The truth follows a path it knows by heart
I would love for you to join my intuitive or grief small group writing series for women on February 11 or 15!
Dear Community,
There is still time to join my online Grief or Intuitive small group writing series. If you are curious about how writing in a community of women can offer creative expression and healing, these series are for you— even if you don't have experience writing.
One of the gifts of Grief and Intuitive Writing is that we learn to be truthful with ourselves and our lives. We practice opening our hearts, taking what's inside, and bringing it out.
Intuitive Writing for Women begins Sunday, February 11, 9:30 – 11:00 a.m. PST.
Details and registration for the series are here.
Grief Writing for Women begins Thursday, February 15, 6:00 – 7:30 p.m. PST.
Details and registration for the series are here.
**Series are 4 weeks.
I am also facilitating an intuitive writing workshop at Indigo Yoga Studio on Sunday, February 18. You can learn more HERE and register HERE; I would love to see you there!
I sit, poem and prompt handy, pen in hand, notebook in lap, ready to document and scan the surface of my morning and gamble with what is prepared to expose itself.
I had another restless night, rolling around in the dark with night sweats and chills, wishing myself back to sleep, and dreaming sweet dreams.
I think of Jax, how he used to wake up with my worry, and how his curious and devoted demeanor followed me when I got up from bed. His only burden was ensuring a warm body was close to burrow against.
The bed is chillier without him now, and the nervous nights are lonelier, with grief a part of the scene.
It still amazes me when I show up to this practice how my intuition, when picking the perfect poem and prompt, always knows how to deliver what I need.
It was as if the poet, a woman who understands herself and her grief, had known my journey and, thus, understood me.
Between the plunge in hormones, my period around the corner, and lack of sleep, it takes too much effort to resist and hold back the tears.
The sincerity of sensation follows the stream of words like a river alongside me. Like water, if I trust grief to lead the way, it will never leave me misguided.
The salty water feels good as it saturates the cornea of my dry right eye, thirsty for mercy with abundant dampness.
Grief carries layers upon layers of sadness and snags, and depending on your relationship with unhappiness, the discomfort and dislocation of sorrow can complicate matters.
Since the death of my father and Jax, I've watched how my resistance has pushed up against sadness. How my conditioning to avoid tears and to somehow magically will my emotions to "choose happiness" or "be grateful" has brought compounded suffering.
It is not easy to grieve in a world focused on choosing joy or gratitude for the ones you lost. I am happy and appreciative of my experiences and time with my father and Jax, but that does not discount that I am also really sad they are gone, and it is hard learning to live without them.
I have been more melancholy since their passing, and as I write, I wonder why I must quantify my sadness. Sometimes, I can't point out evidence as to why I feel this way; other times, it is obvious.
I have been practicing sitting with sadness after spending a lifetime running from it and learning to make space for it vs. escaping, and when I do, I find it intermixed with moments of beauty and lightness.
I am learning not to shame myself for how I mourn as if there was a "wrong" or "right" way. Still, I sometimes wonder, shouldn't I be over this phase by now? Still, I find myself holding back tears in the presence of others and the privacy of my own company.
The life coach in me asks, what would you say to a client or a woman in your writing class? How would you be with a family member or a dear friend when they question their pace and emotions?
My instant response would be to hold a gentle and generous space for their process. I would offer kindness, deep listening, and presence. I would invite them to release the tears of sorrow, yield to their unique pace, and reduce getting caught up in comparison or thought processes on what they should do by society's standards.
I am not always compassionate towards myself and my pace, but the support and practices I keep, nature, my father, Jax, and my body's wisdom continue to reveal how.
Grief belongs here now, and to deny it would deny love.
I am learning to speak its language. Sometimes, it's silent like a stream, soft like a kitten, and delicate like a baby; sometimes, it's edgy like a terrain, sharp as glass, or aggressive like nails on a chalkboard.
To reject the staggering shadow side of love would be to overlook the presence and influence my father and Jax had and continue to have on the woman I am today.
I am beginning to understand that to forbid the freedom of tears is to conform to my conditioning, block a vital part of my existence and experience, and lock away the potential for peace, joy, connection, and love – to what matters most to me.
I've had to remind myself that I am not depressed and only a sad person; I am a conscious and sensitive woman who feels deeply and seeks not to negate and contradict but to express the authentic, courageous, and vulnerable.
I am a woman indulgent in the rich tapestry of my body, emotions, and life. I am discovering a world without my father and the one thing I loved most and who returned that love ten-fold.
I am learning to converse with the currents of grief as I walk along the slippery stones and stories of the riverbed. It's not easy and not always pretty, but it's real, raw, and the only way I choose to feel my way through.
The tide will shift, and the bleeding, tender emotions will pass. I will wake up rested, my hormones will peak, and the spark of joy and inspiration will return. It always does.
But today, I will allow the truth to spill onto the page, and already, with the gift of space and words, I notice a shift. The fog has lifted, and there is autonomy from my suffering. A sense of grace has entered the room, and a calm heart has returned. It's as if Jax has found his way back to my lap, back to me.
Grief is part of the scene; it belongs here now, and I am learning how to belong to grief the way a river meets the sea, the stars fit the inky sky, and the sun's rays yoke the full moon. The way I belonged to my father and Jax—the way I belong to myself.
If you know a woman who may enjoy one of my small group writing series, please consider sharing this email. Your support and shares are appreciated and are how I organically grow and sustain my small business.
