Breaking Silence

 It's late and my mind tried tricking me into staying silent again. I'm sick, I need my rest, I have an early morning tomorrow. I feel nervous to speak up after all this quiet. The bottleneck of words have woven a noose around my neck. My throat chakra is gagging on the truths I don't tell.

I stopped. How dare I keep writing about the trivial individualistic emotional upheavals of another privileged white woman cheering on a sea of other privileged chics? I stopped writing, stopped coaching, stopped public speaking, stopped being ambitious, productive, stopped marketing, stopped making "F**k Perfect videos", stopped leading retreats. I stopped All. Of. It.

It was literally nauseating me. In a world where serious fucked up scary shit is going down, I'm over talking about personal growth and development. So now what?

Two things are up in my face. I returned from India a couple days ago. It was a powerful kick my ass, chew me up and spit me out kind of trip. I'm still sick, feeling weak and unsure what's happening to my health, sanity, spirituality, and interuppted reality.

Second is the cyst on my heart around the latest white supremacist bullshit and the lack of response from myself and most of my comfortable white community.

I just read a blog that brought that cyst to a head.

Layla writes,

"so let’s talk about the hypocrisy of entrepreneurs who claim that their work is all about empowering others, and yet, when the time comes to speak up about white supremacist nazis and racial injustice, they are silent.

As my friend Jess Sells Wertman said, “Know the difference between a leader and a marketer. Many marketers like to style themselves as leaders, but that doesn't mean they ARE.”

Many so-called leaders in the online business world tell us that their work is about changing the world, leading revolutions and transforming people’s lives. And yet… in the face of racism and injustice they say next to nothing or simply re-share someone else’s inspirational meme. This isn’t okay with me. It is my believe that if you have a platform, you also have a responsibility.

And the bigger your platform, the bigger your responsibility.

But what I am witnessing is that many (but certainly not all) of those with bigger platforms are much more hesitant to speak out. Perhaps because of how it might affect their positioning or the optics of their brand. Or perhaps because, as Jess said, they are more marketers than leaders. Or maybe their leadership only extends to becoming a big brand name and getting featured on Oprah’s SuperSoul 100 list.

These are not my leaders. I refuse to give my time and money to leaders who perpetuate what writer and feminist marketing consultant Kelly Diels has labelled the Female Lifestyle Empowerment Brand, or FLEB for short.

Kelly describes FLEB as both:

• An archetype women must comply with and embody in order to be deserving of rights and resources, AND
• A marketing strategy that leverages social status and white privilege to create authority over other women.

fleb is complicit in upholding white patriarchal supremacy.

FLEB focuses on the empowerment of the individual, rather than the collective. And if it does focus on the collective, it’s often focused on a very narrow view of who that collective is (which as you’ve guessed it, is usually white women). FLEB casually uses the hard-earned language of activism and revolution to sell empowerment to those who already hold a lot of privilege in this world.

In the spiritual business world, I’ve seen FLEB perpetuated by white women entrepreneurs who devote themselves to doing deep spiritual work for themselves and their clients, and yet remain absolutely silent on anything to do with politics and justice.

I’ve seen it perpetuated by white women who believe that the best thing they can do is just focus on being a good and loving person, and serving their (largely white) audience and sending love and light instead of actually speaking up.

It absolutely boggles my mind that there are spiritual entrepreneurs who do not see the clear link between the work they do as healers, mentors and teachers for their paying clients, and the work that’s needed in the world for our collective healing and liberation."

Please read the rest of this blog for further much needed ass kicking.

Intuitively this is what I know: fuck your brand, fuck mine. We're not here to make money. There are ancient knots we're here to unwind. This skin thing is one of them. A big one that winds its roots deftly with patriarchy.

It's scary for everyone. Yes there are times I've kept quiet in my own way for fear of saying the wrong thing when I'm trying to "help". (Seriously though, as white people who mean well, but keep making racial blunders, please just tell me what is most needed. I don't know what I don't know. The sooner we bridge that gap, the more headway we can make) Have you avoided getting involved for fear of receiving judgement because you said it wrong, failed to mention this or that, and in the end it was easier to procrastinate than risk it. Risk what though? My life, Your life? Well no, so maybe that's privilege talking. It's time to grow a pair sister. (Don't worry I'm talking to myself as well.)

