Save Her. Savior. Save Your Self.

I often find myself in the role of the untamed heretic of my tribe, unwilling to fully digest the kool aid. The Enneagram would attempt to explain that is a normal consequence of my being a “7”, the jack-of-all-trades, master of none syndrome. My astrologer assures me it’s my Gemini moon giving levity to my Taurus sun, while disarming my Scorpio rising. I suppose I’d say the same if I could fully devote myself to any one manmade system compartmentalizing all the gorgeous chaos of this juicy messy life. Instead, I keep flitting around from idea to idea, tribe to tribe, checking out the wares and never buying the proverbial real estate. 

Here’s the deal, I don’t care about your fucking business. AT. ALL. I could give not one shit how much money you make. Seriously, this is me not caring, lalalalala.

Here is why: I care about your soul. I’d love to introduce your ego to her. I’m here to rouse that sleeping Goddess in you and get you dancing in ecstasy, howling at the moon, and becoming the most radical, unapologetic, honest version of yourself. Maybe making butt loads of money is a symptom of that, or maybe it means you’re quitting your business entirely and go straight up Eat, Pray, Love on our asses.

Over the last decade I have witnessed myself, my clients, colleagues, and mentors cycle through a similar process. It has become tediously predictable, it’s practically paint by numbers. Maybe you’ll recognize it…

Part 1 is sparkly with lots of glitter, investment invitations, and over the moon promises, ahem bought it hook, line, and sinker. It feels like a hot crush, and smells like cookies baking.

Part 2 could simply be called the workaholic phase, but we can only use that term waaaay later in hindsight. For now let’s just say, she has no time her friends, lovers, children, personal hygiene, home cooked meals, and free time. Social life now means networking.

Part 3 is success finally! Or kind of, well almost, I mean I’m not getting paid for it yet but…

Part 4 is making a living. Poor choice of words since “living” usually entails having fun, hobbies, vacations (as in computer turned off), spontaneity, leisure, enjoying nature, parties and such. I mean the bills are getting paid.

Or maybe she’s even crushing it financially, and still she wonders at what cost.

Part 5 is the break down, which is comprised of sub stages: depression, feelings of being a fraud, lack of inspiration, addictions revisited, weight gain, faking it til ya make it, hours wasted on FB, and general self loathing.

Part 6 depends on if she hears the full moon whispering her name, and is she willing to betray her calendar in order to save her own soul. Can she open her mouth and fill the space with the guttural cry that looses the dam of truth and tears? Will she remember who she was and still is underneath her brand, her vision board, and her team? Will she do whatever it takes to dive in and rescue that precious pearl of her inner knowing, to adorn herself with the only accolades that ever mattered, the glorious truth of her own priceless essence? Yep I’m talking about the reclamation baby. The moment she realized this was the only prize she was desperately craving. Her own approval was all she was ever yearning for. The business, the clients, degree, titles, fancy figure income, all of it was only there to fulfill the old proverb: “Ya don’t know what ya got til its gone.” She had to lose herself, to find Her Self.

I call it the Shero’s Journey.

Like I said, I could care less about your fucking business. Show me your soul.

Take off your shoes, maybe all your clothes too. Get out there under that big sexy moon tonight and soak it in. Bathe your sweet self in mystery, inhale autumn’s seductive musk, while the soft animal inside of you runs wild again.

Let your ego root itself in your soul.

I’ll leave you with this quote from a wise, wise teacher of mine.

“It is best to be humble and not expect something majestic, for then we would probably miss what does arrive. Yes, if our sensing is subtle, such that each bodily cell becomes a star or a rose, we will recognize the mystery when it arrives. Its impact, like an earthquake, might rearrange the very ground of our lives.” Bill Plotkin

Who The Hell Do You Think You Are?

They started showing up, bringing with them their pain. The layered scabs of sexual abuse, and the punishment of eating disorders were laid at my feet. 

 "Who do you think you are to help anyone? You're a frickin train wreck." 

The cruel belittling voice that had kept me playing small, suddenly ceased to commandeer my life. (I didn't say it went away mind you, it had just lost it's totalitarian grip on me.) Simultaneously, another voice became painfully audible. I believe it's often referred to as The Calling. Sounds cliche I know, but still, there it was calling me... calling me out. No more stories about being too young, too old, too messy, too white, too poor, too privileged, too loud, too imperfect... 

I stepped forward with bold humility, having no answers, but some ideas, no cures, but some practices, no beliefs, but some curiosity. I asked to be a vessel for something greater than my ego's mandate. 

Ironically the wounds of these women were the same wounds I'd been healing in myself. It was nothing I had advertised about. Actually I wasn't even talking about it to anyone yet. Nowhere in my branding did I even hint at molestation, rape, or bulimia. Apparently the energetic ad world superseded my website and brochures, and my niche market was barreling straight to me. 

What I saw in my own journey was the common denominator these wounds shared: Self/Body loathing. Yeah, turns out it's quite a pervasive thing. In the last decade of doing this work I've come to realize that no matter what brand of abuse women have endured, or self inflicted, the same common demon, I mean denominator is present. I have yet to meet one of us who doesn't come face to face with this insidious symptom of our cultural conditioning at one time or another, let alone the millions of women who are driven, consumed, and crushed by it.

We can fling around the ball of blame, hurling it at the patriarchy in general, media, the modeling world specifically, parents, or whatever your fave flave of fault is. It doesn't actually help other than that immediate and fleeting exhale of "at least I'm not to blame." Oh, but aren't you? On some level we are all agreeing to this collective cruel consumer contract. They're only selling what we're buying.
But that is a whole other blog, speech, or lifetime workshop about voting with our dollar.

In the black sea of body dysmorphic retail campaigns, there is one who has risen of above and replied to the cries of young girls, moms, career women, menopausal mavens, and our wise women elders. I've never been to one give a rah rah to corporate anything. I'm a small business owner, farmers market, buy local, organic, chem free, kinda babe. And yet here it is on a massive scale that only the corporate world has reach and breadth for, the 10 year old Dove campaign. A seed of consciousness was injected into the corporate cookie cutter machine, an infiltration of sorts. I can not deny the smile that rushes in, or the tears that these commercials have brought. My heart whispers thank you. 

It's as if the work I, and so many of us have been devoted to, is being broadcast on the big screen. A macrocosmic recognition of what the microcosmic grass roots feminist revolution is doing. Rather than diss it with arguments of what Unilever's other companies are up to (ahem Axe Body Spray, yes I get it.) can we just pause, nod our heads and admit that this is significant progress? We all know the road to wholeness, respect, and Self love is a long one. Let us welcome every ally, even if they are making money at it, because last time I checked so are we.

I'll keep doing the work of bringing women back home to the wisdom of their unique perfectly imperfect bodies, and bringing women back together in Circle, in community and collaboration. You keep doing your part. We are affecting the whole. We are influencing the collective, or Dove wouldn't be mirroring this back to us. 

Keep looking for what IS working. In the meantime, eff perfect, you be you!