I have really high expectations for myself. Bordering on impossible.

It’s sort of an unavoidable byproduct of believing I can do anything. 

That’s my platform. I believe it for myself and I believe it for you. (We are all magic. That is a fact.)

I believe it because I’ve done things I never could have imagined. I’ve seen myself do supernatural shit beyond my wildest dreams. (Literally sitting in my own brain, watching my body do something and thinking, how am I doing this?)

Any prior concept I had of what my life could look like has been completely blown apart. And I expect it to be blown apart again and again. Because that’s been the pattern. (And patterns are science.)

I am unlimited. 

BUT, I am also limited.  

I am unlimited and limited. (I DON’T GET IT. Me either.)

I have superpowers that transcend time and space. 

AND, I am a human being.

It makes no sense. It’s infuriating. It’s weird. And it’s…humbling.

I think we all feel the struggle of toggling between different levels of functioning.

Some weeks, this very blog pours out of me like Niagara Falls. Other weeks, I’m wringing out a dry towel.

I can use insane wizardry locked in my body from a past life to locate and clear a past life wound in someone else’s body…but I can’t cook rice?

Sometimes I’m on fire, and other times, life is burning me to a crisp.

How can I be so good at some things, and so embarrassingly bad at others? Why do I regress to an angsty teen sometimes? Why can’t I just be at my best all the time?

Because our capacity for greatness doesn’t rescue us from our human-ness. And being a human means progressing, then falling back. It means certain people and situations bring out parts of us we don’t like. It means…sometimes, there is no answer. 

We can’t transcend being human. We can have transcendent experiences, but at the end of the day, we all still poop out of our butts, ya know? 

If I expect myself to be 24/7 god-level, I’m going to be disappointed in myself for just existing. And I’m going to miss the jewels hidden in the weird, gross, normal stuff. 

Having a body means we get to do amazing things. Having a body also means we have to do mundane things to take care of it and get through life.

If we don’t accept our humanness and our limitations, we overburden ourselves with perfectionism, frustration and disappointment.

But if we don’t believe more is possible, we miss our unimaginable potential. We don’t express our divinity. We feel isolated, lonely and depressed because we don’t realize we are all a part of this crazy, contradictory magic.

When you’re done chucking at that Seinfeld reference, here’s a prayer:

May I be an easy vehicle for laughter

May I be smooth passage for tears

May my heart beat with all that is

I have a lot on my plate this week.

Looking at my calendar, my shoulders start climbing toward my ears and my chest tightens.

I’m tensing up because I assume it’s going to be hard. 

What I see is that it’s going to be full. 

Hard is not actually a requirement. (Unless I’m trying to PROVE I’m good enough because someone modeled an idea of “hard work” that I’m trying to live up to [cough] Dad…)

I’m done prioritizing some dumb Dad story over enjoying my life.

I want ease.

I feel the power of just speaking this into existence. But, how do I actually live it?

Create ease in my body and mind right now.

Create ease in my body and mind while I work.

Since I’m writing this blog now, I’m going to start with ‘while I work.’

I decided that what will best support my ease is to dive into this blog, so I dove into this blog. I started by telling myself, “let it be easy.” It does not have to be grueling or self-punishing. Let me repeat that. It DOES NOT have to be grueling or self-punishing.

As I sit here and type, I’m going slow, breathing, and staying with my body. I’m noticing when tension creeps in, and relaxing BEFORE I continue. 

I also notice my desire to be perfect and sit here until every word is right. My perfectionism won’t rest (ever) and wants me ground down into a pulverized piece of dust, water-deprived and head aching. Thing is, I don’t want that. And I’m the big boss. I wear the leopard print shorts around here.

So I’m just going to witness that part of me and let it sit next to me while I do things differently. 

I write down what’s coming, let it flow “good” or “bad,” and trust that time will be my friend and collaborator and when I come back to edit. (I’m here in the future, editing, and I was right.) It will be clear what is important and what is not.

