Begin Again

Artwork by Flora Bowley

The urge to get back to blogging has been nipping at me periodically for some time. The desire to write and get back to this space of mine, to explore and share my spirituality and life through words. This popped up in my social media feed earlier and felt like an artful swift kick in the ass to stop finding excuses not to blog (or paint) or worry about how... and just begin again.

I'm not going to lie friends. This past year has kicked my ass something fierce. Here's the super condensed nutshell version.

I turned 35 in February. 4 days into March I was in the hospital for what presented as a possible heart attack. After a week of waking up with vertigo, shakes, nausea, and complete panic that would last all morning and in to the afternoon, I realized it was anxiety. Called my therapist as soon as the revelation hit. Started waking up within 3 hours of falling asleep shaking and in panic mode, could not go back to sleep. For an entire week.

Somehow, I didn't completely lose my mind. Acorn got to watch a loooot of Super Why. (I've switched to using a nickname rather than my son's real name. And now hate Super Why.) My Doctor gave me Lunesta. Which got me about 4 - 5 hours of sleep. Still shaking in the mornings. We tried Lexapro, but it made me so sick after two doses that I ended up hospitalized for the 2nd time in a month, this time due to dehydration.

My doctors basically told me, I'm a woman of a certain age now, so it's likely just hormones and nerves. I said, the FUCK it is.

I got myself in with a psychiatrist who has been wonderful. We found a very mild med that works well for the anxiety. But, while we did so, I continued to see my therapist. And ALSO, got myself in to see my gastroenterologist to check for ulcers or other digestive issues that can flare and cause anxiety (especially while sleeping), had a full hormone panel run (everything is perfect. So FUCK that hormones theory), and went to see a sleep doctor.

Who immediately told me it's sleep apnea. But they couldn't get me in for a sleep study until the end of June. This was early April. I called a different sleep doctor.

He also told me it's sleep apnea, but elaborated on believing so not only because I snore and was waking up panicked, but because not a single sleep medicine would keep me out, and most wouldn't put me to sleep because I'd snore myself awake just as I was dosing off and that was it. I was up. He set me up with a home sleep study 2 weeks later and it was confirmed. I have sleep apnea.

I'm still on my Buspar for the anxiety to help my nervous system calm the hell down from this ordeal, and I've been on CPAP for 2 months. Let me tell you, the difference in how I'm feeling is pretty tremendous. I could climb a mountain! And have, a few times since.

Not terribly big ones, mind, because I've got a 4 year old in tow, but still. Mountains. ;)

P.S. In addition to not using my kiddo's real name anymore, if you scroll back through older entries all of my photos are probably telling you they're private. I won't be showing his face here much, either. That's just how I'm choosing to roll from here on out and it was easier to make my photos private en masse. At some point, I'll go in an change the privacy settings on the ones I'm cool with sharing. But tonight is not that night.

Shedding Weight

Sometimes I feel like we women carry a lot of weight in our hair. We use it not only as a way to look and feel good, but sometimes as a shield or a veil to hide behind. We let it cover our necks, hearts, and backs to protect us. We wrap it up and braid it to be fierce or fearless or beautiful for special occasions.

It can come to be something that physically defines us.

But it can also carry a lot of things energetically and can come to emotionally define us as well.

My own hair was carrying a lot of weight and memories among its split ends and faded out colors. It carried warm salty breezes from Jamaica, the last vestiges of my life before pregnancy, the all day sickness of pregnancy, deciding to stay home and quitting my job, the sweat and tears of labor, sparks of magic from the first hazy sleep deprived days of parenthood, the frustration of nursing difficulties and infections, self loathing and feelings of failure that came along with postpartum depression, the tentative hope that's replaced it.

In the soulwork I've been doing lately, the message to get more vulnerable keeps showing up. It came up in Soulodge several times, it came up at my most recent discussion with my therapist, looking back at the two books I've read so far this year (Into the Wild by John Krakauer and The Art of Asking by Amanda Palmer) there's a definite vulnerability theme, and I received a mandala with the affirmation "I release all shame of vulnerability" from someone to whom I haven't spoken about any of the rest of this.

I've always used my hair as a protective shield. I let it fall in my eyes when I'm talking about difficult things, I play with it when I'm avoiding something. And in admitting this, I truly felt the weight of it for the first time. And decided to cut it, for the first time in over 2 years.

And by cut, I mean chop off. I released 22+ inches of hair. This is the shortest it's ever been, though I kept the front somewhat longer.

And while I'm still a little in shock when I wash it, I regret nothing and already feel lighter. In more ways than one.

When The Stories Feel Small

My most common answer to questions of "How have you been?", "what's new?", "what have you been up to?" and similar lately have devolved in to a series of run of the mill answers (Great, fine, not much, same shit - different day) and then a quick deflect on to other things - Acorn ran up to the computer the other day while I was watching a video of a baby goat and bellowed "OAT!" so loudly that I almost dropped the laptop. He's never said goat before. (true story).

When I gather with friends, or sit down to journal or blog, or pick up the phone when a friend calls, I usually take the conversational back seat. I'll chime in, surely, but I don't really share my own stories. Not fully.

Because my own stories aren't filled with worldly insight, exploration, and adventure. They're filled with the day to day, the little things, the internal shifting of change and growth and they can feel so, so small amidst the exciting tales of jet setting and the venting about the quirks of one's boss.

And, often times, I too, feel small in a gathering or in a conversation. Even with my peers, I feel less adulty, less like my opinion and voice counts because what do I know, anyway?

This all came to me during my journalings for Soulodge with Wolf, which I'm taking right now. And, in the serendipitous way of the Universe, came in to light the day of the new moon and was broached by my therapist during our most recent session. And in talking it out, writing it out, and creating a heart map I had a few epiphanies.

What if the big stories really aren't the ones that matter the most? Sure, they're fun to listen to, and even more fun to have, but are they a sustainable way of life for me? Are they what I should compare and aspire to, rather than being content with what is? I don't think so.

Most of us spend our day to day in the trenches of repeaty things - clean, cook, clean again, cook again, wash clothes, fold clothes, wear clothes, repeat. Some of us get the added joy of balancing those repeaty things with children, pets, spouses, family, friends, work, and hobbies. And, I do mean joy, that's not sarcasm.

What if the stories I keep thinking are small, are really the meat of life? Those joys and failures that make up each fleeting, passing day?

What would happen if I shifted my perspective and treated my personal stories - the good the bad, the ordinary, the incredible - all as sacred? How could that change the way that I approach the repeaty things and the seasons of life?

What if, instead of saying nothing, I were to share my stories and see if they set out new shoots of connection and communication among my communities? What would the harm be in saying, you know - I'm taking this really great online course. I started a year long traveling art journal group. I'm learning to be a better listener. I'm healing old wounds. I made this kick ass fiesta chicken the other night, read this fantastic book, had a rough couple of days, etc.

