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I am your body, and I am functionally designed to provide several magical foundations for physical, emotional, and spiritual support. Perhaps the most revered is my pelvic bowl or the chalice, a physical design I proudly feature for your global support.
When my deep belly and pelvic space is free and open, I feel your deeper breath and your free mind open to its silence so that a sense of timeless Being resides once again, just like when you were a child. This brings me tensionless joy! My hara, the lowest locus of consciousness that I possess, is the dimension through which the emptiness of Being is known as Itself. The awake, pristine unqualified Being beyond and through which any experiential content from the sensory organs and mind are felt. Through my chalice you can experience the empty cosmos and likewise experience the full content of your personal story; the infinite holding the finite. I am of the stars bowing to your Soul and I promise that you can be spiritually grounded no matter where you live, the forest or the 27th floor of a building in a big city. It is Source energy descending from the top floor of the crown to the bottom floor of the pelvis. A vertical down descent that transforms all experiences from the personal to the collective to the universal! Alas, my pelvic area has been a challenging one. I have been constantly adjusting from years of crossed legs, tense muscles, held breath, surgeries, and foreign invasions. I am trying to restore harmony and health, but I need help. I am not only carrying tension, but ancestral dis-ease and unfelt emotions. I would ask you, please, please give me your attention to release tension from these layers of history so that I can feel, move, breathe, and celebrate. For I am the vehicle of a forlorn intimacy that is longing to share sacred security and flow.
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Feeling into the free flow of pure consciousness in all Beings alike and sensing the qualitative impressions of very precise and specific information in each unique creature and species; a skunk being a skunk; an elephant given all it needs to know itself exactly as it is, an elephant, with no confusion. And so, it is for us as humans. The impressed samskaras and inherited information on literally all levels is exactly the needed imprint for this lifetime without question. This kind of true trust is an invitation to relax into the mystery we have been given with awe and wonder.
This gray wolf might look scary, but deep down, he was just looking to express love. He was diligent in striving to be a better he-wolf, a better mate. He studied the 5 A’s of relationship: Acceptance, affection, appreciation, approval or acknowledgement and attention. He truly meant well, hoping to apply his new knowledge with his she-wolf. Yet he found that when simply receiving or giving love, there was an old and familiar feeling of resistance deep in his heart that pushed her away. He feared she would notice and so he worked even harder with all his A’s.
One day the he-wolf expertly tracked this visceral response, discovering an anger, probably to do with his mother he recognized, for she had been particularly critical, often yipping in an overly strong voice. He felt the ancient wall of protection in his heart, the separation that kept him safe from feelings of inadequacy and rejection. Only his mate was not ridiculing him. It was a reflex that he could not seem to shake no matter how much appreciation he practiced. "One of the gifts of my wolf presence is allowing the sensations/feelings that previously could not be felt at an earlier age", he shared. Wise wolf, so true. So, let us see what happens then if we allow the sensations of anger, meeting and welcoming the wall. He let it diffuse and relax enough to discover what he knew was hiding behind. And there it was, the sens-a-tions of rejection and shock. He gave this his soft attention, acknowledging the protected feelings at last. Appreciating them with a tender affection as if holding them for the first time. It was different this way. Knowing about this part and continuing to protect is very different than including and feeling. This inner A practice provided a huge relief as feelings moved as sensations. In their wake he experienced a heart opening and a humble wisdom that was palpable. He realized that he had learned to treat himself the way he had perceived his mother treating him. With a criticism so strong that he was constantly desiring to be perfect. When the hurt softened and his big, wolf body relaxed, he no longer coupled the criticism with perfection. He could just be; strong, loving, and available. The he-wolf continued to practice the inner 5 A’s instead, offering his heart with openness. He saw that he was using the A’s to feel better about himself, but he experienced a greater healing and wisdom by applying them to his own broken heart. And having done so he no longer had the need to project perfection onto his she-wolf, and she could finally relax too. The sage Ruler wanted her to marry him, and all signs pointed to that truth. He was committed, ‘in’, and ready to tie the knot. Rationally, perhaps pompously, he evaluated that it was the right thing to do. However, she was barely ready to consider marriage despite the many things that she had said yes to: Buying a house, starting a family, planning retirement. Her original family beginnings were too chaotic, and it was her birth that started the years of discord. How could she be the cause of more discord her heart screamed, no matter how much she loved him. She was paralyzed. And it was precisely because they bought a house, that the need to control his kingdom was born. This brought out the tyrant in him: Expectant, demanding, righteous, and unfeeling, the Ruler hated this part of his DNA, yet it would sneak out in inopportune moments causing shame and frustration galore. His inclination toward authority over his love’s sovereignty disgusted and confused him, and so