. We must turn the tide as a united force. Only then will the collective consciousness gaze towards peace. Towards compassion. Towards respect. Towards reverence. Towards kindness. And towards love. And if it takes a million hashtags of ‘metoo’ and ‘imsorry’ and tears in the middle of the night – if it takes a mass devastation so that each and every individual feels the pain of our ways – so be it. Her will will be done. In some way. In some fashion. But never, ever doubt her love for us all.

I know what I’m about to say will seem more than challenging – it may seem I’m asking the impossible – but thank the Weinsteins and the Trumps and the Stephan Paddocks of the world. Their actions shine a light on the prevalence of suffering we are all enduring. Without which, we could easily continue to bury, shame and push down travesties and transgressions.

I am clear. When I weep, I heal. I change. When you weep, you heal. You change. When more of us weep, more of us heal. More of us change. As awful as it seems, it is an amazing time to be alive right now. Witness the magnitude of world events in awe and gratitude. Feel the ground shaking. We are in the middle of a revolution. Like many before us have fought for our freedoms from slavery and tyranny with guns and cannons, we too are fighting for our freedom. With tears and anger and hashtags.

We fight for our freedom to feel safe.

We fight for our freedom to smile.

We fight for our freedom to play.

We fight for our freedom to laugh and be joyful.

We fight for our freedom to love.

We fight for our freedom to embrace all in a new world order.

One that honors and celebrates the feminine in us all. She is the creator of all. And She will restore all. And so shall it be.

 

 

Is Enough Enough?

Last night I got sucked into the social media abyss of Instagram. For a half hour, maybe more (but who’s counting?) I poured over other abnormally beautiful girls’ photos who seemed to glow with fairy dust and poop golden gumdrops. Every photo seemed carefully crafted to display how amazing their life is while simultaneously assuring us that arriving to this place of effortless effervescence required diligent effort and struggle. This life of rainbows and butterflies and God damn grace. And there I sat – greasy hair pulled up in an anything but beautiful bun bouncing on the top of my head. I resembled something more of a paleolithic cartoon character than a modern have-it-all woman of Instagram. I was pissed that I couldn’t get paid for simply striking a pretty yoga pose. Annoyed that I always seemed to work my ass off for peanuts relatively speaking. I astonished over one golden girl in particular. Videos of her seamlessly transitioning from a forward fold to a pose with one one foot extended BEHIND HER FUCKING HEAD and the other extending straight out in front of her. Like one of the shapes I used to create with silly putty when I was little. It’s taken me eight years to get my head anywhere near my shins and THIS is the new standard for yoga? Fuck. I’ll never win. I realized that’s always been my mantra. I will not deny my successes or that I’ve had some incredible experiences in life. But it’s not enough. I’m not enough. I’ve always come really darn close to enough. And Lord knows, I’ve fought and worked my ass off for close to enough. But I could never quite get to enough. I always seemed to land just short of enough. Just shy of top of my class. Just short of a 4.0. A few spots below #1. A few pounds short of thin enough. A couple highlights less than blonde enough. A zero or two away from wealthy enough. I’ve hovered more in the ‘above average’ range. Better than many – not quite the best. I notice, as much work as I’ve done to be above comparison, it’s not much different. I’m still trying to prove I’m smart enough. Pretty enough. Flexible enough. Enlightened enough.
I can’t do this anymore. Who am I trying to prove myself to? My boss? My colleagues? My family? Myself? God? Sometimes, I wish I were just a total fuck up. Then the bar would be set kind of low. But it seems like someone’s always inching my bar a little higher. Just when I think I’m almost there, there she is – Ms. Golden Yogini striking a handstand on the beach in a bikini drinking green juice and smiling – nudging the bar a little higher. And me struggling and straining to fulfill my potential. To get a bit ahead. One step forward. Three steps back. I’m exhausted chasing enough, trying to keep up with her. When will enough be enough?

