Closed Eyes

I see more light in the dark,
With both eyes closed,
And one eye open.

My world changes,
As darkness becomes
Clear-seeing.

Colors cast their rays
On my eyelids.
My vision clears,
With eyes closed.
An inward gaze.

I see clearer in the night.
The dark casts its shadow.
On my sky.

The unseen changes
To illuminate the dark.

I see the truth
With closed eyelids.
I remember the truth
I forgot
With eyes open,

I see nothing
And everything.

The darkness is my home,
When my eyes rest.
Light drawn.
Closed eyes.
Dark night.
Fallen skies.

Written Words

I want to write words to inspire,
Words to set the hearts a blaze.
To set a soul on fire.
My soul.

But I can't.

My words feel meek.
Stuck.
Stagnant.
Like my steps.

I don't know where I'm going.
One step, two step,
And three back.
I feel lost again.

I don't know where to dump
Empty words onto,
But these blank pages,
Unread.

I feel small.
Unseen.
So I keep hidden.
Hiding behind these masks.

One is for the athlete.
Perfect form.
Sweaty brow.
Straining muscles.
Shortening breath.

One is for the fear,
Of the world,
A mask of many forms,
Hiding in the darkness,
Of my room,
Closed eyes.
Asleep.

One is for depression,
Heavy.
Heart.
Hiding.
Heart.

Too many masks to count,
And I'm a counter,
Of numbers.

I feel burdened by my choices,
In moments of overwhelm,
And stress,
I choose the path,
Of least resistance.
To hide,
And numb.

An addict to non-feeling.
An addict to a drug,
Of many forms.

If I don't try,
How can I fail?
That is the question,
With only one answer.
Regret.

Regret over choices,
Avoided.
Responsibility,
Not taken.

Today,
I am standing,
But heaviness weighs,
Deep in my bones.

The stories I've told myself,
Don't hurt so badly.
Maybe I'm numb,
Maybe I'm de-sensitizing,
To the painful words and judgments,
In my head.

Experiences re-play,
Moments not taken,
Relationships forsaken.
My path is winding,
And binding.

I want to write for me,
Again.
Back when it all began.
Not when words were
Written with pressure,
Or strain.

So, I'm writing,
Hopeful that these words,
Will lessen the pain,
That creeps into my head,
And out my heart.

I'm writing to feel,
To re-member,
In my bones,
The truth beneath the masks,
The joy beneath,
The darkness.
The light within my reach.

In this breath.
I breath to remember.
I'm doing the best I can.

Spoken Word

A pen can only convey so many words,
A scratch,
A glimpse,
An echo of a feeling.

My pen halts before each mark,
Unsure of the words it has yet to speak.
Spoken word,
Unheard.

I hear the tap of the pen tip.
Tap, tap, tap.
A sound giving meaning to this art.

Expression.
To express the unsaid words.
Wording a particular order.
Order-less form.
Formless.
Seamless.

My words,
A window into the unseen.
The unsaid words.
Unspoken.

My pen cascades onto paper,
Effortless,
Past the fear,
Through the walls of shame.

I write to feel again.
To give meaning to the world,
Unseen.
Unless invited in,
You may not see.

My belly craves,
Longs for it.
A hunger.
A gnawing.

Confused for hunger outside of me.
I want more.
Interrupted thoughts.
Words unwritten.

A New Story

It's funny how these unwritten words conjure up so much fear in me. 

The fear of vulnerability, I suppose. 

I've been in hiding. 

Hibernation. But, not the cozy, restful, bear-kind. No, this hibernation has been marked by my own self-perpetuated darkness and attachment to negative patterns of thought and behavior.

Darkness has cast over the light inside, feeding on the fear in my own mind. 

I've been running. 

Numbing out from perceived discomfort. Using food, exercise, weed, T.V., social media and relationships, to distract from my own internal storm.

I've been running until I can't run any further, until my legs have grown weary, aching with grief. And, I collapse as grief floods over my body. 

I've been seeking. Seeking a feeling I cannot name. Escape. Freedom. Belonging. In circles, I have spun myself around and around, dizzy, high off the adrenaline in my own body. 

An addict to the chaos. Self-perpetuated chaos.