he felt caught between two very uncomplimentary parts often leaving his new kingdom to find solace. When desperate, he would give ultimatums and use force to support his entitlement and then sulk back to his work shed, wondering what on earth just happened. Hanging his head, he expressed how much he wanted to honor his would-be wife’s timing. He really desired to respect her choices and lean into what she could give him. But his family was adamant. Marriage is both the key to being responsible and to being part of this family. It is what we do if you want to belong. And so, the sage ruler was in quite the dilemma, rejected by his mate and ridiculed by his family. Now the ruler was a modern guy. He truly, in his heart of hearts loved his lover and could be unattached and constructive at the same time. But this nagging ache in his gut, born of a need for guarantees left him paralyzed too. He could not be sage, nor a ruler of his kingdom which left him impotent and codependent. He was lost in his own palace. As it turned out, and because he loved her so much, he was willing to override the force of his DNA so to become the sage ruler that also lived in his gut. The wise in him held the unwise and the power in him held the chaos of disorder that had created the need for control. He positioned her throne next to his at the front of their big, wrap around porch, and held her hand with unconditional care. He gazed at their ringless clasp in total awe and acceptance. He had not lost anything save the constraints of freedom and joy. Possums are amazing creatures.
They have very sharp memories, rarely get rabies, and are mostly immune to snake bites. But what they are most known for is playing dead in front of predators. When the animal experiences intense fear in the face of danger, it seizes up, flops to the ground where it can remain for hours staring blankly ahead, sticking out its tongue! It’s an impressive defensive mechanism, but they have no control when they play dead or for how long they do it: The comatose-like state is an involuntary freeze reaction to stress. Another similar creature of the south is the southern belle. She is as sweet as iced tea, enviably put together, and has an inherent and polished comfort in the ‘woe is me’ victim persona. For some, it is the unquestioned and undebated archetype promising a means of survival. It cultivates a peculiar focus on her disempowered feminine as a way of controlling her predators, peppered at least with fun and frivolity. Unlike the possum, the southern belle was chronically seized in her freeze and fawn state, backed up with moment-to-moment responses that were an effort to guarantee safety. Responses such as apologizing, holding back true opinions, having a hard time saying ‘no,’ putting others needs before her own, trouble with boundaries, fixing, rescuing, and often changing opinions or preferences to keep the peace. All while appearing impeccably beautiful. You cannot take the predator out of the victim or vice versa. And the victim would readily accept the chivalrous protection of those who accepted the legitimacy of their claim to command. Unlike possums, the young human adult creature carries the shadow archetype of their parent into its opposite expression. For the Belle, she would swing into a position of power, suddenly aware of other women too. She wanted all woman from the south, north, east, and west to be powerful. She believed herself to be victorious and free. She too would make the journey from ‘me too’ to ‘what’s next’ by combatting any weakness or sense of disposability. She even changed the way she spoke and dressed to demonstrate her fierceness. She called herself a Goddess! And, to no avail, the belle would predictably, if not underhandedly, strive to fix her mother’s powerlessness hoping she would take control of her life. Belle turned victor was tired of her predecessors irresponsible and often predatory behavior where she expected special treatment and an exemption from life’s responsibilities. The mother would try, often making what would be a barely recognizable bit of progress that was quite unsatisfactory to the reformed daughter’s new expectations. The southern goddess ran into a glitch when despite all efforts, her life became full of chaos. She was forced to stop and recognize that her inner work involved directly facing the form she was running from. It felt counterproductive and unnatural, but she realized through crisis alone that it was necessary if she were to embrace and fulfill her hero’s journey. This turning inwards first meant overcoming the propensity to immediately freeze and shutdown for she needed to be conscious and choiceful. Now the southern goddess wanted to regain the true independence and freedom that she missed in her upbringing. Fighting for the victim is very different than evolving into sovereignty and the ‘leaning in’ required for maturity, sharing connection, needs, and disappointments. This woman matured by honoring the history and legacy of the victim status in her family and gender without blame. For the victim learned to demonstrate its power like a possum playing dead to control its predator. Humbly seeing the generations of shadow archetypes playing out through the women of her extended family, she could see how being the victim was a safe way to keep from feeling exploited and unsafe, albeit with the burdens of secret, chronic complaining and cynicism. She no longer needed to feign fragility, being special, attack the patriarchy, or for that matter anyone else in her way. The southern belle turned victor became a woman of her own making, embracing, and moving beyond the legacy of her kin. She was now free to welcome other women into the realm of pure power, naturalness, and celebration too, not as an arrogant birthright, but as an evolution in consciousness. One that trumps ‘me too,’ and ‘what’s next.’ Sandy Bunch Yes, we all know this stereotype, AND there's all the actual Women of the South who are some of the strongest, toughest, badass women I've ever known or met.