I think, for me, the path to really healing the things that have held me back for most of my life - the anxiety, insecurity, the feeling of smallness - starts with dropping my armor and truly being vulnerable. It starts with no longer brushing my stories aside or boxing them up, and instead sharing them honestly and with no expectation for reaction. To give the ordinary the same weight as the extraordinary. To give voice to my thoughts and opinions and let whatever happens, happen.

On the other side of vulnerability lies true freedom. And there's nothing small about that.


P.S. I changed the blog name. It felt suiting to do it today.

Oh, Hello

Blue moon witchery. Big magic for big healing and big changes over the next 2 years.

It's been a while.

But, you know. Life. 1st birthday. Toddler. Illness. Family Visits. Sleep. WALKING! (sort of) It's been a busy life, and at the end of the long days that make up the insanely fast years, I want to curl up on the couch with my husband or a book and veg out. Sometimes, I art a little, or color, or work on a crafty something or other. I'm coming back to who I was before baby, though I'll be forever changed and it's still taking a little adjustment.

Funny, going "back to normal" is like a whole new adventure all over again. Haha. And as it is with adventures, I'm learning and growing from it. My priorities are a lot clearer now and the mess (though still sometimes insanity inducing) is firmly on the back burner until I've met the needs of myself and my dudes. That sometimes means dishes get done at 7 am and other times mean they're done at 10:30 pm. Doesn't really matter because they're still there waiting no matter the time, because I'm not a storybook witch who can wish them away. *sigh*

The big updates from here are: Acorn is now a year old. And hot stepping all over the place for short distances. And breaking his mom's heart with all this growing he's been doing, even as he delights us and makes us proud. Looking back on the last year has helped me to get through the hard and longest of days, because there's perspective now. I feel like I blinked, and my newborn baby was whisked away and replaced by this toddler with his boy face. Really, where did those baby features go?!?

Joe and I are both doing well and finding more time for ourselves and our hobbies again. My physical stuff is still ongoing, still waiting to see a specialist for my autoimmune disease so I can get a 100% accurate diagnosis and start treatment, but I've been taking my own steps to try to keep my discomfort under control. I'm working on improving my diet, cutting back on consumerism (sorry craft stores, my money now goes entirely towards food!), increasing my vitamin D (which is hard when it's like the surface of the sun outside ALL THE TIME) and getting up at the asscrack of dawn to do some stretches, yoga and my PT exercises. I'm not a morning person, so that's been a bit rough, but it's been tremendously helpful.

Taking some time to center and breath.

I'm making lots of progress with my mental health too, which sometimes feels very frustrating, because it often feels like 2 steps forward, 2 steps back. Every bit of progress seems to dredge up something else that needs to be healed. But, I'm getting there. The work is hard and some days I question if it's worth being grumpy or upset to get this work done, but then I remind myself that for all of the short term discomfort, there will be long term healing. Once I heal my inner child, overcome the fears that trigger my anger and quit questioning my worth, things will be smoother, happier and less stressful. So, onwards and upwards.

I've also still been debating if I should keep blogging here, change the name, move to Wordpress, blah, blah, blah... and I'm still undecided. I know the name no longer suits me, that I need an overhaul to make this space feel like it belongs to this current iteration of me. But do I want to wipe the slate completely clean, or just redecorate? Still pondering.

How are things with all of you? What's new in all of your lives? I've been a real shit about emailing, writing, etc. and I no longer use Facebook at all so I'm completely out of the loop.

Rogue Spirituality

Labels. We carry a bunch of them around with us that we pull out to help us define ourselves to others. If we try not to label ourselves, others will do so for us. We flit in and out of different categories and add and discard labels as our lives ebb and flow and we evolve and change.

Why am I bringing this up? Because over the past few months, I've found one of the labels that I, and many others, have used to define an aspect of myself no longer feels right. I've been pondering it, poking at it like a canker sore and it no longer fits, because, it's not what I practice or who I am. Unless you're sticking to the now dated, and sometimes considered derogatory, dictionary definition, then yes. I cant argue that.

But in the context under which it falls to most people, I'm not a Pagan. I've checked the little box next to it under the religion category in profiles for years, but I've haven't felt a true connection to or ownership of the title for a while , unlike some of the other ones I bear: artist, witch, wife, bookworm, etc. I've never felt entirely a part of the Pagan community, often feeling annoyed and confused when people would talk about community elders, how "we" as a community are represented, or traditional this and thats which I should adhere to. I've always felt a little out of place in a group that, for the most part, seems to shy away from the darker aspects of life, spirituality and magic. I seek balance; male and female deities, darkness and lightness, life and death as the wheel spins. All aspects represented.

Maybe I'm just too much of a solitary, a one woman heart led show. Too much of a rugged individualist, a spiritual drifter.

I'n grateful for the time I've spent with the blanket of Paganism wrapped around me. For the understanding and expression that it has afforded me over the years. To the homecoming of putting a name to my spiritual leanings for the first time ever, back in my teens. But to grow, we must shed that which no longer fits.

So, I'm claiming a new title for myself. One that doesn't feel like it's boxing me in with a community filled with views, opinions and leaders that I didn't agree to. I'm a polytheist, animist, witch, healer, wind talker, crow friend, trance seeker and bone collector. I follow the beat of my heart as it echoes the beat of the Earth's pulse. I speak for myself and with my own spirits and deities, no one else speaks through or for me.

I'm a Spiritual Rogue. Wild, free and untamed. And I wouldn't have it any other way.

Photo from my flight last month.

“There is nothing more beautiful than a warrior woman standing in her power, courage, and confidence. From this place of strength, she is capable of loving the world in a way that transforms pain into promise…and hell into heaven.” ~ Debbie Ford

I'm more or less through the woods of postpartum depression, so my therapist and I have moved on to tackling deeper, darker things. I cried for the first time in a session. The work I'm doing on my own is hard; excavating old memories and unlocking old hurts and anger. It's easy to let the ugly of the past take the wheel, to make me a cranky mess.

But I'm fighting it. I'm pushing through, owning my anger, my hurt and I'm pushing forward in to forgiveness. For the first time, I'm learning to forgive and heal old soul wounds. For the first time, I'm speaking to myself a little more positively, realizing that I AM worthy. For the first time, I feel a little confident, powerful and free.

Even as the darkness swirls around the messy room that is the mind I'm working so hard to heal and transform, I'm standing in my strength, in a place of love.

Healing and Stealing Minutes

Towards the end of February, I scheduled a yearly wellness visit with my doctor. Before my visit I made a list of all of the things that were concerning me so that when I was there I wouldn't forget to mention any of them.

And for the first time ever, a doctor took every single one of my points seriously. He asked me questions about them, did his due diligence in checking each thing out, took a boatload of my blood and referred me out to a hand full of specialists for the things he felt others would better be able to help me with. We even talked about my visits with the therapist, who it turns out he knows and refers all of his female patients to (because she specializes in women's issues) and he checked my thyroid levels just to be sure there was no underlying physical cause to my issues; aside from being tired, of course. ;)

Needless to say since that visit, I've been very busy visiting a bunch of doctor's offices. It hasn't necessarily been fun, and I've still got about a dozen or so more appointments to go, but I've been getting answers and help and am finally starting to feel better. Just having someone take me seriously when I complained about arthritis pain, as opposed to brushing me off as "too young", would have had me feeling better.