I'm not sure where to begin this story. As, it is just that, a story, a past occurrence in relation to where I am presently in this very moment. It is a story I have told countless times to myself, to my friends and to my family. 

A story of victimization. A story where I am the attacker and the victim. Attachment to both identities, with dissolution of self in between. It is a story where I have lost my center, lost my seat of power.

These past few months and then some, my neurotic mind has ruled the show, deciding which way to go and where to stay, stuck, stagnant. My mind has told me all the stories of fear, failure, terror and doom. 

And, based on this past story, it convinced me. To stay on this merry-go-round of fear. Distrust in self. In my own body. The anxiety has told me time and time again, that life would be too scary if I didn't have something to latch onto.

So, I re-attached myself to the eating disorder behaviors. They are behaviors still covered and dressed in shame in our society. Food: as prevalent and abundant as it is, is not something taken lightly. It has become a moral issue. So, when addiction comes to the table, all bets are off. Eating disorders are still very hush, hush these days. So, in light, of taking a stand on telling a new story, here's mine.

It's one thing to talk about as a "been there, done that" kind of a deal. It's a whole other reality to talk about when it's your present struggle. My eating disorder has taken on many shapes and forms. No matter, the root is still the same: distrust. Distrust in myself, in my own body. Distrust in my ability to feel and process emotions. Distrust in God, higher power, Spirit, Earth, what have you, to support me. Distrust in my worthiness to receive love.

I know I have allowed the fear to rule and dictate my body these past few months and then some. The fear has told me to restrict. That food is something to be feared. That my body is something to be controlled, micro-managed. That food is love I will never be worthy of, unless it is earned. That I cannot trust my own body or self, or even the solidness of Earth beneath my feet.

It's insidious nature crept back in and took its host hostage. I allowed it, due to fear and lack of faith in my own power. I gave the fear my power. Power to rule. To control. To dictate. And, to punish when I disobey or God forbid, make a mistake. 

I have taken the fear and judge outside of myself and internalized the voice. Who's to say where the fear or judge comes from? Maybe it's religion; maybe it's society. Maybe, it's childhood conditioning. But, we all have it. 

The story of unworthiness. The story of imperfection.

The feeling of victimization. Powerlessness. Hopelessness. I have been defeated, time and time again. Broken down. Each time, I've laid crumpled on the floor, lost in depression, lost in a feeling I cannot name, I've been stripped. 

Stripped of my own will power. My own egoic pride. Naked. Left to pick up the pieces I can't seem to put back straight anymore. I have been fighting a battle of epic proportions in my own mind.

Up until this day, I've been slowly, painfully losing sight of why I've been doing any of the crazy things I've been doing. The vigorous cardio workout regime at the gym, the restrictive diet. Rules on top of rules on top of rules. For what? The reward at the end of the day. The sweetness of the sugary, chocolate binge. And, the guilt that has taken me into the next day to begin the fucked up cycle again.

So, I'm making a choice. I'm taking action. And, not only thinking about taking action, as God knows how long I've been self-analyzing and psychoanalyzing the shit out of this whole thing. 

You could ask me all the questions and why's and I could give you the whole psychological schpeal. But, you can probably guess where that has gotten me. More knowledge to judge myself with to prove my unworthiness to even try to change. 

As a psychology major, I'm beginning to wonder where this knowledge has gotten me other than further down the rabbit hole of self-rejection. I guess they forgot to mention in those Psych100 classes that perfectionists should better off find a major with definitive answers.

All this to say, I'm making the change. I'm no longer going to wait for someone to do it for me. I may not feel ready, and that's okay.

I could keep going about my own sob story of where I've been the past few months. But, the truth is, it's not a pretty picture. And, sure, for the sake of vulnerability, I could go into all of the setbacks, trials, tribulations, and breakdowns. 

But, I'm tired. Tired of telling the same story over and over to myself, to you, to the world.

So, in the sake of celebrating my joys, today, I listened. I listened to my body. I asked it what it needed. And, it responded, excited but perhaps tentative. It told me its needs. I asked and it responded. Finding trust again in myself to recognize a need and respond accordingly with love, devotion and wisdom, is a new endeveaor 

I'm finally embarking on, for real this time. And, I'm embracing the mistakes and setbacks along the way. No more play it safe and suffering with self and body abuse. I know that story. 