· Shared with Public Good morning!!! She is so young, small, and close to the ground that she has a bird’s eye view of the litter from her mother’s nightly disgrace. Empty bottles and cigarette butts. Clothes strewn around the living room where she sleeps with an unfamiliar man on the old, stained sofa. Vomit to the side of the room, the little one grabs something made of cloth and mops it up. She does this every night because she loves her mom, and she has no choice.
Height is an issue. You get to see things straight on, like what happens on that couch. Things that are seriously not helpful to see. Or right. To make it right, she protects her moms’ stories with silence and searches the house for food. Nothing. She and her slightly bigger sister walk unaccompanied to the local food store and beg. Luckily there is always someone to help, offering crackers, soda, bread, chips. It will do. They eat as they walk home giggling out loud while secretly dreading what lies ahead. What lies ahead is more of the same. And worse. Now, it makes sleeping at night impossible. When she gets into bed it is very important that she falls asleep immediately so there are no memories. No recall. No images. No sensations. No faces. She drinks like her mom to forget. Vigilance is necessary to ward off terror, and not your everyday terror, but the root of all terror: The worst ever. She feels debilitated, crazy, one crisis after another. She stays busy, busy, busy, all day for as long as she can, then crashes at night with clever ways of coping that change from one decade to the next. She feels guttural, no longer human, and cannot remember when she ever did. “I want out” her mind says while her body recycles the trauma constantly preparing for the worst. Her nervous system is stuck in a freeze, fight, and flight mode, surging from one minute to the next. She had consequently become tolerant of and angry toward her body, her behavior, her thoughts, her feelings and all the situational consequences of coping. She had persuaded herself to be super kind to everyone else, especially the innocents, while feeling globally bad on the inside. She had learned to demand health by putting her body through harsh exercise treating herself the way her mother did. But, as a last option, kindness won. She had not considered that kindness toward herself was ever an option, but this torture, this cruelty was enough. So, she whispered lovingly to her aching body, welcoming the feelings of her wounded child, sweetly toward her sore heart inviting her whole self to safety. Day by day she is learning to soften. And sleep. The cater who waited enabled all her guests. She tirelessly waited for them to show up, time and time again, even if they would make a reservation, reschedule, reschedule again, and ultimately cancel. Frankly, this went on for decades and she continuously catered to their scattered inconsistencies. This fortified the waiter, evolving a poise of niceness and uber flexibility. Secure in her perky roles, she hid the grief she might have felt for those who never showed. And commensurate to each and every time her guests did not show up was to equal degree the distance from her heart. Waiting became a skill and a virtue. During all this time, however, there was one potential guest that she consistently neglected. A guest who was always ready to make a reservation and to show up. But the cater saved her tables for guests who could not, so this guest was forgotten and denied. Now the cater/waiter could only mildly complain about her would-be guests. She saw nothing wrong with her waiting and the need to ‘do’ for others. Afterall, complaining gave her more to focus on and fix and her whole demeanor had adapted perfectly for this job. “My guests are so unreliable” she quipped. “What is wrong with them! I will just stay available for that magical moment when they finally keep their word.” And of course, they never did. Then, on one gloomy day, alone in her empty restaurant, the cater/waiter thought about the one guest that had never been received. Typically, when he called, she would share “I am busy. Busy waiting. Sorry, no tables.” Well, that guest waited too, and for a very long time. Patiently waited for her readiness to receive his presence and his commitment to really, really show up. But what a shock that would be because now the cater/waiter would be resolved of enabling and forced to receive and engage. Ready to try, the next time he called, the wavering waiter said with courage, “I have the perfect table for you, yes, right at 4:00. See you then!” And she received her very first guest, an elderly man. One who waited a lifetime to be included in some pitifully minimal way that could not measure up to the care he felt all those years. But he took what he could get with love. The Irish Viking Bear Clan left unwillingly for the new world. They were already renowned for their barbarism, looting, trading, and their uncanny ability to write poetry before they landed abroad. They took little with them save their frustration that marked their status and fame.