Between physical therapy, the GI doctor, a scope and a procedure to fix my esophagus, the eye doctor (because you know that flared up again!), the ear doctor, the rhuematologist, the therapist, sleeping, eating, cleaning, animal caring, wifing and mothering (especially soothing a child growing 6 teeth at once) there really hasn't been much time left over for things that involve a lot of time or ritual. Even my Beltane was celebrated by speaking thanks to the Universe while I was driving home from an appointment with the windows down and the warm breeze making a million and one knots in my hair.

We do what we can, right?

In the midst of all of this, I quit social media. So if you've been following me elsewhere and noticed I've gone missing, sorry! I'd been mulling it over for a bit and this felt like the time to do it. In the 2 weeks I've been offline, I've noticed a drastic improvement in my moods and I've gotten a lot more little things started or finished. My free time has been spent napping, meditating, reading or working in what I'm calling my stolen minutes art journal.

I met some friends for coffee this past Sunday and one of them had her art journals with her. And they were beautiful and filled with so much energy and devotion. Thumbing through them made me miss my own practice terribly, but I found myself lamenting how long it took me to put together the pages in my book. SO LONG. SO elaborate. I don't have time for that!

Oh, but I wanted the time for it. And so, I'm changing up my practice, tossing the "rules" aside and fitting it in when I have a few minutes. It doesn't need to be elaborate (unless I want it to be), I can jump around from page to page willy nilly. It doesn't have to be deep or beautiful, it simply needs to be a soft place for thoughts, paper, paint and glue to land and be a rock for my need to make things to cling to. And if ah ha moments, beautiful art or secret messages appear there, so be it.

P.S. I'm feeling disconnected and dissatisfied with the name and feel of my beloved space here. It's one of the myriad of reasons I haven't been blogging, because I feel like what I want to write about won't "fit". So I'm pondering a new name, one that better encompasses all that I am, since this is, in fact, a personal blog.

So after a solid 6 years, soon The Whimsical Cottage will be renovated.

Goodbye 2014, Hello 2015

2014 was an incredible year for me. Without a doubt, the biggest one of my life. There were some that came close, but bringing a piece of my heart in to existence as another human being tops them by far.

My one little word was "Brave" and I feel like I very much embodied it.

Not only did I give birth to my son the way I wanted to, I did so without fear or worry. Even when it would creep up, I was able to bat it away without terribly too much trouble. Something I'm not usually very good at, being a born worrier.

The aforementioned Fear and the easier thing to do were put on a shelf and I said "yes" to meeting new people and doing new things outside of my comfort zone. Again, something that I'm not typically very good at doing - I found myself fighting the urge to cancel at the last minute and turn around and go home even as I was walking up to the cafe door. I'm incredibly grateful that I didn't, because it led to finding the beginnings of a local spiritual tribe and new friends - things I've been longing for for a few years.

I bravely took a raw, unbiased look at myself, owned my mental health issues and decided to take the steps necessary to heal by seeking counseling. A very very big step for me as I don't easily open up to or trust people, especially with deep dark things. For the first time in a very long time, I feel hopeful that I will overcome my emotional difficulties, pick up the wreckage, learn to be positive and give my poor self a break from my own mental bullying. I'm well beyond being my own worst critic and for a few shining moments this year I didn't feel like that. I felt powerful, beautiful, intuitive and most importantly, worthy. Just as I am. And I want to feel that way regularly - fuck this self loathing, low self esteem, negativity business.

The status quo is currently being evicted, I'm kicking out my own ideals of myself that no longer serve me, letting go of labels, admitting what I want and am finally willing to change and work and burn things to the ground to get there.

It's been hard as fuck and equally incredible.

Here's a wrap up video I made to farewell the year rather than posting 60+ photos. I had a hard time picking just a few shining moments - there were so very many! If for soem reason the video doesn't load, you can view it by clicking this link: http://flipagram.com/f/OV38SlIzoJ

My one little word for 2015 is Peace. Within and without.

This wasn't my intended word for the year. I had tossed around "trust", "happiness" and decided upon "simplify" but it didn't feel entirely right -I was still mulling other words over in my head. Peace tip toed in to my head while I lay curled up beside Acorn, in the mystic place between waking and sleep. In a not so peaceful manner, I jumped out of bed and wrote it in my journal.

Peace
pēs/

noun

noun: peace; noun: the peace

1. 1.

   freedom from disturbance; quiet and tranquility.
2. 
   
3. 2. freedom from or the cessation of war or violence.
4. 3. inner contentment, serenity.

Peace. Because, after the fire comes the cooling rain, and from the ashes rises the Phoenix with song and new life. I plan to learn, laugh, love and live fearlessly, be more present and put the damn phone down.

Yule, Santa and a Peek at Our Tree

Before I shift gears and share a little bit of what's going on here for the holidays, I just wanted to say thank you to everyone who commented on my last post, emailed, texted, called or drove to my house and lifted me up and shared their own stories. It's a lot less dark when you realize how not alone you really are. So, thank you all. I had my first therapy session last week and not only am I comfortable with the therapist (I dig her non fluff attitude) but she has given me hope that I will be feeling better sooner than I anticipated and that, if once we've overcome this hurdle I'd like to stay on and do some of the fucking deep healing - she's on board for that too. It just feels good to know that the very hard first step was worth it - I feel like I'm exactly where I need to be and am doing what I need to be doing. The work will be rough and I can't go as often as I'd like to due to budget constraints, but all in due time, right?

With that out of the way, I hope everyone had a magical Solstice and New Moon! How was THAT for a double whammy of releasing and inviting in new beginnings? We went to meet up with my sisters of the new moon to share a meal and sit around the fire for a bit before Acorn decided it was time to go home and to bed. I think we may have a sensitive old soul on our hands here - he likes new people, is calm when they hold him and takes in his surroundings with very serious intent but once his cup is full he is quick to let me know he wants to be alone, or sleep or go someplace quiet. And we oblige, because this time of baby hood is so very short. Once we got home and I had him settled, Joe built a fire and I worked a little bit of magic at the kitchen table with some Earth medicine and my oracle cards. It's funny, before I had Acorn all of my big work was done outside or at the altar in my bedroom. Now that he bunks in there, I'll make sacred space wherever I can carve it out, including on top of a ridiculous snowman tablecloth in the kitchen. Ah, lessons. After I was done, I left my pulled cards and the citrine stone that my Work was focused on in the grounded jaws of badger in my South facing window to absorb the magic of the newly rebirthed Sun. I need this immense fire energy right now, but it needs to be harnessed lest it burn me beyond the point of rebirth. I'm tempering the Phoenix medicine that's been appearing so frequently around me (oh, do I know there are big scary changes in store when Phoenix comes and shines her hot light in to my heart) with my belovedly stodgy Badger.

