Last week, I wrote about my discovery from sex coaching that I’ve been putting off pleasure. All kinds of pleasure. I resist life’s sensory delights and don’t stay present for the good feeling parts. That was a big revelation.

This week, my coach said, “it sounds like you don’t trust it.”

(Imagine me dumbfounded…and a little sad.) She’s right.

The story under the hood was that I didn’t deserve it. I already have so many blessings, it would be UNFAIR for me to also ENJOY them. 

UMMMMYEAH, it’s absurd. It’s obvious when I write it down. Of course this is not my philosophy. I don’t believe this for myself. I don’t believe this for anyone.

But that doesn’t change the fact that it’s been living in my body. And I’ve made all kinds of excuses to keep it there.

Right now as I’m typing, I’m thinking, REALLY? I’m going to put these words on a page for people to read? 

Yes. Because if I don’t, I’m letting it stay in the shadows and in power. If I don’t, I’m putting a story about myself above my actual self. 

I’m done protecting an idea about who I’m supposed to be, over my living, breathing human body.

Where did this idea even come from? I’m sure working hard to uphold it. Is it mine? Or is it a parasite I let in to make myself small enough for someone else’s ego? (Guys, it’s the second one.)

It’s been there for a long time. It’s taken a long time to get myself to the point of declaring it openly. It’s taken a long time to start getting help about it. It’s scary to take the CHANCE I could trust pleasure.

And while I can’t dig out overnight, what I CAN do overnight (overday, overblog) is make this declaration to myself, loud and clear: 

I am no longer feeding the story that I don’t deserve my blessings.

I trust pleasure.

WHEW. It’s scary to say because it makes it real.

Writing is powerful. It helps me crystallize my thoughts and make them real.

I like writing as a poem or a prayer. Things I hope. Things I feel. Things I want to make real.

I hope this gets you closer to whatever you want to make real.

I deserve to be closer to Me.

Closer to the Heart that never stops beating in this chest. 

Closer to the Blood that never stops pumping, never stops feeding, never stops cleaning, never stops trying. 

Let me see the abundance of invisible thread holding us together, 

so I can remember, I am never alone. 

Someone touched everything around me.

Someone sewed, someone washed, someone dreamed, someone sweat. 

Someone cared, to create my world. 

It is here. And I belong.

Help me be humbled by all that is meant for me.

Help me receive with grace so I may share with generosity.

May I shine my light fearlessly, so others may see through the dark.

May I be fearless in asking others to show me through the dark.

May I clear the wounds that block reciprocation and connection.

May I be righteous in my pursuit of pleasure.

May I know my true gifts.

May I feel them so my cup may be full. 

May all of our cups be full. 

Full, 

full, 

full.

I woke up with a lot of anxiety this morning. It’s normal for me to feel weird first thing in the morning. I’ve written about it before. Our bodies are waking up, our minds are coming back online. It’s a pretty big transition between states of consciousness. It’s more than usual, but I also know from years of waking up with sickening, all-consuming dread, this is okay.

I remind myself of these things and breathe deeply as the thoughts and plans and worries start to come. I tell myself that it is okay to take a few minutes to just be. I can feel that my mind is not convinced, but I’m going to stick it out anyway.

I ask to be filled with all of the Love that exists out there and wants to be with me. I imagine that it is pouring into my body from above. That I’m breathing it into my lungs, filling my chest and my belly. I relax and surrender to this new energy I’ve asked to help me. 

I observe a slight shift in the balance of power. The anxiety feels like only part of what is going on rather than the whole story. I tell myself shakily that it is okay to focus on something other than the anxiety. Everything it wants to worry about will be okay. I will get all the things done. The answers will come. The anxiety is not part of the solution. All it is doing right now is making me feel bad. What I need now is patience and compassion.

Feeling more confident and connected to that compassion, I ask my body to show me the places it is holding the anxiety for it to surface and be cleared. I feel a tightness in my sternum and diaphragm, like it’s hard to breathe. It’s been there all along, but it seemed normal. I didn’t recognize it as holding anxiety that could be lessened. The path of tension reaches up my back, into the back of my neck, my throat and my tongue.

I continue breathing with compassion and let these parts soften into the Love. It’s uncomfortable. It feels a little like I’m suffocating and a little like I might throw up. I place one hand over my sternum and one under my neck, offering soothing energy and comfort. Breathing, I let them come. I feel the strength of the Love supporting me. I feel the gentle exchange between my hands and the places the anxiety is sitting. I feel movement and heat as that sick feeling starts to work its way to the surface. I allow my hands to hold it, then let it go. 

Lastly, I came to my computer and started writing. I just described exactly what was going on and what I was doing. At first, I didn’t intend it to be anything but a blank space for me to observe and then release the discomfort I was feeling. But maybe someone else could benefit from reading my process. So here it is. 

It isn’t perfect. It didn’t delete my anxiety forever. But little by little, I am getting comfortable with the discomfort, learning I can trust myself to be with anything that comes up, and ultimately, feeling better. 

May your discovery process bring you closer to peace, Love and comfort in the discomfort.

I woke up today with a plan for what I was going to write. I made myself breakfast and sat down at the table. Looking at the computer, my stomach dropped. My plan didn’t match what I felt.

When I came up with it, I was excited. But now, it feels like a chore. And forcing myself into a cage is not why I write poetry. I write poetry to find magic in the truth.

I write poetry to guide me toward flow, even when it isn’t what I expected when I turned on the tap.

This morning, turning on the tap, I am in an apartment I’m moving out of, surrounded by objects I have to get rid of in the next ten days. I am overwhelmed by the life my past self created. I’m ready for what’s next. Pero bueno…

I had a whole plan

for what I would write.

But now I feel, “fuck it.”

I’m less than alright.

I don’t want to make something

that misses my pain.

I don’t want to ignore

my stress and my strain.

My stomach feels icky,

my head is a mess.

I’m doubting myself.

I’m afraid and depressed.

I want to write freely,

from the nowest of nows.

And in this very moment,

it just feels like “ow.”

I could push it aside.

I could press on instead.

But that’s what I used to do.

I ended up dead.

?

What if 

I let go of the thought

that perfect is out there,

somewhere else.

?

What if 

I have everything I need,

but never stopped

to check.

?

What if

I bathed in the warmth

of what’s here,

right now.

Here, my inner richness sits,

while I search the whole world

for the treasure I’ve painstakingly carried

every, single, step.

The gold inside

waits patiently to be discovered

the moment you open the door.

An ocean

waves, and waves, and waves,

knowing someday, you’ll come home.

Your hands reach out

to hold you.

Your heart bursts forth

to feel you.

Your eyes long to close

so you can see.

Okay, so that’s the poem I wrote for this week. But here’s the very first thing I wrote:

“Oh god, what am I thinking, I need to get into flow, how will I do that, just keep writing. Listen to something that will calm me. I feel really good about being here. I have some anxiety.”

Sometimes, there’s more to clear out before inspiration strikes. But today, this was enough. Every time I sit down to write, I’m afraid that nothing “good” will surface. But, 9 times out of 10, patience yields something I’m proud to share. If I can stick with it through my mind doubting and struggling to adjust its rhythm, I can find the flow. It helps me to think of it this way, to remind myself that my job is not to try to write. My job is to stay open long enough for my thoughts to get out of the way so something more interesting can come through. Of course, I put my brain to work finding the right words, and shaping what comes out. But if I let it get too involved, it strangles the magic. Here’s to the mindfuck of trying to not try, just the right amount.