Once they landed by boat they did not travel far by paw, remaining near the shore and finding refuge in the swamps and wetlands. The whole clan came together, which meant there were many mouths to feed. Now, the Viking warrior bear has many strengths such as toughness, courage, heightened intuitive abilities, discipline, determination, skill, and invincibility. These attributes were so needed to survive in their new home range. But their shadow side weaknesses include brutality, ruthlessness, fear of impotence, arrogance, and mostly, dominance. In the Bear Clan the warrior had become the villain using their skill for personal gain, without a thought for morality, ethics, or the good of the whole group. They loved to get their way, maintaining control, and responding to each other as if they were a threat. This devastated the baby bear Viking who grew up with extreme violence and soul crushing manipulation. Learning to normalize her bear clans’ ways, she too became a mama bear with three male cubs to raise. All three babies carried the old traits in their blood fortified by their papa bears ways which led to increased chaos and inexcusable behavior. The mama bear was blindsided by the juxtaposition of the villain in her and the need to give care and nurture. She found herself saying things to make her big, male cubs feel guilty using her care taking to control or smother her sons. The guilt was unbearable. Literally. She felt broken, hopelessly funneling her ancestry through her words and actions, a victim of the shadow side from the lineages of her own mama and papa. The mama bear began to give up. You could see it in her eyes. Absolute helplessness and hatred for the shadow in her family, she hid in her silence, aggressively lashing out at her sons in the most innocent of moments. And this would only position her sons more perfectly as villains too. And she knew it. Now, I am a mama bear too. I came from the next range over and one day dared to enter her territory. Mama bear to mama bear I asked her to call her entire clan to a meeting. They agreed, with a lot of sotto voce grumbling. She stood next to me as I requested, in front of all the bears and we looked them in the eye, warrior to warrior. We honored their virtues for skill and care, letting them know that we see their pitfalls too. We know because we carry them. We looked kindly upon them in their ways and asked for permission to live life differently, an Irish blessing for a new way in a new world. Every bear looked at us with incredulous eyes. How dare we leave their world of violence and cruelty. Nonetheless we waited and finally one clan member, a great grandmother, slowly stepped forward on all fours. She bowed her head to us and muttered, “Do it for me. Do it for us. Do what we could not and look forward with my blessing.” My friend the mama bear fell to all fours and walked up to her grandmother, forehead to forehead and cried. They stayed in this auspicious position long enough for mama bear to receive a true transmission of love and care. Grandmother and mama bear stood up on hind legs facing their clan. Grandmother walked back to her big family and left mama to see. Really see that her clan had lost meaning fighting battles unwisely. That they had lost compassion and generosity, harming each other in the wake of their selfishness. And, somehow, she loved them, recognizing their hidden strengths and disguised care. Her heart ached knowing that she might have to leave her sons with their clans shadowed ways as she made her way out of the family code into a different way of being in this new, new world. I promised her that doing what she needed to do came first and the rest we leave to mystery and faith, her sons securely in her heart. She agreed, emboldened by the blessing she received and ready to proclaim, “I am new, I am, a warrior and a lover!” A real bad ass in the ‘not safe to relax’ department. Get going now, and do not stop. I will protect you from the grip of insecurity in your throat, in your chest. Do not see me, allow me, judge me, or appreciate me because I have an agenda. A hidden agenda. I get you places, big places in the world. Top notch, high paying places that give you safety, right? That is my job.