It's time to tell a different one. A story marked by a little more self-care, rest, nourishment and acceptance. A story full of life, adventure and freedom. 

Where I am the hero of my own story. This story has yet to be told. And, until that day when this new story is told, I'm going to start living it. 

We Meet Again

Today officially marks day two of this 3-day Ayurvedic kitchari "cleanse." I say that last word very delicately and tentatively on purpose. 

As someone in recovery from disordered eating, words associated with "diet" or deprivation send my body into aftershock. These words, whether in thought or speech, re-trigger a deep-seeded, embodied, fearful pattern in my body. 

It's relatable to a somewhat PTSD-like response that stems from self-starvation early in my influential, adolescent years. It was a year-long, insidious and pattern-setting disease and scarcity mentality, otherwise known as anorexia.

For the longest time, conversation about diets or cleanses put all systems on alert. I would do anything possible to run far, far away from these encounters where this mentality was present. Or, at the very least check out mentally in fear of possible repercussions on my recovery journey.

Nowadays, coworkers may mention their latest diet or cleanse, and I may internally roll my eyes over this latest fad, but with deeper wisdom intact of its meaning for me. Despite the ups, downs and perceived turn-arounds on my path toward recovery from food, exercise and body obsession, I am intentionally seeking to live and embody health and wholeness on all levels. 

Thankfully, as a result of intense self-study in my yoga teacher training program, I have been able to shine a little more light on the control-seeking, perfectionism, low self-worth faulty belief pattern. It has by no means been a "perfect" journey, but each mistake and detour made, each breakdown, has light-yeared me further into my heart and loving what is.

All this to say, I'm on this cleanse for myself and to meet what is, beneath the food and my self-contrived food rules (though it took some encouragement from my teacher and an Ayurvedic practitioner). During a 4-week workshop with other like-minded, soulful foodies, we delved into the yoga of nutrition and the ancient system of natural healing, Ayurveda, otherwise known as "the science of life." Without going too much in depth, I'll tell you what these things mean for me:

Yoga, first and foremost, is about re-membering ourselves as whole and complete in this moment. It's not about attaining a particular form or state of perfection once x,y,z standards, poses, body type or enlightenment is reached. 

Yoga is now, all-ways, as we are. So, for me, perfectionism is in direct opposition to that. It's an insidious belief that permeates most aspects of my life, so to unearth and uproot it has taken some intensive self-study and practice. And, continues to do so.

Yoga means coming home to my body, listening to its ever-changing needs and honoring that. Ayurveda means there is no prescribed "diet" or meal plan out there on the Internet that will "fix" my food and body issues. 

It means that no one will ever be able to tell me what food I should be eating or what body type is acceptable and lovable. That, I am the only voice I need to listen to, and to trust that intuition inside of me and to be steady in who I am as a whole and complete person, not just in terms of my physical appearance.

It means that it's not ever about the actual food we're consuming, but how our bodies are making use of those nutrients. Having struggled with mindless eating patterns, and existing from a state of stress and fear during mealtime, I know all too well that my state of "non"-being highly impacts the level of nourishment. 

Most of us are not present to the food we are putting into our bodies. We check out via our phones, Facebook, the news, T.V., newspaper or conversations. It is rare in our society to eat a meal in silence with a candle lit preceded by a prayer, blessing or simple acknowledgment of gratitude.

It is also rare that some of us even carve out the time and space to dedicate to such sacred ritual. I am just as guilty of this as well, eating in the car, while checking out the news feed on Facebook, anything but being with myself and feelings in my body. 

Eating is a sacred act that has lost all sacredness in our rushed, adrenaline-inducing pace of a lifestyle. We hardly give ourselves the sweet, always accessible resource of breath, the one thing that is our direct relation to what is. Breath is the one resource that cuts through the mind-chatter and state of fear.

Paired with its sister science, Yoga and Ayurveda practices are about re-membering yourself as whole. In Ayurveda, it's about how well we are nourished. But, it's not confined to food. It's how we are nourished on multi-dimensional levels: relationships, home environment, nature, career, spirituality, health, self-care, family, exercise, rest, home cooking, education, social life, finances, joy and creativity. 