When I feel complete, I soothe that perfectionistic part of me and tell it, “You can trust me. We’re done for now. We’re going for a walk and we’ll come back later.”

So that’s bringing ease into doing the work. Now for the right now. This one’s for you, version of me looking ahead at the calendar.

I’m often tempted to cover all my bases and prepare and think of every possible thing that might happen or what I might need or what that person might say, or, or, or….

But when the moment actually comes, it never feels like I predicted. Something I was excited about disappoints me. Something I was anxious about actually felt okay. Some random thing I could never have anticipated changes how I see and do everything anyway.

It’s not useful to spend the currency of the present trying to predict the future. 

Part of making things harder than they need to be is drawing the “hard” toward us, into the present moment.

Why do we try to predict the future anyway? Because WE WANT TO FEEL EASE NOW. The irony! (Go ahead, let yourself laugh at how silly our minds are sometimes.)

The more I focus on the future and try to pin my security to that, the more I’m actually pushing my security away. The emotion I want to feel, can only ever be felt NOW! When I’m feeling it! 

So, instead of trying to feel ease by fixating on the future, I have to relax and allow ease. Right, the fuck, now.

Here’s one way. I name something in my life that I trust. (I am a creative person. I have things to say. I have done hard things. There are people who love me. I am safe to sit here and just breathe.) These things aren’t going away. I let myself relax into them.

How does trust feel? 

I can exhale. My focus comes back to my body, in the present. My shoulders start to drop. I feel solid. I’m breathing more easily.

So when I notice my body start to get tense or anxious, I practice feeling trust. I bring that into right now. That way, when life comes, I can meet it with ease.

The future will come in its own time.

It’s okay to feel good now. 

The other day at ecstatic dance (a sober dance event with a DJ that’s about moving how you feel) I overheard someone telling his friend that he loves it, but stopped coming for a while. He said, “sometimes I deny myself the things that bring me the most joy.”

YES! WHY DO WE DO THAT?! Why do we resist things that feel good?

There’s the classic, “I always feel better after a workout, but I struggle to get to the gym.” This makes sense. Exercise is hard. But what about things with a lower barrier to entry that JUST FEEL GOOD?

Newton’s Law of Inertia says that an object at rest tends to stay at rest. (And an object in motion tends to stay in motion.) I think this explains why in the gym scenario, it helps to get up and put your shoes on. Now we’re in motion. 

The exact wording on Wikipedia is: “Every body continues in its state of rest…unless it is compelled to change that state by forces impressed upon it.” 

There has to be a significant enough force to change states. 

Okay. We want joy. Why isn’t that enough? Psychological inertia? If we’re sad, or bored, or numb, or angry, it takes a significant force to shift into something else. An object that’s sad tends to…stay sad?

Maybe there’s also fear - “what if it doesn’t work?” From inside an emotion, it seems like whatever’s happening will continue. 

Okay. Let’s introduce a force.

Maybe we go for something quick and dirty. Low barrier to entry, a guaranteed fix. Like the raw cookie dough my partner keeps buying even though I tell him not to because I don’t have the force to resist eating it. It doesn’t make me feel good long-term (or even medium-term), but it’s definitely going to taste good right now.

Sometimes cheap joy get us in motion and reminds us that the other kind of joy is possible. But usually, I just eat the cookie dough and feel gross.

I know that. You know that. So let’s address an opposing force at play here: self-sabotage. We all have an inner “fuck you.” A shadow. A little devil on our shoulder that wants to fuck shit up.

We want to feel good; our brain knows that cookie dough (or your cheap joy of choice) requires minimum force.

Then in comes the little devil saying, “you already feel like trash, eat the cookie dough.” An object that feels like trash tends to stay feeling like trash. 

Underneath the desire to feel good, we also have a trash feeling. The part of us holding onto guilt and shame. The part of us harboring a secret feeling that we don’t deserve happiness. That we’re the one person joy won’t work on. That we’re insignificant and bad and it doesn’t matter anyway. 

