Stick to your own scripture. It’s so brain-wrecking easy to fall within the lines of someone else’s saga. Whether they’re slaying their lifeline to rockin’ the country ballad shame game in real-time, you’re not here to weather another’s shoes. We didn’t come to this place to work on anyone but ourselves. Staying focused on our supreme source of surgically settling into the layers of learning our personal lessons is the core courtship we ought to be making. I employ what I call my bohemian bible to reference the hippest aspect of being a hippie at heart is knowing the power of reconnecting to your authenticity if you’ve snapped away from it through a cycle of mistakes, manipulation, fear, or any sort of snag along your destiny agenda. In actuality, these hurdles are items of garnish for your ultimate date with fate. The moments we succumb to our sincere accuracy the more space serendipity has to show up! We should live like we’ll never forget lives ripped too soon (think your cherished family member, mentor, pet, BFF, or Nick Cordero’s passing); same as we only have time for our best selves.
I honor what goes into my mouth and what comes out of my mouth. ~Joanna Laggan Fox (one of my besties)
We’ve all experienced those openly erudite instances where we’d rather be laden in a sedated epidural state. I’m a queen of longings meets regurgitating patience because I’ve had to ingest so much. Remember the person that sashayed their way into your spirited guts. You gave them sacred entrance to your mouth or more, only to discover (despite your care-takingly honest queries prior to insertion) that they’re entering quite a few beyond your just yours presently too. Here’s why the nitty-gritty ninja that you are skilled with channeling is key. Becoming a verity vamp for your self-respecting interests is where it’s at. Deliberately taking our own thoughtful tincture is the proper patterning. You can be a grateful giver of listening and your time. We must share to slave every day to spread more love.
The gospel of my goddessness is toned by glittery nuzzles of holding that would last for days if you let them. I’m an inspiration-communing expert building an encyclopedia of adventures. I’m a jungle princess in cowboy boots with Indiana Jones blood running through my veins and flouncy locks always itching to tangle with any great body of saltwater. If you discount the physics, I’ve always felt I can leap amidst lofty constellations with as much soar as the falling stars invoke meaning between lovers. I’m of the ilk that aims for hugs, not ugh’s. (Although, admittedly, I’ve caused several legendary hugs in Ugg’s that made snow melt and kept hot tubs heated up until the wee hours.) I’ve dumped out my entire toolbox. I even dusted out the corners to crevices to peel away the tiny bits of necessary support that are hits I’m having to gulp daily of late. I’ve given birth so many times. It’s virtually a daily practice.
We’re all going to falter. The kicker is how quickly you bounce back into your own being. Sometimes I’m giving life to a new dream, a relationship, a charitable creative ideation masterpiece, an orgasm, or some slamming stigma to anger thorough sobbing session. Of course, it can hurt just as achingly. All the while forgetting the initial pain (as many real moms will report) immediately once that baby is in your sweeping arms. Rageful transformation has a way of pushing along feelings if you shield stuffing them. The moss on every rock I’ve ever touched told me this is how it’s worked for ages. I’m obsessed with quality of life. I crave all the things, tinged with extra gentleness. I want integrity fraught with all the (brutal) honesty. Yet, I don’t prefer it shoved at me like a sword or pretended to be voiced in silence causing me to plea to Father Sky as if it could open as wide as the ocean I sit upon with a surfboard to swallow me whole to transport me far from my comfy portal of typical positivity.
Don’t seek to be a shadow of yourself. It’s weird when you’re usually the heart-filled energizer bunny and you’ve run out of batteries. Occasionally, I’m living his or her dream. But, I’m rarely forgetting I need to be tripping the light fantastic toward my own. The claims that I’m an awesomeness aficionado are correct. I’m an emotional savant; capable of leaping tall emotions in a single bound. I’m no mere cougar. Halt, I’m more lioness. That’s a stunner with a deep purr. Maybe, like me, your milestones include mangoes doused in an excess of freshly squeezed lemon that you prefer eating naked, so licking up all the juices is validly easier. Provide your spitfire, salt of the earthness, enough pavement to glide at hyper-speed. I ask that you measure me in the pounds of passion I pour forth, not some numbers on a scale. Leave me floofy, aflutter, gaping with the guarantee that I’ll pick up every single piece of me that ever gets strewn about to shape it back into the warrior I am meant to maintain.
May your bureau of mind, body, and soul relate from your sole truthful stance.