It means asking ourselves, "What am I really hungry for in this moment?" Instead of getting curious, we usually react to this need without getting clear on what would actually fill, feed and nourish that craving. More often than not, our "MO" is to reach for sugar or sweets, alcohol, drugs or some other quick "fix". From my experience with food addictions, I have found that most of the time, it's never about the food, though my mind will tell me otherwise.

I have found that asking this question and listening for the answer before taking any action at all is a daily practice in and of itself. Most of the time, I'm really craving or longing for safety, self-care, rest, enjoyment and the sweetness of life itself, not the chocolate or candy. 

To interrupt this subconscious, reactive pattern is an ongoing, daily practice, when all I want is to reach into the literal or metaphorical cookie jar in times of overwhelm or intense feelings of anger, fear, guilt or shame. I first have to get curious about the need underneath the want. The real cure, underneath the fake. 

I am making it more of a consistent practice these days to not only sit with my feelings and "be the observer," but to love and welcome them, as a part of me. Feelings not only want to be heard, felt, honored, or expressed but also released. And, we can't release them until we love the shit out of them, again and again, and again.

So, why on earth would I want to re-traumatize my body by putting it through another "starvation" diet? Well, this "cleanse" isn't about deprivation. It's about feeding your body with the most wholesome, easily digestible and integrated ingredients. 

It's honestly, very "anti" cleanse. It's not about taking away, but about making more space for ourselves. It's about nourishing our bodies, minds, emotions and spirit by simplifying the distractions that food can often bring up. 

It's about reseting and rebalancing our vitality and energy, so that we can come home to ourselves, in all our depth and polarities, and to explore the space a wholesome food such as kitchari can create to again, start from the ground up and get re-acquainted with our own internal rhythms.

All "perfected", word-speech aside, this practice has been an interesting experience to say the least. A lot of my ingrained fearful patterns have surfaced. Not to say, these weren't present before. But, the fear of not having enough to eat and being confined to yet another food "rule" has been unearthed. 

The starving 12-year-old in me is screaming a little bit louder for imposing another form on her. I have also faced my pervasive, soul-sucking perfectionism over the need to do it "right." 

The first day of the cleanse, I had a date planned. So, instead of listening to my inner wisdom and waiting to start the cleanse the next day, I jumped right in, eager to get the process going. I "broke" the rules that night, by drinking two, delicious beers. Surprisingly, I didn't feel too guilty about this. 

But, the next day my body reported back to me, in all its wisdom, that this did not feel good. I woke up nauseated and very foggy. Did I have an enjoyable time on the date? Absolutely. So, yes, it was a re-learning experience for not forcing things and allowing my body a little more love and gentleness in the process.

Today, I am committed to sticking to the mono-diet approach. I have a snow day from work, so lucky for me, I get to be around the house all day, facing the cravings that may come up. It is a blessing in disguise to be confronted with the choice to stay vigilant or to collapse inward. 

I guess I need to get clear on the initial intentions set before this undertaking, which were to re-set, re-balance, detox physically, mentally and emotionally, heal my digestive issues and curb my sweet cravings. 

But, if I'm honest with myself, the insidious belief is very present. To do it perfectly, and that if I do, I'll be "cured" and "fixed." Which is merely to say that I am broken, the direct opposition to what I'm practicing on my yoga mat and in my breath, to re-member myself as whole and complete. 

But, as with all things that create more space, there is now more space for these faulty beliefs to bubble up, so I can meet them head on. And, in the process, to meet myself with love, compassion and a hankering for what I'm really hungry for in each moment. To shine more light on my tendency to neglect my innermost needs and further perpetuate these imbalances.

For instance, I am still working through an addictive mentality to the gym and exercise. I have not been able to give myself permission to rest during this process, which could very well be hampering or negating it altogether. But, the guilt over allowing my body to rest and not meeting these "perfect" standards has prevailed this go round. 

And, in all intents and purposes, I'm loving that part of me even more, the part that's so terrified of losing control and feeling unsafe, unloved, and not enough. She is the wounded child in me, the fear I am constantly confronting, with more love, not less. Less judgement, more love. Less self-policing, more love. Less self-rejection, more love.

