Posts Tagged ‘healing’

Thanks for giving: a shit. 

Thursday, November 24th, 2016

Third rockin’ass orgasm of the day. Enjoying the hell out of my solo day-long water fast. Fuck your oppressive shitass holidays. —

Water fasting as of midnight last night. Had no idea when I decided to do this a year ago, take the next step in personally divesting from the lies and the cognitive dissonance, how apropos it would be as I closely follow Standing Rock.

This is the thing about trying to figure out how to meld my art with activism. I fasted today as a self care and development experience because I believe we must decolonize ourselves, and that includes, perhaps most importantly, the means and motivations for our connecting with each other. So we can stop passing up connecting with real friends to complain about being “alone”.

I could have made it into art, I could have organized people who wanted to do it together and bare witness in a collective. We could have decided to have made it disruptive and done it in the street, or in a plaza, or quietly somewhere for the groups healing and told our actual friends about it. Part of the reason I didn’t do any of those things, is because I didn’t realize this was art until now.

Art is how I sneak up on myself. It’s how I tell me my own story, and I warn myself of things, and the fucking CURSE of it (and also what makes it work?) is that most of the time I can’t see it until I’ve experienced my own fucking art! It’s like Westworld, I look at the poem or I sketch the choreography or I sew my own mouth shut in watercolor and I go ‘meh. doesn’t look like anything to me’. Until one day it does look like something, and I laugh at myself for not seeing it then.

Developing ourselves is art.

The world needs more art.

Make more art.

These dreams go on

Monday, April 18th, 2016

At times in my life (historically when I’ve been very cyclicly stressed and/or surfacing a trauma or transformation), my dreams hang on after I’ve woken up. Along with lucid and recurring dreaming, there have been times I will wake from a dream, open my eyes, sit up, and still be seeing the dream scene as a transparent holograph in the room I’m in.

Like when you trick your own depth perception looking at a mesh ceiling to make it appear very close to you, I am able to hold the image easily. The actual experience is disorienting and gets uncomfortable, though. I want reality, to touch it. Usually, I break the dream fairly quickly by reaching my hand out in front of my face, obstructing my depth perception, and the dream scene will fade off and disappear.

I’d all but forgotten that I’ve been doing this over the last year, until my super weird night last night (proceeding a pretty fucking dark and intense week), which I will only talk in detail about one on one because it was that god damn strange. It involved salt, nearly a decade of cumulated synchronicity, feeling wind that was not actually there, two days of cleansing fire, draining a psychic wound, being stung by a wasp, and the quiet support of my new friend: The spider that lives in the bathroom of this dusty, haunted cabin.

I’ve been completely enamored with her in a way I have not felt attached to spiders before, and rarely feel attached in general. I talk with her when I see her and call her a pretty girl and take pictures of her. She is my friend, and I care for her deeply. It took over a week of this for me to remember; A few times a month, I’d say, and often in successions over the course of days, I will wake up in the van, looking at a spider.

Sometimes she is in my bed. Other times, just floating. I wake up, and I feel her there. I feel she is a she. I can see her through my eyelids, sitting on whatever it is I am facing, or, if nothing is close enough to me for her to be perched on, floating in front of my face.

She, and my surroundings, become more clear as I move from sleep to wake. I know when I open my eyes I will still see her. I open them and I see her — AND I see my surroundings accurately, just like I knew I would before I opened my eyes. The folds in my blanket are correct, or the view of my keyboard covered in a towel and piled with things I should have put away by now is correct. She is solid and also partially transparent. I know she is not “real”.

Over the course of a few beats, I am smiling inside as she fades away.

These are the days I wake, feeling seen.

Thoughts on love

Friday, October 9th, 2015

For most of my life, it has seemed like the people who have claimed to love me have loved what were ultimately illusions.

Some loved my masks, my performance personas, the art I’ve made from the ashes of my self-discovery.

Some loved my blossoms when in bloom but quickly became confused and withdrawn when I went into hibernation.

Some loved my dark quiet roots but were threatened when the fragrant, colorful seasons came.

Some loved my looks, how I moved, how I fucked.

Still others loved the hologram they projected onto my skin, loved the fantasy of what could be were I to contort permanently into their self serving visions.