I don't have some razor sharp plan of action I'm about to lay on you. Instead I have a couple places to start...

Those of us coming from the schools of personal growth and development have had drilled into us this mantra, "What you focus on grows." The logic behind so many people's silence is that if we focus on racism, it'll only grow. Okay I get that. What if we focus on actively creating many solutions to racism? What then? Oh right, the solutions might grow.

What's the solution? In a universe of infinite possibility why would there be only one solution? Come up with one or ten, or thirty. Internal and external actions. Get creative, do something, anything! (More than re-posting anti-racism memes).
One of the internal practices I've begun is noticing the social/political climate of every environment I'm in. What can I contribute here? Another internal action: because I'm a woo woo weirdo (#owningit) is bringing into my meditation a visualization practice. I see the entity of racism as a screaming baby writhing in its own pain and I become The Mother and bring it to my breast. Yep that Love thing. I still believe it's the most powerful force on the planet. I also still believe fighting for peace is like fucking for virginity.

External action? Conscious conversation is a must. Not just conversation, mind you, I said conscious for a reason. While it feels great to shut down racist talk and shame people who are being obvious assholes, it doesn't do anything but strengthen the root of their sickness. Here's a real life example: I had an old man, one of my barbershop clients, who would regularly season his casual chitchat with racist talk. He was a partially deaf, and a total bigot, or so I thought. Each time I encountered him I would get angry and feel my stinky sweat come on. I wanted to scream just GTFO! I told him on several occasions that I didn't share his views or tolerate that kind of talk. He'd shut it for the remainder of that time, but next visit it'd come out of his mouth again. It was habit. 

I knew there's a huge chasm between shaming him, getting him away from me and mine so I don't have to be confronted by his beliefs, and actually creating some real change or an opening for an internal shift. My ego just wanted to restore comfort. It wasn't interested in seeing this as an opportunity. GULP, busted! When I got brave and opened up a conscious conversation, one of curiosity, I began asking him questions, genuinely seeking to learn where he was coming from. Turned out he had a very traumatic encounter right after the Korean War that led to his nasty general fear of anyone who wasn't white. As I listened and kept asking questions he began to identify for himself the silliness of assuming everyone was like the 3 men he had been hurt by. We talked about how many white men had done the same things, maybe even worse. He actually thanked me for our talk. The last time he was in I watched him start a conversation with an East Indian client while they were waiting. This never would've happened before. I get he's just one person, and all that. True, through the lens of the micro that's not much, but shift into the macro and let's look at the collective. The root of racism that runs through all of us is a collective virus. Any change we make has to reach down to root level. Screaming insults in someone's face about how ignorant they are, will only strengthen every prejudice they have, thus strengthening the collective virus. Every single one of us is capable of change, of opening our minds, and learning. How can we facilitate that? As for more positive impactful actions, I'm humble and I'm open to learning more all the time.

Also can we please distinguish between the people who are truly hate mongering and the greater majority who are merely uninformed. Malice is very different than being oblivious. Most people are sheeple, mindlessly believing what their favorite media flavor is indoctrinating them with. It's matter of education before rage, attack, or violence. Again what are my actions contributing to the collective?

Moving right along. You're a racist. So am I. Stop denying it. The amount of energy well meaning white people have wasted on positioning ourselves as innocents could power all of Vegas for eons. It has also powered more division, hurt, hunger, and war than we have a metric for.

Shut up and start listening. You don't know what you don't know. Ask questions, take responsibility, try on accountability, and quit trying to be right.