In a way, this practice has "amplified" my fear and perfectionism. It has brought me face to face with what I'm so afraid of: letting go of the control and trusting myself and my body. This practice was never about my body or about the weight and I am wary about the thoughts percolating around that and distracting me from the "real" cure. 

It is about releasing myself from the power that food and my skewed body image has over me. Has it "worked"? Am I "fixed"? No, those are the wrong questions. 

Am I re-membered as whole and complete? Maybe. In this breath? Inhale.....exhale.....Yes. For now, that is enough. I am enough, as is, purified or not, cleansed or not, perfect or not. I am meeting my whole self throughout this process, and that is the practice. I am coming home to myself.

Loving our Shit

So, let's get real. First, with myself then maybe with you. Honest to God, and whoever is reading these brutally raw, vulnerable words, these past few days have been all but the put-together picture I may project to you in the name of yoga, bliss, enlightenment, oneness and fraudulent bullshit we say but don't fucking feel. These past few weeks have been tumultuous, turbulent, ego-breaking, ground-shaking and an emotional shitstorm (in yogic word speak of course, and some f-bombs along the way just because it fucking feels good).

Did I really think I would not eventually and yet again succumb to the depths of the depression, sadness, grief, anger, resentment I have harbored beneath this yogic, spiritual guise? It's funny and almost cute how this spiritual mask has taken form, yet another means to judge, berate, reject and shame myself for not being present, not being the love that I AM 150% of the time. It's the shattering of this mask that has brought me to my knees, yet again, in devastation of the truth that I thought and "should-ed" myself to be: loving, sweet, open-hearted, generous, present, conscious, a healing presence in this tragic and violent world we live in.

Turns out, my sweet, sweet, protective and fearful inner child was using this as another means to get my attention and forcibly say, "Wake the fuck up." This part of me, this inner, wounded child, within us all, is constantly nudging us whether we consciously recognize it or not, to love its needs, to love its wants and desires, to love its often-times atrocious means of getting our attention. Namely, for me, my inner child cries for attention manifest in the form of an eating disorder, but also in terms of other addictive manifestations to sooth the anxiety and depression and other intensity of feelings not otherwise met in sustaining, nurturing, nourishing ways.

It is a desperate need, an insatiable hunger aching in our bones for love. But, instead we confuse it and parade it as a need to be fixed, for someone, something to fill the void, the emptiness we so deeply or superficially feel. And, we soothe and veil over with these unfulfilling relationships, soul-sucking habits, busyness and distraction. Not only this, but we get fucking praised by society for doing so, for keeping busy, keeping the adrenaline-fueled motor running, when all our inner motor wants to do is turn in and combust on itself. It's an endless, self-perpetuating and society-praising cycle of our innermost needs not getting met by the only person capable of doing so (us), turning into self-neglect, self-abuse and masking over with business and distraction, which is met with a slap on the back for staying afloat, when the best remedy would be to sink to the depths of our despair and traverse the waters of our grief.

But, the feelings of happy, joyful, content, and all these "loving" qualities we constantly use to mask over the storm underneath, are doing anything but shaming us into believing more of the lies and stories of our defectiveness and fragmentation as is in any moment of anything but bliss and love. In yoga, the purpose and the goal, is to always, first and foremost, show the fuck up for what is. It doesn't say anything about the first step being to gloss over all the shitty-ness you're feeling by slapping an eco-friendly bandaid on the wound. Yoga says show up for the shitty. Show up for the bleeding, the oozing scab, the pain, the suffering, the heartbreak.

Then, and only then, does love become a choice. To continue down the fragmented storyline of "Not enough," "Too fucked up," a failure, a fraud. Or, to instead, choose, with consciousness and loving intention, to love what fucking is. To even love the storyline of "Not enough." To send it the love it desperately is needing, to feed it with the one thing that will satiate its hunger. But, more often than not, we unconsciously and habitually choose to instead keep feeding the monster with fear, self-loathing, self-judgment, self-shaming and self-rejection. And, as my teacher would wisely ask, "How's that working for you?"

