murmurs from the peep hole

                                              Will I just disappear if I continue moving inward? Can a person actually implode? 

To whom it may concern,

I am now the gooey liquid inside the cocoon, no trace of the caterpillar or the mythological butterfly the stories promise. 

I am the new moon, invisible to the naked eye. See me if you can, the ghost, putting my ethereal hand on the door knob expecting it to turn. My gumby legs collapsing under the weight of my emotional body as I try to run. When food tastes like sand and the sun only rises in sepia, what then?

Peering out of my one eye peep hole, I am comforted in my kennel of confusion. It's a vortex of slow blues, lucid dreaming, and stained sheets. Watching myself from above, I am curious what this strange animal will do next. Picking off the scabs of who I've been and still surprised how I bleed.

Placing your orders right now is futile. Productivity is a foreign tongue and reminds me that I am not a human doing, at least not all of the time. Times like this, uncomfortable and awkward are only for being. Stay present, don't check out. After all there are no epidurals for the birthing of one's Self. Damn.

On a funnier note, as I typed this I received two accidental one word texts from my mother. The same message 2 minutes apart: "be". Got it mama. Thanks.

Metamorphism: Alteration of the composition or structure by means of heat, pressure, or other natural agency.

The Beautiful Divorce

Is there such a thing as a beautiful divorce?

I think so. My idealist is absolutely positive. The rest of me just really hopes.

 *Stomach gurgling* as I look at my path ahead. This is the bridge before me.

Nothing has any meaning except the meaning I give it. Easy to say, rolls right off the tongue like so many other disembodied concepts. Now is the time to live that like I’ve never lived it before.

The truth of my spiritual practice doesn’t happen at the mountain retreat center in the hushed whisper of a sunrise meditation. It doesn’t smell like lavender and sage, nor does it dance to tingsha bells.

I spotted the truth of my spiritual practice last week at the hospital in the face of the psychiatric team with my son, as the intense loneliness of no one holding my hand shook me. I felt it the next morning at 3 am in the salty brew of snot and tears and stifled screams. It was there again yesterday as anxiety pounded on my chest and clutched my throat. I even heard it in the feeble request for help that murmured it’s way out my mouth. 
Each one of these was accompanied by that same subtle sensation. Did you know there is a felt body sensation associated with getting caught in victim mode? 
Neither did I. 
By recognizing that familiar old sensation and the stories it spins, stories of blame, something shifted. In that painful illuminated moment, choice rushed in. Suddenly I could see a whole new layer of my old patterns and how they most certainly would wreak havoc on an otherwise could be beautiful divorce. 
My spiritual practice gained footing, it leapt off the yoga and meditation mat, taking on a real life of it’s own.

Tradition has taught me that divorce must be ugly, mean and filled with suffering. Tradition has taught me that a marriage means forever at all costs, anything less is failure. In a life unshackled by tradition and external approval there is room for Self-inquiry, for mistakes, mystery, and adventure.

Luckily for me I have a husband/former husband (who also believes in creating a new possibility. Who is willing to shock the masses and naysayers and do whatever the hell we want!

We choose possibility. We choose a new way. This is my blank canvas if I stay conscious I can paint completion of my marriage, this farewell, this bridge before me beautiful after all.

I’ll keep ya posted.