Mr. “fuck you” can use this internal inertia to strengthen his case. Then it takes even more force to overcome.

But the good news is, if we stay and dig deeper, underneath the trash feeling, there is an even deeper desire for everyone, including us, to be happy and at peace. Like an emotion sandwich: desire to be happy, desire to be sad, desire to be happy.

If we can tap into that, knowing we’re up against inertia, we have a better chance of mustering the required force to get back in motion.

An object dancing tends to stay dancing.

Last week, I wrote about slowing down and hibernating during the winter. Allowing life to be more…less. 

This week, I’m sick and work is slow. AKA I’m being forced to practice what I preach.

I feel like shit, I’m bored, and I’m asking myself, “why is it so hard to just BE?”

And guys, trust me, I’m doing all the things. I meditate. I journal. I spend time outside. I stretch. I exercise. I am in touch with myself. (Like, REALLY in touch with myself.) I’m super comfortable being alone. And I have great friends and a loving relationship. I love what I do and it feels important.

And yet, I can’t escape the tedium of existence. 

So this week, I’m going to write as raw as possible. Because life isn’t a tidy blog post about how I’ve figured everything out and here are 10 ways to everlasting peace.

I always get to the bottom of posts like that and feel…well, nothing. I want to feel closer to the person that wrote it. I want to experience their mushy center. I want to know there’s another vulnerable human out there, trying. Being real, not perfect.

It’s soooo tempting though. I catch myself ALL THE TIME. Thinking I have to have it all figured out, presenting a shiny shell and thinking that’s what makes me “good.” 

But that’s how we miss what’s really there. I think what makes me good is my humanness, my energy, my presence. Being and listening with my whole heart.

When I listen like that, the path reveals itself. 

Listening to myself right now, I’m tired. My face hurts from holding in the contents of my brain. My throat feels dry and scorched. I want to feel “complete,” but there is no complete. Life just keeps going. Maybe I wrote something that will touch someone. Maybe I didn’t. But my body says, “I’m done and I’m thirsty.” So I’m going to post what I’ve got, put my laptop away and drink a glass of water. See you next week!

I’ve built my life around avoiding cold weather. I live in LA and spend lots of time in Mexico (ahhhh 85-90 degrees of sweet, sweet humid air).

But yesterday, I realized a shortcoming of this genius plan. Winter is the time for hibernation, just ask a bear. And like the Moon, every month, my body cycles through weeks of being more energized and social, then a week of being more sensitive and withdrawn. By running away from hibernation weather, I’m perpetuating the idea that I should be ON all the time. I’m not respecting my nature.

Regardless of the body we’re in, we all suffer from exhausting standards of productivity and perfection. Thankfully, for some of us, those standards shift during “the holidays,” this mysterious period of time in November and December, sometimes creeping into the border months of October and January, where we get some grace to take time off, be less responsive and “be with family.” 

Do we really do that though? Do we really allow ourselves to rest, set boundaries with technology and spend quality time with loved ones? Or do we get a pumpkin spice latte and a tree-scented candle and continue right on being stressed and preoccupied with what’s going on in the world?

How do we actually Winter?

I think in our heart of hearts, we all just want to be cozy and safe. To get to that part of the day when we can just sit on the couch and watch TV, or be in bed snuggling up. WHO DOESN’T WANT THAT?! To let go the day, not think about what we have to do tomorrow, and just BE.

The problem is, all day long, all year long, we’re training ourselves to be…not snuggly. To be immediately responsive to every notification. To chase down every fear and worry that surfaces and get up to fix it. We stay in a state of alertness and tension, anticipating what’s next, ready to be interrupted. Then we finally get to the couch or the bed we spent all day craving and it’s IMPOSSIBLE to shut off those processes.