I am privileged. That doesn't mean I haven't worked hard. I'm not going to go on about this one because there are many more articulate and more patient voices who have laid this one out in paint by numbers for you. I will say this. Even though I was born to a single mom on welfare, grew up poor, got all my clothing second hand, didn't go to college, I still grew up privileged. Yep because my skin is white. It's true. Even today when I walk down the street at night, no one locks their doors, or moves to the other side of the street. Why? Because it's just some lil white chic. Why do I get pulled over and not get arrested, shot, or even a citation? Because I'm a cute lil white chic. Why will I get the job before so many others...yes LWC. Have I used that to my benefit? Of course I have. What about you?

Why am I able to pursue the minimalist lifestyle? Move out of big house into a tiny home? Get rid of all my extra stuff? Because I've had all that. My privilege helped me get into that affluent first world problem to begin with. Only because of that do I know what it's like to crave simplicity.

What I'm wrestling with at the moment are the lingering images from India. Really messed up ones, like me buying a pair of pants for about the cost of 1 avocado here, while a scrawny dirty street child tugs on my shirt begging for rupees. I know many of these kids are being pimped out to beg. I also have been warned that if I give them money I'll become a target. And yet, I am a mother. Here is a child alone in a big city, in need of so many things and I'm not supposed to help? I haven't reconciled it yet. My stomach turns and I've cried about this more than once. I needed that trip the way we all need reality's periodic bitch slap.

I don't know where to start, so I'll start here by speaking up. I know that by ignoring the yuck in the world and only focusing on the positive, nothing will change. That's a bunch of privileged new age drivel that only perpetuates suffering in the world. When we're afraid to look it straight in the eye, it will continue to get stronger. Closing the lid on the shit you just took and focusing on how clean the rest of the bathroom is won't make it stop stinking!

It's time peeps, let’s put down the quest for making our already unbelievably easy cush lives even better, lay down the game of hoarding even more money and resources, stop with the popularity contest already, so we can see what's happening right in front of our faces. We'll screw it up a little, say it wrong, offend some people along the way, and too bad, keep learning, speaking up, and most of all keep loving PLEASE.

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! 

Confessions From One Vain Broad to Another

Never in my wildest dreams could I have known the day was coming. Never was there a glimpse, glance, let alone a gaze lent to that covert patch of litmus flesh. How could any of us have known?

We’d been bombarded with the miracle eye creams, wrinkle plumping serums, and “cover that gray” hair dye ads since birth. But this clandestine tell tale pocket went undetected until it was too late.

This is not an "I hate my body, only youth is beautiful" propaganda post. It is however, a "woah for reals guys, this most natural thing in the world is actually uber strange" post. So if you can deal with my real...read on.

The first round of “don’t know what you got til it’s gone” debuted post childbirth, that smooth flawless taut belly skin. Love handle? What’s that? Followed by the fast fading ass to thigh demarcator, and then the “Girls Gone Wilted” post breastfeeding funeral.

How many youthful mirrored moments were spent blinking back teenage tears, all of my luscious, fresh bloom eclipsed by my war against zits? My babysitting fortune repeatedly plundered by Noxzema and Clearasil promises that never delivered anything beyond interesting smells and some red flaky dry patches.  Meanwhile the smooth supple zit free skin that covered 99.9% of my sweet lil body went unnoticed.

We all go through it cellulite, spider veins, and the general entropy of the Earth suit. Still I feel like I’m actually the first, last, and only woman who will ever traverse this human aging sojourn. Adrift in a sea of my entire generation I suspect I am alone in this. I’m the only vain broad in the bunch. Everyone else gets out alive and in tact. My bullshit story and yet…

Back to the latest shock, I attributed it to ill-fitting bras. Where is this strange textured stuff coming from? Is it my boob, arm, armpit? Is it fat, or is it skin? What is going on here? Help, someone come quick, bring duct tape, and maybe some Windex or hemorrhoid cream too.

I had over 40 years to admire my armpits, and never, not once did it happen. Hidden beneath deodorant, tucked so neatly under my arm was this lovely little spread of tidy not going anywhere epidermis. Right up until it went. I’m watching now, (call me an ageist) I’m in the know. I see the next phase, I’ve noticed how it spread down my older friend’s entire upper arms. Everyday I’m reminding myself to look beyond the armpit goo to lovingly appreciate the parts of me I’ll be wishing I had appreciated.

