You are allowed to feel sad and lonely and hurt and generally just not okay.
Those words shouldn’t be revolutionary. They shouldn’t feel like releasing a breath you didn’t realize you were holding – but they might, at least they do for me.
There are so many articles and books on how to feel better, but rarely do you see anything that says “You are allowed to feel shitty.” That should be the first step in any plan to dig yourself out of a hole. Not just acknowledgement, full embrace.
How do you feel about not feeling okay? Does it make you uncomfortable or vulnerable? Do you minimize it by casting out a tepid “I’m fine…” if someone acknowledges your muddiness? Why is it that we refuse to take an active role in the darker side of our emotional spectrum?
The pretense of perfection and complete balance is literally driving us further and further away from ourselves, each other, and greatness. Everything is masks and comparison of Facebook-happy lives and walls of pseudo-emotional protection. We praise those living in disenchanted malaise and call for the exaltation of mediocrity because it maintains the illusion that we can do and have everything – that life will be easy and uncomplicated if you just hit these ten easy milestones. Meanwhile we judge those that are authentic, off-kilter, extraordinary because their balancing act doesn’t resemble the evenly sliced pie sitting on a suburban sitcom windowsill.
In order to move on, fully live, and do amazing things you have to embrace the suck. You don’t conquer mountains by running around them; you do it by running straight up and over them.
This isn’t an excuse to wallow. No, you don’t want to settle here. This is a call for self-compassion. This is permission to have crappy hours and days; let that feeling come to fruition so we can stop shoving the negativity back inside until we are so full of crappiness we explode or binge or shutdown.
Acknowledge the suck, embrace it, and then use it as a catalyst or muse or lesson. Everything serves a purpose.
This is something a little different, a little dark.
Death is the only part of the life cycle that’s often spoken about in hushed tones. Mystified, revered, and feared – we sing about it, we write sonnets, but they are nearly always in the heart of the night spoken in metaphors with its essence only gleaned in the subtext.
But I don’t want hushed tones, aching, and tears at my death.
Instead sing from rooftops that I can finally find peace for my weary bones.
Shout that I lived and loved hard and died once the last ounce of passion left my body.
Tell them I used up everything.
Graffiti the walls with the words I spoke most often and may the lion’s share be the loveliest and most uplifting of things.
If I should die tomorrow, please don’t lay my body down.
Spread my ashes to the world.
Take me on one last trip.
Let me go in the wind.
Scatter me over seeds so that I may be part of the trees and it can be said that I began and ended with roots.
Place me at the center of all elements so that I may live eternity in perfect balance.
I have not lived quietly or apologetically so honor me by wearing red, dancing on a moonlit night in an open field of wildflowers, drinking good whiskey and great red wine, breathing slow in the morning, loving openly and unconditionally, and living your truth out loud every damn day.
Gather annually around a fire with good tunes – not to spend a weekend remembering me, but because I have found presence and connection to be the answer to nearly everything.
If I should die tomorrow, please don’t lay my body down.
May I still fly and swim and grow and burn,
may my words still rally,
may thoughts of me still inspire warmth,
and may my love still heal
long after the last of me is washed away to sea.
Not-so-jokingly, I’ve been known to quip “Patience just isn’t my virtue.” – often in regard to petty things I couldn’t be bothered to wait for. Contrary to my “petty times” mantra, if one were to ask my closest friends they would paint me as a patient woman; I just like to think I choose my battles well.
When I remember who I am (love child of the divine and rebellion) and what I am (miracle maker and earth rattler), I am in my “right” mind. There is no room for anxiety or worry because my hands are too busy building to wring them fitfully, my mind is too focused on the moment to future trip*, my heart is too full of faith to deflate with impatience.
Faith that divining forces are vying for you through blessings AND lessons can serve as an exercise in anxiety and futility without the other half of the equation. We can throw up all of the prayers and requests we desire, but without the same strength of faith in Divine Timing we quickly become a fussy ball of impatient chaos. This missing piece can take that feeling of begrudging the mysterious deity playing with us like a chess match to deep breaths and “All in good time” mantras.
“But when? When?!” we cry as we half-heartedly cleave to belief that the universe or God or whatever you’re holding holy is conspiring in our favor. That waiting begins to feel like being stuck; if idle hands are the devil’s playground, an idle mind can play host to an ego all too eager to run around an anxiety filled merry-go-round. The only antidote is full surrender. No asking when it’s coming, no nights lying awake wondering and begging for signs. The anxiety and restlessness should dissipate without much effort beyond this shift.
No matter how scientific or magical your formula for manifestation may be you must fully surrender to the process. Your job is to move your feet, pray, and hustle like hell – not fret over when it’s coming. You’ve been heard. Everything in due time.
Are you checking in every 5 minutes wondering where your miracle is? Have you been twiddling your anxious thumbs waiting for your blessing to arrive? Surrender and then surrender some more.
I forgot about quiet love.
Love that only subtly let’s its presence be known.
I forgot about gentle love.
Love that doesn’t prod or pull you into unnatural shapes and tornadoes.
I forgot so deeply that I held no regard,
no recognition for the thing.
I’d only known love out loud.
The kind of love that flings itself up the stairs
to make declarations before the world.
The kind that stamps its feet
and says every little sweet nothing way out loud
because the noise makes the love real and big.
Enduring love that stings,
but is oh so satisfying
in that you know the passion and tension
will keep you going
well past the point
“let’s call it quits and still be friends”.
I began to believe that quiet love
is not love at all,
but a passionless,
avoidance of emotion.
I couldn’t see it as a real love.
I thought real love twirls you around the dance floor,
fights for you –
even if it’s against you,
and makes the grand gesture at just the right time.
I forgot about silent love that penetrates the soul
with just time and no words.
I fought the legitimacy of it all –
my intimacy always caught in frenzy.
I forgot about quiet love.
This is when I realized that I had succumb to a hidden Disney princess dream. How had I deluded myself into thinking it had passed me over? There it was: I wasn’t waiting for the someone to rescue me from a tower – I’m no damsel, but I was waiting though for someone to make the grand gesture. Run to the mountaintops and scream their love for me, prove their love by slaying dragons. This dynamic set me up for even a nice enough guy to never get past the butterflies stage because he couldn’t pull off this thing. I didn’t even know what it was, but it was big and I knew at the end of it that I would know for sure this man would love me forever and there would be no question in my mind.
The only problem with that is the novelty wears off and I’m always looking for the next big gesture to keep my attention, to keep up with the definition of love that I’ve formed.
To be honest, I enjoy a great, big love with passion and healthy dose of tension to keep it going. In my frenzied nature I filled the canyons with thoughts and questions. Don’t question every quiet moment, every wordless exchange. Not everyone can be “on” all of the time. Not every moment is soaked in passion and bliss.
How loud someone confesses their love to you is a poor measuring stick.
What preconceived notion of love are you willing to release?
And one day I finally decided to stop screaming “Let me tell you what I’ve been through. You don’t know.” in favor of showing the world that I have hit the pavement so many times and have risen to somehow … Continue reading →