Don’t pass the tissues.
The group looked at me in horror.
Really? The poor woman has snot dripping down her face and I think that’s a little spit on the side of her mouth.
Yup. Still don’t pass the tissues.
This is one of the toughest lessons us humans need to learn.
We want to fix every problem with hugs or cookies or sound financial advice. We wanna show up with screw drivers or swords or whatever the heck is needed to help you get your house in order and slay your internal dragons.
We humans feel good when we’re helping.
And that’s the problem: helping is often as much about the helper as it is about the helpee.
All right Empaths, I need you to repeat after me:
It is not my job to absorb the energies of the world.
Say it out loud, even if you don’t believe it:
It is not my job to absorb the energies of the world.
Why is this so very important?
Because when you are taking on other people’s grief and loneliness, when you are pulling in other people’s pain, you are attracting and attached to those feelings.
And you pulling those feelings toward you neither serves you nor anyone else.
Burn it off.
Sage it off.
your aura, your skin
will not be breached!
Otherwise you are swaying in the wind, pulled by the highs and lows of every creature on this planet.
Unlike many people, I’m actually a fan of change.
I used to joke that I was Change’s Whore, always ready to prostrate myself to potential.
Still, even with my propensity for riding whirlwinds, change is bittersweet. Especially when it’s unexpected.
Bend of Ivy Lodge, where I’ll be holding my November gathering this year, just contacted me to book my fifth year of hosting the Deep Magic Retreat. But instead of eagerly signing the contract, something in me whispered pause…
So I took a deep breath and felt into the moment. Since I can get brain-centric (trying to wring decisions from my sometimes indecisive mind), feeling into things is my personal life-hack for connecting with my inner-wisdom. This helps me make decisions aligned with not just my brain but my whole being.
So what the heck does it look like to “feel into” something? (more…)
Trust your intuition, my heart whispered.
You’re being paranoid, my head replied. He said there were no tomatoes. He wasn’t confused. He even asked if you had a nightshade intolerance. He gets it.
If you’re a seeker, you know there’s nothing like the wonder, the confusion, the adrenaline rush of new beginnings; nothing like the moment your heart alights on something (or someone!) new and time begins to telescope from your present moment into distant and suddenly possible futures.
It doesn’t matter whether you’re twenty-two or eighty-two, whether the journey you’re beginning is spiritual, emotional, or physical. (more…)
We look to retreats, to sacred sites, to long hours meditating to move us toward transcendence—but often soul medicine is found in simply allowing yourself to slip further and further into the work of your own soul’s calling.
It was early spring, still cold enough for gloves, my breath pluming as I timed my breathing to the breathing of my horse.
This particular horse was wild and wary. Riding him often drew a ringside crowd, gathered to watch his next inevitable bucking spree. But today he was relaxing incrementally and so was I.
Figure eights are lulling, soothing even. Round and round, asking his body to flow and arc into the circular shape. Time began to do this funny thing, loosening its hold on me and slipping sideways a bit.
This is the first moment of true transcendence I can remember…
…and it hadn’t come easily.
Family myth says the first word out of my mouth was horsey (and you know my mom is dialing me right now to tell me I remember this incorrectly!). As a kid, I loved the idea of horses but the actual beasts frightened me something fierce. Still I insisted on riding lessons despite getting nauseous as we drove to the stables each Saturday morning.
The other kids in the class had long moved on to jumping and trail rides as I went around and around the enclosed ring, too fearful to do anything but walk or trot. My parents would have saved me from my own fear, finding a safer hobby to fill my weekend mornings. My riding trainers looked resigned as I dragged my tear-stained, terrified self into the saddle week after week. I was a pudgy, klutzy, terrified kid. And I was fiercely determined; I learned to ride.
Following this passion—this soul calling—crafted the woman I am today: there’s no doubt in my mind that if I had given up or given in, I’d be someone else entirely.
And it was working with horses which first triggered my empathy—my ability to feel what another was feeling. I knew terror and anger and stubbornness. What I saw in the horses reflected what I knew of myself. By the time I was a teenager I’d gone from being terrified to being one of the few people who would ride the true terrors.
The horses that gnashed and bit and stomped? They were saved for me. The horses who were scared and shying? They found their way onto my riding roster.
What the horses really taught me is that moments of transcendence don’t necessarily happen when you’re galloping across the fields or hurtling over the highest jump. Transcendence comes in the small moments, repeated over and over again until you can transcend the physical and cross the boundaries of time and space and flesh.
The big moments are compelling and they’re rife with myth and story. They allow you to embody an archetype: to become a goddess or heroine, a mermaid or a sage.
But it’s actually the small moments that allow you to do something far more difficult: they allow you to transcend yourself and, in doing so, find fathomless courage and profound peace.
It’s so hard to teach this. It’s so difficult to break our cultural habits of bigger and better instead of supporting the daily repetition, the seasonal cycling.
This is why I created the Medicine Keepers Collective, to support you in your daily work of finding the rhythms of self in the patterns of the larger universe. If you want support for finding your own path to transcendence, join us. Enrollment is open until November 26.