There's deep work, an inferno of release and a rebirth from the ashes ahead. I'm sort of terrified of burning up who I truly am with all of the refuse, but the deep rooted knowing of my soul says that my true self can never be consumed if I don't allow it to be. This winding path is scary sometimes, but I'm placing my faith in the bright light of hope.

We also made time to see the big man himself!

In more mundane magical happenings, we've finished decorating the house and getting our gifts together and are ready for Joe's parents to join us through the New Year. I'll be taking plenty of breaks with my kiddo in the quiet bedroom to nurse and get some introvert time in so I don't become overwhelmed. The holidays are always pretty taxing on me and with a house full for over a week, if I'm not careful I'll be ragged and edgy by Saturday. I'm ridiculously pleased with what I managed to pull together in the gift department without stressing myself out. Thank the Gods for nap times, the internet, thrift stores and a future sister in law who let me borrow her sewing machine at the last minute.

I'll be doing the "One Little Word" instead of a resolution again, as I have the past few years, but I'll have more on that as well as my usual photo whore wrap up of 2014 a bit closer to the New Year. I just wanted to check in amongst the holiday madness and let you all know I'm OK. I have a direction, I see Hope, I have helpers, support and so much love around me and I'm going to get better. And, I've been enjoying the holidays, even if quietly. While sipping eggnog on the couch watching my favorite Christmas movies with my favorite fella while our Yulemas tree twinkles.

I Wanna Get Better

There are things people don't like to talk about, especially in relation to things that are supposed to be joyous. There's a fear of being perceived as incapable, less than or bad in some way. I know this, because I've felt it too. Not at any time more so than I have since I had to admit to myself after months of telling myself "it's just hormones" or "the baby blues" that there was something more going on. Even after I checked off several boxes on the PPD check list.

Motherhood is one of those things that is held in such sacred and high regard that to speak ill of it, to let anyone know that you've found anything other than joy in it, causes you shame. I've been feeling so very ashamed, so very heavy and alone, only willing to admit my feelings to Joe. I felt myself withdrawing, I felt myself cracking under the weight of my own unmet and wholly unrealistic expectations of what motherhood would look like for me.

I've found myself beating the shit out of myself for not being this perfect, beautiful, serene zen hippie mama that I expected and wanted to be. I've railed against my body - this miraculous and strong vessel that grew and bore this baby- for it's faults and weaknesses, because I can't wear my child the way I had envisioned and longed to. Because I have 2 left hands and 10 thumbs and can't get the whole wrapping thing down (goodbye dreams of beautiful, heavily filtered photos of my baby curled up and snoozing in hand woven fabric) and then because my back will spasm with angry ropes of fiery sciatica if I carry or wear him in the strappy buckle carriers I CAN use for too long. (so long dreams of painting while I wear my soothed, snoozing infant). I curse it because the same happens when I sway my hips and rock him to sooth him when he's sick or uncomfortable. I've been cursing it and wishing for a new one because neither one of us particularly likes it when I have to soothe him laying or sitting down. We both crave motion, a calming rhythmic motion, when we're uncomfortable. He is so much my son.

And I've been cursing myself and this brain of mine, so filled with emotions, for being anything but happy and delighted by this child I wasn't even sure I could have. For daring to be annoyed with him, for feeling my blood pressure rise when the cries of an overtired child can't be soothed away easily or sometimes at all. I've hated myself for whispering to the night to please shut him up so we could sleep and loathed myself for putting him down to cry and walk away to go get my head on straight again and calm back down when I feel myself becoming agitated. How could I?

I've felt like a monster; who gets mad at a baby? Who asks a baby to kindly shut the fuck up - even in gentle whispered sing song tones?

Apparently, every one. But I've been incapable of giving myself the grace needed to accept that and to accept that in that aspect anyway, I'm perfectly normal. And that lack of acceptance and grace coupled with the unmet expectations I had for myself, sent me down a spiral. The waves of sadness, darkness and less than have dragged me under and left me gasping in heaving breaths for air. They've tossed me on to my knees, a tear stained crying mess of a woman who can barely breath or find a kindness to give herself. And they've left me on the shores of endless doubt and hopeless dark skies, wondering aloud if my boys wouldn't be better off with another woman to care for them.

One who isn't a giant fuck up. One who doesn't constantly worry. One who doesn't cry and feel so very emotional. One with a strong body and mind.

And the light broke in, through those clouds for one shining moment. The full moon's kiss on my tear stained raw face, and I knew that these are all lies. All a pack of motherfucking evil, hateful lies. That it isn't my fault, that I don't deserve these feelings, that there is nothing to be ashamed of or scared of. That I'm worthy of love and motherhood and most importantly, of healing.

And I reached out. In one big afternoon of emailing and calling, I reached out. To my sisters far and near and I was lifted up and held. And I was gifted with their stories, so many so similar to my own. So many that I had never known or would have guessed had done this dark dance as well. So many women suffer this in silence. So many women never reach out. So many of my beloved sisters were too ashamed to tell anyone, some were scared of themselves but were too afraid of what others thought to reach out. And that is why I'm sharing. That is why I'm placing this darkness, raw and unedited, in to the glaring light of day.

Because fuck being afraid. Fuck the shame. Fuck people who think depression is fake or all in our heads. Fuck those who think we're weak. And fuck the unrealistic standards that women are saddled with - by themselves and by others.

I've reached out. I'm starting therapy tonight, despite the fear I feel at opening up to a stranger face to face and despite it not being in my budget, because this isn't my fault. And I deserve to get better.

And, so does every other person out there who needs it.

Musings on a Tuesday: The Contradictory Season

In this season of my personal Winter and the beginning of Nature's great Winter, I find myself drawn inward. Craving only the company of a hot cup of coffee or a steamy pot of tea, my fibers, threads and fabrics and perhaps some music. It's a season of introspection, of slowing down and of sitting with my soul. I do the deep work at this time of the year, as I stitch, crochet or recently, spin. My mind wanders, fingers trailing the lengths of fiber like Theseus' trail inside the Minotaur's maze, and I go to the dark places. Dredge up the things that the Summer sun beats in to submission, to sit with them and determine what needs changing, healing or burning off.

It's a time to inventory my thoughts, to stitch up the tears in the fabric of my mind and to recharge. Time to do the work that is best done alone, where the opinions and emotions of others cannot affect it in any way.

However, it is also the season of gathering and giving thanks. It is a time to be flung in to the mix of our communities and tribes, to laugh and reminisce and step in to the light of gratitude and joy. The joy of having these communities; be they blood family, chosen family or friends. Gratitude for the things that sustain us. And so, in the season of my introspective Winter, there is a tug to be social and to spend time with cherished ones. There is a giddyness that overtakes me and makes me agree to doing more than my inner self probably appreciates me taking on, like hostessing a Yuletide party where everything needs to be just so, or cooking Thanksgiving dinner for friends who don't have nearby family, or picking a half dozen names off of every wish tree I come across though my funds are tight or nonexistent.