Many have loved the reflections of themselves they saw in my mirror, or were drawn like familiar magnets via our interlocking patterns motivated by deep, unconscious wounds.

I am not proud to say that it took me a long time to choose to forgive them for those abandonments I felt, when I found I could no longer ignore what I, when honest, had known all along: that their love wasn’t directed at my actual, existing self.

I am even less proud to admit how much work it still is, sometimes, to do that. How much work it likely will be again.

But my time alone and in my own unfettered integrity has helped me see that none of those disappointments were the failure of anyone else to truly love me. They were the result of my loves having valued the same particular aspects about me that I was actively acquainting my own self with during different stages of my ever-expanding life.

“Love” falling away from me has had nothing to do with losing others; It has had everything to do with gaining my Self.

“You torment yourself wondering how they could not love your burning heart; the answer is, darling, you are not the star you thought you were. You are the fucking universe, and not everyone is an astronaut.”

My time alone and in my own unfettered integrity has also helped me see that there’s nothing that’s gonna make the highs celebrated or the hurts bearable like knowing you’ve got your own back.

Knowing, not just in your brain and in intellectual obviousness, if you’ve made it that far yet; but also in the intangible experiential knowing of literally holding yourself. Of treating you how you treat someone you give a fuck about.

Washing your own scalp, purposefully, like you’d touch a kindred.

Kissing your own shoulder while you’re curled up in a ball crying. Or not crying.

Stroking your own hair while you struggle to fall asleep.

In my origins of self loathing and a learned emotional neglect that stood like a monolith in front of everything I tried to take in for the first 25 years of my life, the most horrible truth of all truths to me was knowing that I, in all my previously wretched worthlessness, am all I’ve REALLY got.

It’s literally impossible for us to see and feel and hear outside of our own perspectives, the way these stupid soul-vessel machines are designed.

So if it’s literally impossible for us to see and hear and experience outside of our own embodied perspectives, how the fuck will you know the first thing about what it feels like to be loved if you’ve never honestly and truthfully focused that attention on yourself?

Not sexualized or aggrandized or tough love pushy inner voice bullshit attention. Not even allyship and cheerleading when tough decisions need to be made attention. But tenderness. Space holding. Understanding.

Cradling and carefully rubbing your own belly when you’re sick and cramping diarrhea into the toilet.

Adding a fresh raspberry to your own water.

How is it that you could know the first thing about truly receiving love, or what your own love looks like; how much worth and power it has, how precious and unique and empowering that love is, how gracious it is to give, if you’ve never once felt it, yourself.

It was time for me to buy some art, myself.

Sunday, December 7th, 2014

Arms are inked, now. Sleeves: Inevitable.

Lovingly done by Mike at All Star Tattoo of Tacoma on a gut feeling, best tattooing experience I’ve yet had. Recommended. Thank you again, Tacoma.

For reference, this was what I was doing with my arms back in 2008.

Keep going.

I own a bladder full of dead people

Monday, November 3rd, 2014

So I have this solar plexus that usually has a big black tar knot in it. Rarely in my life have I not had that knot, and the times it’s seemed to have melted off were times of extreme gladness — new relationships, summer vacations, purring warmly on the beach — of intimacy and of acceptance that has, of course, never lasted.

As I have grown into my understanding of this experience of being, I’ve intuited more and more that this solar plexus place holds a powerful connection for me, some sort of tether to a knowing field I can’t really explain.

For a long time, I’ve expected that to be my soul, or perhaps rather, where my connection with ‘source’ lives. Which is why, as I’ve healed and come to know that soul part of me, building it up and feeding it, determining and embodying the things that are important to me — compassion, teaching, healing, kindness — and as that soul of me has strengthened and come to a place of ease and of being finally seen, my solar plexus with its big black tar knot has grown to concern me.

That black tar ball space in my guts has periodically felt empty since I started my year alone. It’s a weird stretched out psychic ache feeling, which has been so utterly unsettling, once I’ve felt it, it usually only took a few moments before I tried to fill it with something. Like the collective grief of the world. Or the cancer in the person I was touching. Or the responsibility of someone else’s “Aha!” moment.