Do I have answers? I sure have a lot of questions. I sure feel overwhelmed when it all comes down on me and I don’t have it together. I sure feel tired and frustrated and sad when I feel far away from how I want to be.

Here’s what helps me. I don’t have social media. I don’t watch the news. I unsubscribe from things that take more energy and value than they give. When I get a text or email, I ask myself if I have the space to read it and respond before I open it. (I notice that I’m better at this when I’m not tired.) If a thought pops into my brain and it seems urgent, I take a moment to separate the thing and the sense of urgency. Is this thing really urgent, or is it tapping into my fear? (It’s pretty much always the fear one.) 

Basically, I limit the input, and I slow down. This gives me more space to feel. And then I feel safer, because the whole world doesn’t seem like a raging dumpster fire that I have to put out. It feels a little more like being snuggled up on the couch. 

I’ve been thinking a lot about how I wake up in the morning. Sometimes, I’m energized and excited for the day. Other times, there’s no amount of snoozing that can satisfy me. As a socially anxious kid going to school, or when I had jobs I couldn’t stand, I’d wake up with enormous dread and anxiety. Some mornings, I still feel the echoes of those emotions. My body remembers waking up into a life I hated. Now, each day, I am practicing waking up gently and giving my body space to acclimate, ease the transition, and imprint how I want to live. Here’s a poem about that. It’s called “Breakfast.”

What do we feed ourselves

as we warm up to waking?

Consciousness flips on, 

percolating like a coffee maker.

Bringing thoughts, 

sensations,

emotions,

fears.

All surfacing

over the embers of fading dreams.

Observe the texture of this tender moment.

Sometimes, my skin has melted into the sheets.

Deliciousness seeps 

into every pore.

Other times, 

my mind is a slip ’n slide. 

What seeks to be freed 

comes barreling down that bright yellow stripe between death and life

like a kid on the first day of summer.

A vivid rebirth, 

each time I open my eyes.

Just allow

each 

cellular 

stretch. 

Go slow, 

we’re remembering how to be alive. 

We’re learning

and learning

how to gently awaken.

How to move

with respect

for the pilgrimage we’ve taken.

Rock me awake 

like a lullaby, backwards.

Treat each crumbling eye crust like gold 

from the mines of deep rest.

Let the body tell the story of where it’s been

and where it’s going.

Ask it softly,

What do you want to eat?

What do you want to weave?

Show me the mark you want to leave.  

Paint me a memory

that feels

like ease.

Last Monday, I arrived in Mexico. Since then, so much has opened up. I’ve learned new words, met new people, walked down new roads…you know, things you do when you’re in a new place.  But the most profound opening has happened inside me. Thursday, some mild stomach issues suddenly became unbearable cramps, fever and an inability to do anything but lie down and occasionally hobble to the bathroom, for hours. It was brutal. It was gross. It was humbling. And there was nothing I could do. 

Except, I’m a badass witch that can move energy. So as I laid in bed, moaning through waves of pain, I breathed and shook and held different parts of my body, helping it pass whatever was moving through me. 

For the last year, since a mysterious download from the Universe, I’ve been learning from my own body and others’ to figure out how this crazy shit works. Each time, I unlock deeper discoveries and validate wilder hypotheses from my intuition. Being so sick and forced to surrender so hard to “something else,” I got another peek behind the curtain. Consider this poem a recipe.

There’s a splinter in my chest. 

I can feel it. It feels like heartache. 

Old,

and deep. 

I’ve been pressing into it. 

Hard. 

Squeezing the skin and muscles. 

Trying to force it out.

But that doesn’t seem to be the way. 

Okay.

How do you extract a splinter? 

You soak it. You soften the surrounding flesh.

With time, and the right conditions, 

it works itself out.

And so I gently bathe it, 

in warm, soapy love.

I sit patiently beside it and say,

“Take your time. I’m here.”

It aches? I ache with it. 

I place my hand on my back. 

I can feel the muscles start to relax. 