It's a contradictory season for me, this desire to be social and to love on my friends and family battling with my need to be alone and do some soul work. Some years I'm frantically sprinting around the house with my blood pressure soaring and cursing myself as I try to get everything ready and other years I manage to keep this balance with barely a sweat breaking out.

I don't think it's a coincidence that the latter happens when I've been working fibers regularly. My fingers work a trail for me to follow through the labyrinth and the fibers themselves ground me. The work is humbling, it is simple and it keeps me in the moment. I truly believe it is the reason that I, for the most part, leave the vibrant colors of paint and pastel behind when Winter comes. Because in a contradictory season, especially one with so much baggage and expectation behind it, I need something to keep me connected to the simple and to myself.

Honoring My Seasons

There's an undeniable ebb and flow to the seasons of Nature, which we accept and do what we must to get through, because we know we have no other choice. Similarly, I've noticed that we all have our own seasons of sorts, cycles that we go through of ups and downs that can last hours, days, weeks or months. If we keep track of them, we may notice they follow a specific rhythm or pattern - a wheel of sorts. Unlike the ones in Nature, however, we rally and try to fight these cycles... at least, I know that I do.

For years, I've fought against my own personal Winter. Without fail, at this time of year my energy levels drop, I become a bit of a shut in, I have no desire to pick up a brush, a pastel or a pencil and create art. And despite knowing this will happen and knowing that in years past the fight with myself has led to depression, I've continued to do so. I rail against the lack of energy, trying to force myself to get all manner of things done and I beat myself up over the lack of art making; demanding to know what sort of artist doesn't paint for months at a time.

Until this year. This year, I'm done fighting. I'm done railing and belittling and putting so fucking much emphasis on what I'm not doing, rather than what I need. I'm done sending myself down the deep corridors of the Black Wolf's domain over something that, much like Nature's Winter, I cannot stop. So what if I don't paint? So what if I want to hang out in bed in my pajamas drinking hot tea until a decadently late hour of the afternoon? What is it going to hurt to give in and honor my seasons?

What will change if I go with my own flow, just like I go with the flow of Nature, that wonderful teacher?

Perhaps nothing. Perhaps I'll still face darkness during the longest nights of the year. Perhaps I'll still feel stressed about not making art or the house being untidy. Perhaps I'll feel guilt for my self perceived laziness.

But perhaps not.

Perhaps I'll find that the darkest nights aren't cold black, but a warmer shade. Perhaps I'll find contentment in wool and yarn as I sit in bed crocheting after Acorn has fallen asleep, or twirl the drop spindle where he can watch it. Perhaps the occasional day under warm covers with hot tea and the bodies of my family cozied up next to mine is more important and nourishing than a scratch cooked meal or the most tidy of homes.

I'm betting that there is. That there is magic hidden in our personal cycles, our small medicine wheels if you will, just as there is in the large one that spins the World. An overlooked magic that we've forgotten in our quest to do more, be more, have more and fit in to tidy labeled boxes like so many office files.

Perhaps it's time to let go of more and reclaim our magic.

Confessions and Change

Life isn't about waiting for the storm to pass, it's about learning to dance in the rain.
~Vivian Greene

I need to confess to some things. To being a worrywort and a negative nancy.

I need to confess that I am often overwhelmed these days, often wonder how any one ever gets anything done or has time for everything.

I confess to knowing that most of this overwhelm is of my own making.

I confess to knowing I should channel my Spirit Animal (Bill Murray) and just relax and go with the flow, but oh boy, is that hard when it's not just all about you. When there's a little, a husband, a menagerie of critters and a house that you care deeply about.

My days fly by. I feel like I wake up and blink and it's after noon. I haven't showered or remembered to feed myself. I blink again and it's 6pm; time for dinner and maybe a walk around the block. I blink once more and it's bed time. My day flies by in a haze of diaper changes, hurriedly stuffing whatever is handy in to my stomach, playing with my baby, trying to wrangle Luna outside to go to the bathroom, spit up, trying to make nap times happen and sleep. When nap time DOES happen, I spend it cleaning, eating or showering off the perfume of spit up and breast milk. I stress and I worry and I feel so strung out.

And I know it's my own doing. But the worrying has me trapped. As do my exceedingly high standards that I impose upon myself and the old school woman as martyr complex that's been so deeply ingrained in me that I didn't even realize it was there until I was married and didn't realize how BAD it was until I was a mom. If, at the end of the day I haven't spent 90% of his waking time talking or playing with Acorn, taken Luna out every single time she rings the bell on the door (50% of which are NOT because she actually needs to potty), made dinner and did all the cleaning on the to do list in my head and had meaningful time with Joe... I feel like a total fucking failure. Like I'm letting everyone down. Like I'm not cut out for this.

But, I'm trying to change this thought pattern. I'm trying to believe my husband when he says I put too much on my plate and that my value doesn't rest in those things. That at the end of every day, even one with take out, leaves on the carpet and vomit stains all over my shirt - every one still loves me. And that I need to take time for myself. WITHOUT guilt.

Which is harder for me than all the rest, because taking time out to paint, nap, whatever takes time away from those other things. Writing this right now, Acorn is sitting in his swing and I'm having extreme guilt that I haven't interacted with him in 10 minutes. Like I'm a selfish asshole who needs to get off the computer and talk to my child and interact with him so he develops properly.

And that, I think, is my biggest worry of all. Will he develop properly? If I spend too much time wearing him, hugging him, sitting outside with him, letting him happily swing or lay on his back on his play mat how the hell is he ever going to learn how to roll over, sit up, crawl or anything? How much is too much? How much tummy time does he need? If we lay in the hammock and he's tummy down, does that count? I've thought about the projects I can drag in to the living room to work on while he plays, scrapbooking, crochet, embroidery, my sketchbook... but I feel like that makes me an inattentive shit, even if I still talk to him and tend to him as he needs me too. Even if it's just half an hour.

And am I fucking him up by not having a set in stone schedule>? Because I don't. I go out when I want or need to, to go to the store or the library or the park, or to watch an evening concert. I don't live around naptimes because he doesn't have set ones. If we're home and he gets yawny, I put him down to nap. If we're out and he gets tired, we snuggle him up or wear him and he sleeps on us. But so many moms talk about living around naps, that it has my worrywort self, well, worried. We stay out until 9pm or later on occasion, but we're trying to have bedtime be between 8 and 9. Are we shitty parents?

It's time I knock this shit off and stop beating myself half to death at the end of each day. I decided not to read baby books or sites because they'd stress me out, so instead I'm stressing myself out. I don't need to spend my days sitting on the living room floor while he plays and I don't need to sweat it if we're outside swinging in the hammock or out late listening to music and we miss tummy time. And I certainly don't need to kill myself over having a spotless house, beautiful gardens, scratch made dinner and a perfectly outdated idea of what a stay at home mom or housewife is supposed to do. Some days there will be leaves on the floor, baskets of unfolded laundry and pizza for dinner. I need to learn to be ok with that.