Broccoli And Strawberries

Walking through my neighborhood farmer’s market today, I found myself wishing for another life. A life that looked more like what I envisioned for myself when I was in my twenties. Yes, I do live in the greater metropolitan area known as Los Angeles. However I ended up landing in a home in one of the most idyllic neighborhoods known to man – The Pacific Palisades. Imagine Wisteria Lane, only more picturesque. Beautiful homes, perfectly manicured lawns with fragrant flowers, surrounded by the mountains of Temescal and Topanga Canyons, and ocean views. A neighborhood filled with children and families and large bank accounts. A reminder of everything I don’t have.

I didn’t roam around that Farmer’s Market with people like me – older, single creative types that have dedicated their lives to pursue passions and truth. I’m not saying the lady next to me perusing bunches of broccoli and strawberries hasn’t done some soul searching, but it’s unlikely if you’ve got a family to care for and what I can only assume are high bills to pay, you’re not taking weeks off to travel to India, live in ashrams or sit and type out pages of emotional analytics. No, there’s no time for that shit. A large part of me envies that. I sometimes wish I didn’t have so much freedom to do whatever the hell I want.

I found myself down on the Pali High School track, watching young, tan, fit men chuck a Frisbee around. I longed for the days of my youth. To turn back the clock and maybe choose a different path. Make different choices. As I made my laps around the field, I knew in my heart, I didn’t have that choice. My destiny has already been written out for me. It is my duty to follow it. I wept anyway. Especially at the sight of a Father running, racing his little girl. Something in my heart broke. It was a deep longing for a family that I may never have. The grief over a loss of something I didn’t even know I could even want. The desire for a ‘normal’ life.

I’m not naïve in thinking these people live in perfection. I know all life comes with struggle, conflict, sacrifice and loss. And I’m sure plenty of them wish they were in my shoes from time to time. But for the time being, and maybe just today, I wish I were in theirs.

Am I Bi-Polar?

Lately, I’ve been struggling with who I want to be – how I want to represent myself in this world. Sometimes I am the ethereal yogi who floats like a nymph through life. Effortlessly wearing flowers in her hair. Speaking of love and Goddesses as if they were my dear friends who I invite over for tea. Or am I the wild, strong, fuck all, sometimes crazy woman who dances on poles and takes shots of tequila? The woman who is perfectly happy being thrown up against a wall and possibly gagged. Can I be both? Somewhere in between? Is there a happy medium to be found? A fairy – slut sliding scale? Or do I swing from persona to persona like a monkey in the jungle? I suppose the point is to be comfortable inhabiting qualities of both extremes and embracing and celebrating it all. This is tantra. No good. No bad. Not even ugly. All Divine. Intellectually, I understand this. However, most times, it simply makes me feel bi-polar. Like a box of Cracker Jacks. You never know what sweet surprise awaits you at the bottom.

One day I feel demure, subdued and offer simple, quiet, knowing smiles to people. I nod Namaste. This woman wears flowy skirts and mala beads and loves lace and pink and is perfectly willing to let a man support her. After all, her greatest gift is simply to be, allowing her presence to light up everyone she meets. Her favorite word is love. And she floats instead of walks. She longs to live off the land, simply, communing with nature. She smells like essential oils and thrives off green juice and acai bowls.

The next day, I wake up with a different woman altogether. This woman wears red lipstick and eats burgers and dark chocolate and drinks wine and beer. She doesn’t give a shit how much she weighs. She has the urge to writhe and twist wildly and sway her hips in a way that would embarrass most people. She wants a man who will challenge her, be smarter than she is and not put up with her shit. She is strong, but he is stronger. She is fierce, unapologetic, and most times politically incorrect. This woman says fuck a lot and likes to scream and thrash about. She loves power and desires diamonds and a beautiful home. She is not satisfied simply being. She needs to do.

These are two examples. There are at least ten other women waiting in the wings. How easily I fluctuate between all of them scares me. It leads me to believe I’m more than just a little crazy. It also makes it very challenging to create a consistent marketing strategy and it’s why I’ve been struggling to create a new brand for myself. I have no idea who I am most days. Maybe my brand should be Bat Shit Bi-Polar. Or plain old Totally Fucked Up.