Now I am to the point where I can mostly catch myself before I draw things in, especially in person. I have been practicing letting that space be empty for the time being and it’s been more lonely than I can express. To get here, I have had to really work that little barf muscle, to get rid again and again and again of things that aren’t mine, random shit that doesn’t even fit in there just to have SOMEthing in that hungry place.

I’ve learned I have to insulate myself from people who invite me to hold their shit for them, people who deflect from their own inner work by watching me do mine. And at times, I’ve needed a lot of releasing help to let go of shit that doesn’t belong to me. It’s been an interesting balance of solitude and intense intimacy with the right people.

What we worked this weekend in our constellation healing circles is ancestry; a concept which I have historically had NO fucking relationship with. I have been, in my deepest knowing parts, an orphan alien loner, who truly has no one, belongs no where, and isn’t meant to ever stay in one place, isn’t meant to be accepted and loved, but instead, is meant to set something cosmic and transformative in motion, and then get the fuck out of the way — hopefully before what I just catalyzed barrels me the fuck over like a dump truck.

It’s been lonely and heart breaky and it’s really sucked to feel that way all my life, and is also the big reason I kept my attention on romance and intimacy rather than healing myself. I kept trying to prove myself wrong and I kept failing at it.

Now that I’ve stopped that cycle, and I pushed through the transition of learning to be for myself rather than for others, I am getting this deep sense of lineage emerging. A knowing sense of how I am the product of hundreds of thousands of years of human experience, and that some of that experience is wise and whole and healthy.

I’ve been tapping in to that well of knowledge periodically in meditations and constellations and visualizing — one example is visualizing a crowd or a long line of my ancestors behind me when I’m say, driving my car. Another is to sense into what it might feel like to already know how to do something I am learning how to do, like being patient and compassionate toward people who are challenging me and triggering my trauma patterns.

“The knowing field is sparking like static against my skin today. I am in the eye of my own storm, drawing electric up through my roots, piercing precision kintsugi out my hands. Aligning.
Level up.” — Facebook

This weekend I had the revelation that this connection with my ancestry, this sense of being unconditionally supported, is what belongs in my solar plexus space. I started imagining my ancestor energy filling it like a trickle into a bowl, but I wasn’t really grokking how I was gonna USE that.

I was expecting this post to be a bit different, to be returning to my monthly challenges of adopting a habit of some sort during Year of the Nee. The challenge for November was going to be practicing a daily ritual in some form which connected me to the wisdom of my ancestry, experimenting with what my trigger word or phrase or physical gesture or visualization might be to signify tapping into that solar plexus space, that bowl full of the sense of knowing and support I’m so recently becoming aware of.

Due to a scheduling fuck up, my half of a bodywork trade I was expecting a couple weeks ago happened today instead, which turned out to be basically perfect. While she touched my belly, the tar ball, which I hadn’t even been aware of, grumbled and groaned and then it fucking BURST, and tingly energy moved through my intestines and branched out eventually to my limbs.

As I felt into that completely new experience, I realized the wisdom of my ancestors isn’t a stationary bowl. It’s an unlimited FUCKING MORPHINE DRIP. All I have to do is imagine a squeeze of the bladder to release that shit whenever I need it, and through me it will flow, like ink in water.

The arc of evolving consciousness is long. We are moments breaking the patterns of centuries. I have needed all the help I can get, and still, it’s seemed I had never found it, and I despaired that I never would.

I find that notion highly questionable, now. I believe I may have perhaps finally found a faith of some sort. I believe in where I came from, those wise loving sources buried under so many centuries of violence, supremacy and hate. I believe in myself, and my ability to ultimately connect with that knowing.

Not sure I need much more to believe in, than that.

Integration phase: To approach or not to approach?

Monday, October 27th, 2014

On twitter today, someone asked me: “Have you spoken to (and asked for forgiveness from) any of your rape victims? Do you think about them and their healing?”

This person seemed surprised when I said yes, of course I think about that, that I had spoken and apologized to some, but that a) I had not asked them to forgive me, and b) I had not encouraged people to try to make amends with their victims in my writings (which is why she assumed *I* hadn’t).

In fact, my stance on forgiveness evolved not long ago to being something completely personal to me. I don’t ask other people to give it to me and I don’t tell other people when I’ve forgiven them, anymore.