I need to quit being so negative and hard on myself. To let go of guilt and worry and this fucking martyr complex that tells me that crocheting while my son plays by himself makes me a shit mom. I need to let go, channel Bill Murray and relax.

I know all of these things, deep down inside of me, but it's so hard for me to embrace them. But, I want to. And I have to.

It's going to take work, but dammit. I'm ready.

Purple, Fudge, and Flowers

Thank you everyone for your kind words, crossed fingers and tails for Chico. I'm happy to report that his appetite returned to normal yesterday and we awoke to a strange thing to be excited about, poop in his litter box! Only when pets and children are sick do you get excited about poo, ha ha! He goes back to the vet tomorrow for a re-check and I'm optimistic about it.

Good news after a weekend of worry, cat stalking and a mini stomach bug would be much appreciated!

That all said, the weekend wasn't all bad. Spring seems to have decided she's ready to stick around in my area, the tentative old oaks have begun to bud and unfurl baby leaves. As they are always the last to do so, I take this as the sign that I can safely begin my Springtime planting. So, off to the store I went to pick up flowers to add to the garden this year. When it comes to planting flowers, I'm sort of a lazy daisy gardener who prefers to invest in more perennials than annuals, so I can watch them grow up year after year (and not have to plant so many things!). I did pick out a few show stopper annuals, like big gerbera daisies and dahlias to plant in the pots and a flat of dianthus to fill in the gaps between my perennials and keep the weeds down. We also laid out a very thick layer of new pine mulch to help keep the weeds (and therefore mosquitoes) down around the patio. I don't mind weeds in the yard really, but stay outta my gardens!

They just opened a Cabela's near us, and having never been, I wanted to go check it out. You know, I really had to twist the husband's arm to go to the outdoor store. ;) We walked around looking at all the camping gears, fishing stuff, taxidermy and armory sections. While I was off getting some just made mint chocolate fudge, Joe made friends with this wild boar:

He and some friends have plans to eventually go on a boar hunt so we can have some wild ham and bacon in the freezer, but now that I've seen how big they get (I've never seen a full sized boar living or dead before, I'm completely freaked out by it. After having a swift dose of pork based reality slapped in to my head, we hit the check out where I managed to spend 3x as much as he did. What can I say? Archery and fudge eating are pricey hobbies!

One other thing I did this weekend, is something I've been wanting to do forever but couldn't because I've always worked in corporate environments. And that my friends, is to have some purple hair! Not all of it, mind you, because I *just* cut out the last of my previously damaged by dying hair about a year ago and want to keep it mostly healthy for a while longer. So, for now it's just the bangs. My brother's fiance did it for me the other day as she's far more girly and knowledgeable about these sorts of things than I am and I think she did a great job. Hell, I even liked the bangs post bleach and pre-purple. It's sort of subtle in regular warm household lighting, but really pops in the sun and under fluorescent lights. I've gotten several compliments on it already, mostly from old men. Those guys have got some good taste!

excuse the "selfie face". I'm not good at taking photos of myself where I don't make some sort of face!

Once this fades out, I'm thinking I may go with fuscia or teal. And maybe some bold streaks or something on the underside of my hair where root upkeep won't be such a problem. The rainbow is the limit!

This post is all over the place, a by product of having some major writers block but not wanting to just let my little blog fall by the wayside and collect cobwebs again. I've found that like art, the more you write the easier it is to keep doing it. So, there may be some incredibly random postings here for a bit. And some folks will probably wonder why I'm not writing more about being pregnant and honestly? Not only is being a mommy blogger not even remotely my thing (if it's someone else's great, but it's not for me) but it's honestly not that interesting to write about shopping, doctors visits and my expanding waistline and I'm sort of talked out over it thanks to people offline turning that in to the only thing we converse about now. In this space I can still be Danni the witch, artist, crafter, rambler, wife, friend AND future mom and not just Danni the pregnant. And I want to keep it that way. :)

Painting the Feminine - Destruction and Rebirth

The journey we took together through Painting the Feminine, led by the huge hearted, vibrant and honest Connie at Dirty Footprints Studio officially ended this past Monday, February 2. But truly, when she offers it again, I highly recommend you take it, even if you don't think you can draw because art skills and techniques DO NOT matter. They really, truly don't. I have thoughts and feelings on what this whole journey meant to me and look forward to continuing the exploration on my own (with the safe space to continue to share my work and discoveries here on the blog and with my sisters in paint on our community page) but I will share those once I've finished sharing my art journal pages. Which will hopefully resume next week. My scanner has been giving me some trouble and photos of the journal just don't capture the essence of each image as well as I'd like. But I think I've finally gotten it sorted out, so I'll be on a scanning marathon this weekend!

In the meantime, one of the prompts that I haven't shared yet touched me so deeply and so heavily that I worked with it not only in my journal, but on to the canvas.

The prompt was The Fierce Feminine... in particular, the power of Destruction. Harnessing our Kali and Destroyer energies in such a way so they don't burn us out, but are beneficial rather than simply destructive for destruction's sake.

You all may remember this painting I shared a while back:

Some of you will be horrified to know that I mindfully and intentionally destroyed this piece, smothering her with gesso and modeling paste until the canvas was blank and textured; new and reborn. All 80+ hours of work and hands down my masterpiece painting, gone in a few hours time. Let me share why I did so, as recorded in the writing journal that's accompanied this journey through the feminine:

Destruction and closure came to me in a very different way than just in the art journal this week. It came in the form of a bottle of Gesso and the edge of one of those faux credit cards you get in the junk mail (who needs a palette knife?).

The painting is one that took me almost 100 hours to complete. It is filled with sweat, tears and so much raw anger, hurt and frustration. She tore from my gut and my heart like an avenging angel, filled with fire and poison, ready to smite and to kill after one of the most emotionally draining and painful periods this soul has encountered in its 30 years on this Earth; my longest and most difficult battle with depression, lasting over 6 months and nearly costing me every single loved one in my life. She sucked the last vestiges of the lingering feelings from that time out of me, like a great vacuum and left me feeling cleansed, renewed and refreshed when I had finished.

It was a year ago this weekend that she was created and it was this weekend that she has been cleansed, wiped clean. I was so proud of her when I finished her; she was both a technical and emotional masterpiece for me... the single greatest work I've ever achieved. But we both knew that I couldn't fully heal with the energy leaking from her and from me; that the old wounds were merely scabbed over and not yet scars. Looking at her was a painful reminder of that terrible time, not one that uplifted me and said "I made it!" but one that reminded me of all that I had felt. So I sealed that time and those feelings behind layers and layers of Gesso; I sent her off with ritual - with incense and with more tears, this time of the cleansing variety. The surface of the canvas has been cleansed and reborn and is now waiting to reveal something new to me when the time is right.