I suppose the perfect partner for me would be a man who really doesn’t know what he wants in a woman. With me, he can sample just about every type out there.

Quite frankly, it’s exhausting trying to respond to the needs of a different woman every day. Life would certainly be easier if I could pick just one. Play one role. I would likely have a more consistent career. I’d complete hundreds of projects I’ve conceived over the past fifteen years. It would even make grocery shopping easier. It’s hard when one woman wants mac and cheese and diet soda and the other craves more fiber and greens, sometimes at the same time. Thus, I make daily trips to the store depending on who shows up for meals.

I’m not sure what to do – if anything – to seal the fissures of my shattered personality. Maybe I’ll continue to vacillate until I settle somewhere along the continuum. I’ll delicately dance between each woman with as much grace, grit and authenticity as I can muster on any given day. It certainly keeps life interesting.

There are a few things all of my women have in common.

They want to love and be loved so bad it hurts.
They want to care too much.
They want to feel to the depths of their being.
And every single last one of them wants to be seen.

Banished From Facebook Live

If I’m completely honest, I’m relieved that Facebook blocked me from my live 4:30pm Self Reflection Sunday chat today. Up until 4:27pm, I was prepping dinner, cutting vegetables thinking to myself What the hell am I going to say? I didn’t want to ignore the pink elephant in the room – my recent piece on depression and suicide that I posted yesterday. Some of you may have read it, others maybe not. Regardless, I felt a responsibility to talk about it and quite frankly, I didn’t want to. I didn’t know where the self reflection topic came in. Should we self reflect about depression? That seemed morbid. Self reflect on vulnerability? Brene Brown has cornered that market and done it so, SO well I’d only be regurgitating her wisdom. I’m done reflecting for the time being. I spent days, weeks, months reflecting and I’m tired. I just wanted to BE for a while.

Yet, I took a deep breath and bucked up, grabbed myself a diet cream soda (my version of a glass of wine), put on some pink hued lip balm and sat down, figuring something would come to me. Maybe I’d discuss my not wanting to discuss and that would be okay. Lo and behold, access denied. Relief granted.

Here’s the thing. Clearly, I don’t have a problem being on camera. I enjoy it and seem to be good enough at it. But when it comes to the very personal, vulnerable details of my life, I draw a line where the pen hits the paper. I feel called to use personal story to inspire others and hopefully ignite them to make positive changes for themselves. I love to write. I know that because I can sit here all night, forget to eat and write, write and write. Words pour through my fingertips on to the page whether I’m typing or writing longhand. While it’s not without its challenges, much of the time, writing is effortless for me.

Effortless would not be the word I use to describe my Facebook Live segments. I’ve struggled over what to say, what the right words are. What people might want to hear. I feel somewhat uneasy talking about more serious topics on camera. I did it because someone I respect suggested it, convincing me it’s a great tool to build my audience and I know he’s right. I know video is the way to go to market yourself or your product on social media. And it got me out of my comfort zone. By the third or fourth video, I wasn’t so stressed about it and I did begin to feel more at ease. I’m glad I tried it and grateful for my friend’s direction.

But here’s the thing. I like to write. Not bullet lists, not top ten stories, not how to succeed at something in so many easy steps. No, I get off on detailed, insightful and sometimes lengthy stories and musings. I love the written word. I realize this will not make me the most popular person on Facebook. Frankly, I don’t care anymore. While I may utilize live video if compelled to do so, from here on out, I’ll be divulging whatever wisdom and truth bombs I have via script. It’s my thing. So if you like to read, I’m your gal. (Or maybe listen – I’m strongly considering launching my book via audio files.)

But I understand if it’s not. No hard feelings. It’s why they make chocolate and vanilla ice cream. (Personally, I’m a vanilla ice cream with hot fudge girl. See? Never easy with me.) We all communicate and learn differently. And that’s a beautiful thing.

By the way,  I’m still not sure what the self – reflection question is. How about we self reflect on why we need to self reflect? Or maybe we just give it a break.

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