Only now you don’t feel safe. That cannot be. The maverick, strong, independent thinker, becomes impatient, tense, sleepless and alert. What hides behind the ever-mighty Maverick? Those sneaky beliefs that smack of never enough. Too this and not enough that. Tongue tied and small. Muted. Silenced. Threatened. The holy rule is ‘never speak of this.’ NEVER SPEAK OF THIS. The maverick knows that this is no game. She protects the one who lives in a crisis of honor, shamed by those who do shameful things, impure by those who carry the stench of disgust. Confused and in deep need of security, free of vigilance, especially when she needs to speak. Because that is the job that the Maverick earned her. Speaking is not only her job, but her nemesis. Sharing passion while betraying the holy rule is such a double bind. Frozen breath. Collapsed body. Foggy mind. There is only one way out. She felt the little one protected by the Maverick hiding in plain sight and gleam- beamed her with loving eyes and saw. Allowed her without an agenda. Compassioned her without judgement and most of all, appreciated her just as she is. She relaxed. For a moment. It is a start, and it was enough. And damn, the Maverick spoke and put the silencer in jail. Butterfly Blue
The blue, blue butterfly really loved ‘cozy’: Bread making, nest making, decorations, and scents that feel like safety and home. In her young youth she looked about and innocently equated being married as her only way to create this dream, perhaps to a capable, male monarch. This way she could play her warm, fuzzy part and make and admire art all around the world! This, she knew, would feed her Soul. The butterfly had two blue babies and time with her mate, succumbing to his temper, losing herself, while he was in control. She felt trapped in second place, merged in subservience, tolerant of his endless charades and winged patrol. But her second place was not to her monarch; it was in denial of her full adult butterfly self. The child butterfly who wanted a fantasy of dreams had led her life in full flight long enough, and the burdens were now too great. For one day, through her blue butterfly anger she saw that it was easier to be mad at him than herself! She saw her projection and turned inward sensing the anger as a call for a great need. The need for a greater perspective! The need to move beyond her tenaciously persistent and younger dream. Not angry at her male monarch but welcoming of innocent fantasy for a sacred sort of safety. In Blue’s story it is helpful to know that when she was a little one, her Daddy monarch could not show up for her nomad family. She and her Mama lived a life of poverty and wishful thinking, wanting to be higher on the social ladder, cultured and smart. They created a way out from, and a denial of, the nagging lack of warmth or luxury. Her best friends’ parents were married, and they went on big trips together, coming home to share their memories and mementos. How blue longed for a depth of beauty in life. So much that she would absolutely be willing to trade in independence and authenticity for a taste of such richness. She did not leave her mate for as the Monarch experienced blue’s shift, shift so did he! He no longer felt responsible for his wife’s younger parts subservience, and he could relax too, appreciating her soulful love of art. He loved that she could fly with their two blue, blue babies all the way to Italy to admire classical art and architecture. He loved that they would fly back home too and share their adventures with him. The Work: Merging is real in the dance of subservience and dominance, one lending itself to the other in equal doses. This can be played out in extremes in the complex realm of sex, communities, governments, and our own living room. Below the fight for independence and authenticity are layers of unconscious, complex agreements made and kept so to maintain safety and belonging often coupled with a deep need for appreciation. This too plays out in the larger world in ways that render disbelief. In this work, rather than keeping the unconscious agreement fighting in defense, demanding honor, celebration, or appreciation we boldly meet each layer with open curiosity allowing a deeper rest and release. And we may need to visit these layers a hundred times or more. And it would be completely worth it. I have seen this prideful form of demanding in couples for example, where honor is lost in waves of resentment, easier to be angry at the partner than to face our own conditioning. However, in knowing this, do I choose to take a personal interest in releasing layers of unconscious beliefs so I may vibrate with an uncomplicated, pure sense of honor and power? Or do I remain loyal to a mishandled range of contempt or rage? I say, do it for ‘you’ first because that means doing it for all. |
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