This was one of the most difficult things I've ever done; to in essence destroy something in to which I'd breathed life. But from destruction, so often comes birth and I know that something beautiful will emerge from her proverbial ashes.

***

And something already has. I've been working on a new painting on this canvas since our circle closed, keeping my painting practice alive in a different form... taking the time and space each day to connect with the Feminine and paint. I've been enjoying this new painting, singing and dancing while I break in new paintbrushes from the husband on it. This is the polar opposite of my time painting The Lady, where most days I dragged myself unwillingly to the canvas almost as an act of penance... painting this new one has been an act of pure joy and light heartedness. Going to the canvas isn't a chore, but rather something to look forward to each day.

Taking that brave step, harnessing the strength of the fierce Feminine to destroy something that I had created (which I have never, ever, ever done before) was an amazingly freeing and healing experience. Without that happening, I may never have fully gotten over that time or the fear of relapse. Now, without her constant gaze reminding me of it from the studio floor (I never hung her up but rather left her in the corner) I feel no fear or shame.

Here's a sneak peek at the rebirth, the Phoenix rising from the destruction:

Painting the Feminine - The Noble Path

This one gets real heavy. Fair warning.

The talk about the Noble Path of women being to hold space in this world and the subsequent painting unlocked something deep for me. The painting and reactionary journaling took me less than 45 minutes, but they were intensely emotional minutes as both the painting and words were more or less torn from me. I'll share what I wrote along with the painting, it's sort of stream of consciousness and very emotional.

The Noble Path - This piece tore out of me with such speed, lucidity and emotion, the idea of holding space within us being the Noble Path struck such a deep chord in me. That the womb isn't JUST to make life & isn't the only thing that this function isn't the only thing that defines us as women... but rather that it sits empty inside of us as a reminder of our calling as sacred space holders - to hold sacred, safe, nourishing space for ourselves and others.

Such a strong message for me, who always felt contention, anger and shame towards my womb. Me, the one with debilitating cramps, cysts and endometriosis - who hardened her heart and turned emotions to stone over the thought of reproducing... who was told numerous times my issues probably wouldn't allow for it to happen. I who made myself poisoned against having a child, who poisoned herself against her traitorous body - useless fucking painful organs! Tired of pain, wishing only to never suffer from the emotional pain of disappointment after so much physical duress.

I felt less than feminine, less than woman. Worthless. Why even try? Why put myself out there? Why set myself up to be the fallguy for further fucking pain? It took so long to trust, to break that wall down stone - by -stone. No one understood really, because I didn't share my shame... burying it under anger and lashing out whenever people querried when I might have a child. Fuck you. Just fuck you. But I did it, and I tried and I was the lucky one... I was SO GODS DAMNED LUCKY. Because, after that pain, that path of ruthless tearing down to claw back to trust, I'm blessed to have something growing inside of that womb of mine.

But that's not the end of this path, not the end of the healing of my feminine & womb energies... but that trust, that willpower to stand back up knowing I could get knocked down... that's a step. This child is a step. A step to being kinder to myself, to my body. To letting go of that shame and anger... that feeling somehow, like the pain - these issues aren't a ludicrous hateful curse.

This painting holds this space for that healing process- for coming to terms with that shame, that pain, the conditions the shock and awe I feel at having a spirit inside of me. The utter terror I sometimes have at that feeling; that I'll wake up and it will all have been a horrible cruel dream. The amazement that there's someone growing in that space I was told would most likely always remain empty... in that sacred, empty space inside each of us.

Painting the Feminine - Beginning with Trust

Once more, I'm joining with Connie at Dirty Footprints Studio and the beautiful women in my painting tribe to delve Fearlessly in to our painting practice. But this time, with a bit of a twist and a much stronger commitment; for 30 days we will be exploring and defining the feminine for ourselves in our art journals and on canvas.

We're digging deep in to our own mysteries, questioning and healing with art. And in the process, creating a habit of taking time every day to create.

And this is something that I knew I needed to do; right now. Such a huge part of my inner struggle with the decision to become a mom was this innate terror that I would have to give myself up in the process; that doing anything less would make me selfish and somehow... less. That taking time for art would be ridiculous when you've got a new life and a family to take care of. Because that's what my mother and grandmother and countless other women have done - let themselves, their passions and their dreams fall by the wayside to be 110% MOM and nothing but.

Much as I told myself that this wouldn't happen, that I can brave stigma and judgement, that I have AMAZING support from my husband who would never ever let me be anything other than me... now that baby's growing away in my womb, I feel that old fear creeping back in. I also know that establishing routines is hard for me, so if I'm going to form a strong habit, it needs to happen now.

I'm hoping that by going on this sojourn, I will not only create a daily art ritual but banish these doubts and fears by finding my own strengths and healing old wounds.

And... that amazingly supportive husband of mine? He gifted it to me as an early birthday gift. My heart, it melts!

So, for the next month I'll be sharing my journey here. Starting with the word I chose to use as my intention for the entire journey:

Trust.

I started with "Trust" because, for me, that's what this whole adventure is about. It's about ruthlessly trusting myself to open up and dig deeper in to myself to rediscover and heal my own feminine energies. It's about trusting my spouse and my tribe to support me on my journey. It's about trusting myself to commit to and stick with this practice long after these four weeks have ended. The Feminine asks us to trust and it's one of my sticking points; opening my heart and allowing myself to be vulnerable, trusting in the tenderness of others and the universe not to take advantage of that vulnerability. Without that trust, this would just be another painting exercise and little else. So this start page is as much a pledge and a reminder as a visual expression of the feeling.

Nostalgia and Paper Magic

From time to time, I have a great urge to declutter in a grandiose manner; this has been happening to me since I was a child. One day, I get tired of constantly picking up and putting so many things back in to their places and decide it's time for a non-emotional clean sweep!

When I was a child with a single small bedroom's worth of possessions, this meant sorting through my clothes and toys and putting the things that didn't fit (literally and figuratively) into bags to donate. It also meant going through my myriad art supplies and throwing away dead markers, unsalvageable crayons, etc. As an adult, this means combing through an entire house worth of possessions, boxing up household items and clothing I no longer need to be donated. It means combing through my studio's worth of hoarded craft supplies with their what-ifs and somedays and either trashing or donating these or giving them to friends who I know will make their somedays happen sooner.

One thing that I never, ever get rid of as an adult unless I really, really didn't care for the thing in hand? Books.

I never, ever get rid of books. Unless I really, really didn't like the story and will never, ever read it again. Or if I have a double. Then I will take them to the local used bookstore and trade them in for, you guessed it, more books.

I have some pretty massive shelves in the living room that Joe was kind enough to put up for me the day after we returned from Jamaica. All of my books are sorted by the alphabet and a little bit of whim. I had wholeheartedly considered sorting by the Dewey Decimal System, because I'm nothing if not a lover of libraries, but I just couldn't bring myself to smoosh large hardcover and pocket paperbacks on the same shelf.