Well, like anything we do, any action we take repeatedly becomes a habit, a practice. So, in terms of mastering a practice, well good job to me for mastering the practice of further fragmentation, self-policing, self-judgment and "should-ing" all over myself for the feelings I have. Too bad there's not a trophy for achieving such mastery of self-hatred, or else I'd have glass cages stocked full of them. All deprecating comments aside, the why's behind why we're doing what we're doing (the intention), whether that be a workout regime, our relationship to food, a particular relationship, a job, a yoga or spiritual practice fucking matters.

The action becomes negligible until you unearth the why's of what we're doing in the first place. (Much, much gratitude to my teacher, Jessica Patterson, for the always prevalent and much needed reminder of this). We need to get very clear on the intention behind our actions. Then, and only then, can we choose to remember the storyline of our original makeup, of love. And, not in terms of negating the shit that's there. Because the shit is there, whether we love it, shame it, judge it or self-police it. The shit that is there: the loneliness, the anger, the sadness, the anxiety, the fear, the depression, the self-loathing and self-judgment, is the inner child asking for MORE love, not less.

I've heard my own inner child's needs over and over and chosen to ignore them. So, what did she do this past week? Act out in ways that I can't ignore. In the sake of getting down, dirty, real, raw and fucking vulnerable, here it is. This past week, I've engaged in the nighttime binging and purging behaviors to self-soothe the fears, the hunger for love, the self-judgment of feeling whatever it is I'm feeling. My inner child is awake and shaking her fist in rage at my neglect and abuse. All she has ever wanted is to receive love that only I can give.

And, let me be very clear. I know that other people can sure as hell, fill us with their love, but when has that ever been enough for anyone? When has someone else's love ever made us feel whole and complete 100% of the time? The seeking of another person to give us the love we have never been able to give to ourselves. That is the biggest, greatest and tragic travesty in our society and culture.

We ARE the love we have been looking for. When will I get that? When will we realize that the only love and acceptance we need is from within. Will it always take tragedy, meltdowns and heartbreak to remind us of this one and only truth? In my case, maybe. Maybe it's because I've always felt so deeply, the suffering, the darkness. Or, maybe in a sick way, my mind and soul just enjoy the drama of it all. In the sake of loving what is, thank God for the suffering. Thank God for the suffering that has broken me down, time and time again. Thank God for this recent unraveling that has broken me open in ways, now that love is a choice, not a forcible obligation.

And, in the light and dark of the Thanksgiving season, let's get real with the shit that we are actually feeling. Then, and only then can we make the choice to give ourselves the forgiveness and love we never got for ALL parts of us, especially the shitty, messy and fragmented parts. To loving what is. To loving the shit. Thank you and I LOVE YOU. 

Humility in the Breakdown

I begin this post with hesitance, but namely humility as well. This is not a post I had "planned," thought out, prepared or filtered. It is simply words streaming from my heart that may or may not give solace to the aching in my bones these days. A call to humility…"a quality by which a person considering his (her) own defects has a humble opinion of him(her)self and willingly submits him(her)self to God and to others for God's sake." Or, as St. Bernard defines it: "A virtue by which a man (woman) knowing himself (herself) as he (she) truly is."

It is directly contrary to a demotion of our intrinsic self-worth, but a clear recognition and broadened shift in perspective toward God, or a higher universal power. As I write these words, I recognize my own hesitance toward humility in uttering the word "God." Growing up in a Christian home, I identified as such. All throughout my life, I felt a strong pull and connection to the loving, all-accepting, all-forgiving God. It lit my heart on fire praying and singing at church, songs devoted to praising this love.

But, Christianity, as other religions have as well, soon became too confining, too restrictive to my soul, aching to be free and unencumbered to the harsh judgment and condemnation. So, about five or so years ago, I shut it down, completely. Little did I know, by opening up to other modes of thinking and believing (reincarnation, self-enlightenment, self-responsibility), I closed my heart to the love that this God energy is and has always been. I inadvertently tried to filter out the fear pushed on by many religions and instead sought out my own self-advocating vices to reclaim the love I've so desperately sought after. All this to say, I think somewhere along the line, I made the "mistake" of severing my ties from God, from Father and Mother, from Source, whatever name resonates with you, though I've realized that this severance is not possible. It's merely the illusion that we are separate. 