A tear bubbles to the surface.

Do we all carry hardened hearts? 

Bony spines, laid brick by brick

to protect our tenderest parts.

But hardening doesn’t keep us safe 

from the hardness of the world. 

The wound inside remains, 

quivering within its cage. 

I’m reminded every time someone gets close,

or I’m in that certain pose, and my neck hurts. 

But my neck hurts all the time. 

A cold, dull pain I drag from place to place. 

It sits, like a stone. 

Heavy shield

I’m too tired to hold.

Every time I crash, I learn a new way to break. 

A new corridor breathes.

Life flows back

into parts of me I didn’t know were there.

The slower I move, 

the more my bones start to speak.

The cartilage unkinks.

My heart 

wakes up from the inside.

Pumping fresh blood,

a primal hum

shakes itself free.

It doesn’t want to be 

anyone I’ve ever been, 

only who it always was.

Born to swim, 

and dance, and run.

Go where there is life and take it in. 

Wherever you walk, create a path.

Smell flowers, light fires and laugh.

Sit in small, dark rooms with the walls painted blue

and cry.

Most of all, give it time. 

You can’t unfold all at once. 

You’re not a house of cards. 

Your being was built over years and years. 

And the threads of its coding are the oldest fiber. 

You can’t rush open space.

Gold only knows how to whisper.

So listen close,

and wait.

This week, I dove DEEP into my mind. I wrestled and wriggled and fought with myself. I straddled extremes and struggled to land in the middle. A symptom of this condition, I wrote two things. One - a gentler take. A description of the place I want to be, instead of the mind cavern I’ve been wandering through. The other - the cavern itself. The harsher environment and what it feels like to be there. I flip-flopped back and forth, a little of this, a little of that, unsure which was IT. That paralyzing uncertainty is all too familiar, so I’m choosing the third way. Here are both, co-existing.

Something Softer

I want something softer.

Something softer

than sticking my hand in the sharps bin of my mind.

Something easier

than wading through thoughts lined with booby traps and black holes.

I want to bathe in warm sand. 

Curves cradled, floating

in an ocean of shifting dunes.

Wearing each tiny grain like a stand-alone diamond.

Touching twinkling stars in a sky of smooth skin.

Lying peacefully under the blanket of the setting sun 

that falls and rises each day like slow, even breath.

Trusting the sky to stay open and the ground to stay firm,

I can rest.

The magic of nature’s wiser hand

carries me beyond my wildest dreams

and through my willful-est worries. 

There’s something about being humbled

that makes me feel safe. 

A cosmic smirk woven into every thread.

A pattern I don’t understand,

but must have a place in.

The Part of Me That Wants to Hurt

There’s a part of me that wants to hurt, that insists on it. It’s not as loud as it used to be. It’s not as much of me as it used to be. Usually, it’s not even there. But when it’s there, it reminds me of when it was all of me. When I was drowning in the fog. When I would lay down and pray to be taken, somewhere quiet.

Relief. I craved reprieve from an inside world that didn’t relent. It cast its shadow on the outside world, too. Every interaction threatened to confirm my worst suspicions. The walls closed in around my smallest parts.

Escape. I wanted to be anywhere other than where I was. But I couldn’t leave my body, so I shut the windows and boarded the doors. Might as well be swallowed into darkness. 

I visit this boarded up house from time to time. My nails remember scratching at the walls. My voice knows pleading to no one to let me out. If I stay for too long, I can feel the shrinking. My options narrow to two: explode into chaos or delete my existence. There is nothing between. There is no right amount of space to take up. It’s all, or none. There is no some. Some is too fragile. Some is too scary. Some doesn’t compute. And yet, life is lived in the some. Life hurts some. My body gets tired some. My mind slows down some. People move closer, and further away. And on it goes. No final rest. No perfect solution. The part of me that wants to hurt wants self-destruction, if it can’t have self-transcendence. Just being my self seems impossible.