Unfortunately, as a kid, I didn't have this same thought process, despite being a bookworm. And having a very small bedroom, a bookcase took up an awful lot of space. So, in a fit of cleaning madness, all of my books went out one day - save a few precious dragon related reads (Bruce Coville's "The Dragonslayers" and Patricia C Wrede's "The Enchanted Forest Chronicles") that I just couldn't bring myself to part with. All the Dr. Seuss, All the Golden Books. My Wild Things, Goosebumps, That Silly Olde Bear and Fairies Galore... all out the door. Because I had neither the space, nor the inclination to read them anymore.

One of my favorite illustrators and a large influence in my love of anthropomorphic animals, Richard Scarry.

And that particular grand declutter, has been a regret of mine for a number of years. Normally, I don't regret my clean outs, only on the rare occasion I've tossed something I didn't mean to in my frenzy. But this one, this one has stayed with me and I've always missed and wished, deep down inside, that I'd never given all of those childhood friends and adventures away.

Over the years, I've been trying to slowly rebuild my lost collection. A book here or there at a book sale or the used shop, a memory and old friend found at a yard sale. But it's hard, with so many books lost to memories; no one but the keenest of minds could possibly remember over 200 titles they used to own. But sometimes, as I'm perusing, something will jump off the shelf at me and tickle my memory... and it will come home with me. I've found a few Golden Books I remember loving, a few of the Richard Scarry anthologies that I adored and even a few books illustrated by my very first art teacher, who encouraged me all throughout my elementary school days. And my favorite copy of Mother Goose stories, with Mother Goose being a kindly old witch; my very favorite representation!

Children's books from the "Through the Magic Window" series, illustrated by my first art teacher (way back in elementary school) Bob Petillo.

For some of them, all I have are wisps of plot lines, or what the cover illustration looked like to work from, but I won't be giving up. Whenever there is a pile of old children's books you'll find me rifling through, reclaiming wee bits of the magics of my childhood.

The Breaking of the Rest

There come times on this spiritual journey, like the physical variety, when one must stop to rest. Whether that rest be simply to recharge your batteries, to take in the sights and sounds along the way, or to ruminate on where you've come from and where you're heading.

The past few months have been a resting period for me, as those who have been here a while may have noticed from my writings being few and far between. My Sabbat celebrations since Lughnasadh have been quaint and unfussy, my daily card pulls and chats at the altar ceased. The altar itself hadn't been spruced up much, just dusted to keep the space clear and clean. As someone whose spirit and persona are intermingled with my spiritual path (why keep these things separate?), my artwork and my fondness for music and dance have also slowed or ceased. I didn't realize it as it was happening, but now that the first stirrings of shifting and re-awakening are nudging me, I can clearly see this restful, quiet period for what it is.

As it's Winter and my body clock flows in rhythm with the shifting season of the Earth, these aren't huge boisterous calls to action, but rather warm feelings to move slowly back on to the pathway. Break-time will be ending soon and I must, once more, begin the Work and the Walk. It started with the urge to rearrange and add to the altar. Right now, I've rearranged and waiting to find the right things to add. I've also felt the urge to get to work on a more beautiful and formal Grimoire, as my journey and notes are scattered throughout various note and sketchbooks.

Signs to wake back up come in the cawing of the crows and the decision to vanquish the inner bullies once and for all. For how can one walk the path and perform the work when one's confidence is shaky? Best we toss those bits of carrion out for the birds and continue in to the woods, head held high. The Earth Mother is once more humming to me, calling for me to reconnect with She, the Goddess with whom I've always been thick as thieves; the ultimate in Divine Feminine to me. Hermes sends me messages, on the wings of bees who shouldn't be out in this cold. My altar has been freshened up, rearranged and the things there that need it, fed sweet smoke and offerings of wine and milk.

Most telling of all though, is my Muse is back with a vengeance and I'm painting again and scheming and dreaming of colors and symbols, flung wildly across paper and canvas.

Inner Bullies

Maybe you've had one, maybe you've been blessed enough not to, but for the majority of my life I've had internal bullies. Those little voices in your head that tell you that you look fat, that only an idiot could fail, that you're wasting your time, that you're not Enough. They love to rear their heads when you're feeling great (can't have you on too high a horse now), but their speciality is most definitely kicking you when you're down.

At the best of times, my bullies will be annoying twinges of self consciousness. Like, when I look at a photo of myself or look in the mirror and really hone in on my one eye being squinty while the other isn't. Most times, it doesn't bother me, it's because of my eye disease and there's nothing to be done about it. But other times it really, really, really pisses me off that I went from having two beautiful matching eyes to a misshapen set.

At the worst of times, when I'm laid up on the couch with one of my myriad stomach issues and haven't been able to clean or craft or do much of anything except feel like shit, the inner bullies chime in to remind me how useless I am. They love to point out the leaves that have blown in to the front hallway, the dust on the shelves, the clothes waiting to be put away. They tell me I'm a piss-poor excuse for an adult, for a woman and for a wife. They love to personify things like my sketchbook, letting me know how forlorn and lonely it is; how I'm a terrible so-called Artist who doesn't even pick up a pencil for weeks at a time sometimes.

It's all internalized, which is the worst part of it all. I haven't been bullied by anyone in over a decade. I make it a point to only surround myself with encouraging and uplifting relationships. Sometimes, when I'm sitting alone, hating my treacherous body and all of its issues, I wonder if all the severe bullying I had to go through growing up has left me with such deeply engraved feelings of "not enough" that I still haven't overcome them. After all, I was the kid that got spit on, kicked and laughed at for being poor, wearing glasses and having braces. I was tormented by other girls for not "dressing right". Kids would come in to class, sharpen their pencils, and sit behind me poking me in the back with them... just waiting for a reaction. Most times they were disappointed; I became very good at bottling things up. But if I did, those cretins would double up the attack. It only got worse as I grew older and went in to middle and high school. But, like all good bottlers, I sucked it up and held it in lest it get any worse.

Somedays I'm surprised that I never did worse than drink and scar myself.

Part of me feels that blaming my inner bullies on the after effects of having such miserable interactions with other kids is a load of bullshit. That they're a sneaky, asshole part of my depression rearing its horrible head in smaller ways. Honestly, it doesn't matter why they're here still, it just matters that they are.

And since my heart was cracked wide open a few years ago and I really opened myself up to feeling and receiving emotions of all sorts again and quit bottling, I've become very sensitive to them. That snide self-talk remark can leave me wounded for hours and I don't like explaining what's wrong to anyone because it feels so very shameful to say essentially, "I thought something mean about myself and hurt my own feelings."

But it's the truth; that's exactly what happened.

And you know what?

I'm tired of it happening, I'm tired of being my own biggest critic and bully. It's time to stop the hurtful negative self-talk and begin a more positive discourse within myself. It's time to take back all of my power and not let those pockets of self sit under the rule of a feeling without my best interests at heart.

I'm going to slip up and stumble along the way, just like with any personal or spiritual growth, and that's O.K. It's how I get back up from those falls that really matters.