So, I strapped my big girl boots on and piled burden upon burden upon myself, believing I had reclaimed my inner power and strength to overcome such suffering. Oh, but what a lonely, painful road it has been. Sure, I've had plenty of moments when the light and love has entered my heart, through connections with others, connection with my higher self, and through inspirational words in self-help books. But, only fleeting moments. Moments I've constantly tried to re-create and seek after for a long-lasting feeling of wholeness, fullness, comfort, support and relief.

But, I'm exhausted, worn out, worn down, broken down. I can't do it anymore. I can't keep living this life of illusion, pretending to be some yogic, healing warrior, who can't even heal her own heart. Times of pain and suffering…all the guilt and shame that's accrued has brought me back to my knees, my war-torn, scuffed child-like knees, where I lay down my pride, my ego, and once again ask for God to enter my heart, to free me from this pervasive, invasive fear in my mind, to relieve me of the self-hate, the shame and the guilt. I pray to God to lighten this burden that grows heavier each day.

And, I welcome this holy, holy, moment, a moment when my ego is fighting tooth and nail to keep me the same, to convince me of its bullshit, that it can figure this mess in my head out, that it can finally solve these fucked up stories in my head of low self-worth. That if I give it one more chance, it can finally "fix" me. The resistance to surrender, to humility, to grace, to letting go and letting God, a God I had inadvertently forsaken for the ego God in my mind. To reclaim the faith.

And, don't get my wrong, I've accrued plenty of knowledge along the way on this "enlightenment" seeking path. I have plenty of knowledge to sit here and advise you how to just be here now, to be present, blah blah blah (forgive me in my pain-staken state...no screw that, no apologies here….I choose to instead stand for once, in my own god damn life, unapologetically, feeling all the shit that I'm feeling and to not apologize for stepping on anyone's toes or offending anyone...after all this is MY story, my messy, glorious life of "fuck ups" and "mistakes"). I put those in quotes desperately trying to convince myself that there are no such things as mistakes, only lessons.

And, sure that's all well and dandy, but for me, lessons are just another way to shame and guilt myself, because after all, I've believed that the own-ness is on me and me alone. That, to ask for help is strictly out of the question for a self-entitled yogi or whatever bullshit label I've put on myself to keep doing the same thing over and over, expecting different results. And, yes that is the definition of insanity. Well, job well done, indeed because, yes I have felt that chaotic, insanity all too well over the years. The eating disorder, the obsessive compulsive thinking, the bipolarity of the looming depression and addictive anxiety rat race, the marijuana hazed and numbed-out state I've been using to un-feel, to check out and bail out on any discomfort, the rawness of the rejection in relationships only to feel like I'm always the one who's not enough.

And, the babbling brook that I am these days could go on and on about all the vices I've been using to soothe this pain and suffering and burden I've been desperately trying to take on, alone. The perfectionism, the rigid rules in my head, the condemning and critical judge, all these voices threatening to shake the loose ground beneath my feet, the sand I have built beneath my house.

As I am rereading this book, A Return to Love, by Marianne Williamson, and her reflections on A Course in Miracles, she writes about the biblical story where Jesus talks about building our house on sand or rock:

"Our house is our emotional stability. When it is built on sand, then the winds and rain can tear it down. One disappointing phone call and we crumble; one storm and the house falls down. When our house is built on rock, then it is sturdy and strong an the storms can't destroy it. We are not so vulnerable to life's passing dramas. Our stability rests on something more enduring than the current weather, something permanent and strong. We're depending on God.

She writes:
"I had never realized that depending on God meant depending on love. [But]:
God is the love within us.
Whether we "follow Him," or think with love, is entirely up to us.
When we choose to love, or to allow our minds to be one with God, then life is peaceful. 
When we turn away from love, the pain sets in.
And whether we love, or close our hearts to love, is a mental choice we make, every moment of every day."

And, on that possibly "imperfect" note, I will end this post, thanking God, grace and love for this moment when my heart is open to humility. To surrender to the love, to relinquish the gripping control and fear of other's judgment at these words. I notice the hesitance in myself to remember that my Christian roots may be very much the part that needs healing and integrating in this present moment, and to allow God, love, forgiveness and grace back into my heavy heart.

And, on that humble note, I end with an "Amen," and "So be it."