“Will you forgive me” is a way to pressure someone into accepting your apology, and the only reason I’d need to ask it is if I wasn’t -actually- apologizing to them in the first place.

“I forgive you” is a backhanded compliment that’s actually an attack. Incidentally, the last time I used it was to someone who had raped me, while I was still ignited in hurt and anger and in the same email was also telling him I would be removing myself from his life indefinitely.

Since then I’ve realized that there’s better, more accurate and authentic language to use around accepting the faults of another and making the decision to work through and past the hurt they’ve caused — language that doesn’t come off as me being a self-righteous tool.

This person’s take on twitter was that it might be helpful to the healing of the people I’d hurt to hear from me as the perpetrator that they weren’t at fault for what happened to them. And my response, essentially, is that sometimes the people we have hurt are not also the people we can help.

I know, for my part, that while I could handle it, I don’t particularly want to hear from people who have raped me. Especially about how they raped me. I am actively distancing myself from those people who had remained in my life, in part because most of them aren’t ready to own up to what they did.

But even if they were, even if they were just like me and turning a massive corner, the last thing I want is for someone from my past who is in my past for a reason to come out of the distant blue to ask me to fucking forgive them for having raped me a lifetime ago.

Here’s the thing: “might help” is relative to the relationships I shared with these people, and whether revisiting them is wise. In most cases, it’s not, and often the relationships were mutually abusive and damaging in multiple ways.

In some cases, though I can see where I raped and have opportunity to make amends, the abuses I suffered at their hands make it completely unsafe for me to approach these people at all. And sometimes, I was such a fucker to them that enrolling them in my healing process is not even remotely respectful of their path which diverged away from me.

My admissions and the steps I’m taking to right them are public. I have no doubt that people I’ve effected in my past have access to this and may have in fact already read what I’ve written. From where I stand, if these people want to talk with me, if there is some way other than what I am doing to right how they’ve been wronged, they will. It’s up to them, not to me, whether they want to open themselves up to that interaction or not.

But let me say, in response to the thought process this woman’s questions on twitter spawned for me today: if you are one of those people, and you’re realizing at some point that I hurt you, and you want to come to me about it and resolve it with me: I want to hear from you, and I want to make things right with us.

I didn’t much know how to right things very well for a long time, I didn’t much know how to deal with people being angry with me for something I’d done, I didn’t much know how to deal with being hurtful, and it might even be that I tried to resolve it before, and made things worse. It might be that I don’t even remember what I did, or know that there was anything to resolve in the first place.

That doesn’t mean that I don’t care about having hurt your feelings. If having me involved in your process of letting that hurt go will help you, then I want to be a part of that process.

Sunday, October 26th, 2014

“When an inner situation is not made conscious, it appears outside as fate.” – Carl Jung

Sunday, October 26th, 2014

“Healing wounds requires a strong enough sense of self to be able to accept the crap we have pulled in service to them.” – Nekole Malia Shapiro

Brenè Brown: A Video Walkthrough.

Sunday, May 25th, 2014

“Maybe stories are just data with a soul.” -Brené Brown

I shared this 2010 TED speech long ago, and longer still before that, and I will keep periodically sharing and adding new talks as Brenè continues in her incredible work.

Her follow-up from 2012 is awesome, too, and reminds me of many, many things I’ve talked about here for nearly 20 years on neevita.

“If you’re not also in the arena getting the shit kicked out of you, I’m not interested in your feedback.” – Brenè Brown

And even still, she continues to expand her message, her knowledge and her biting insights into showing up, being seen, and getting the shit kicked out of you for it.

“What I do is enough.” – Joan Halifax

I was in the audience for this longform interview with Chase Jarvis and Brenè back in April, and had the opportunity to meet her afterwards to discuss the education certification that is offered based upon her work. I was truly honored.

“(only) Share with the people who have earned the right to hear your story.” – Brenè Brown

I’m incredibly grateful that Brenè is out there doing what she is doing the way she is doing it. Her willingness to share her own story of evolution and cultivating self worth as she researches a universal human condition is a combination I find endlessly inspiring. I am always moved by her presentations and feel with her sharing a gust of wind at my own back.

As far as I am concerned, her evolving messages are required consumption for anyone who values facing the world with integrity, as well as those who struggle to both discover, as well as learn to be, who they really are.

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