I want to be graceful about all this, taking it in stride as I assure all the babes around me that we got nothing to worry about. Keep calm and age on sisters? Fuck I don’t know, this is weird shit and it’s only just begun. Frankly I’m tired of some of my “ultra spiritual, love light and rainbow” peers saying it doesn’t matter, I think they’re lying. I bet deep down it makes most of us a tad bit squirmy. Can we just admit that? Everything else up until this point: heart break, child birth, divorce, loved ones passing, and losing my religion, was only basic training for the biggest challenge ahead. The slow and steady deterioration of the body I was finally getting used to, just learning to love, is the main event.

A friend of mine who volunteered in war torn countries, told me about sitting with groups of refugee women. These women had lost children, husbands, seen their entire villages burned to the ground. Once the initial shock had worn off and a state of normalcy had returned, the conversations sounded similar to what one might hear in a LA salon. “My hair looks awful, my grays are showing, this stress has given me new wrinkles, did you hear so and so is sleeping with blahblahblah” Yeah, same old tiring drivel. WTH? I only judge because I had hoped to point the finger of blame on my western privilege and having never experienced something truly worth complaining about.

Lately I’ve read articles and heard lectures about new advancements in extending human life via interesting stem cell magic and other sciencey voodoo. While this certainly appeals to my immediate vanity and the primal urge to cling to life, something else in me shudders. I remember reading some new age thoughts on growing old years ago. The author surmising the reason we age and die is because we believe that we have to. I think back to my old English sheep dog, Chauncey, lying cold to the touch. I doubt she was busy believing in the aging process, plagued with the fear that she would someday die, and yet she did. Trees, animals, humans and all of nature dies, so something new can be born. Defying that feels like more human egoic lack of foresight. BTW, the author making these claims has long since gone gray and aged like the rest of his generation.

What if this fantastic bizarre freak show called life, as grand as it maybe, is only a larvae stage in our development? This death of the Earth suit is a transition, not an ending. In my mind’s eye I see us all standing in line outside the amusement park. Some of us get through the gate, while those left in line mourn, making up all kinds of stories as to what’s on the other side of the gate. Doctrines and dogmas emerge to be fought over. Some who are in line devote all of their focus, study, and time to ensuring we stay in line even longer, as if this is all there ever is or will be. We fight hard to hold our place in line and slow down the inevitable “death march” into the amusement park.

(It’s all a story anyway, so why not this one?)

In closing, if you’re young, enjoy your armpit skin while it’s barely noticeable. If you’re moving up in the line, fuck it, wear a tank top anyway, or don’t. If it feels weird and uncomfortable to watch your body change in ways you never expected, you’re not alone. You are one of the beautiful messy imperfect humans, like the rest of us. I have no 5 step magic method to offer you, no pills, smoothies, meditations, miracle suit, or seminar. Trust me none of know what the heck we're doing, so put your seatbelt on sister, here we go. 

What if you didn't know that you are already happy?

Sand Art and photography by Benny Olvera

It's one of those questions that makes the brain grunt and back up a few paces, asking, "Is this a trick question?"

Seriously think about it. It's a bit like when you're sick as hell, barfing your guts up and you realize that months, even years have passed and your health was there in tact the entire time while you were busy complaining about other things. 

Or when some miserable SOB dies, and suddenly his wife who bitched night and day about him, has nothing but nice things to say about him?

The perpetual pursuit of happiness seems like a symptomatic plague of privilege. The easier our lives become the more we suffer from invisible plight. The more money we throw at self help, escapism, and "Fix me" snake oil remedies, and the more frustrated we become.

Is it only in hindsight, looking back on photos, recounting the good ole days that we realize how happy we were?

Yesterday I was driving in a rain storm. My 19 yr old son in the front seat shouts, "Mom I don't think this guy is gonna stop!" 

I hit my brakes just in time to avoid being broadsided by the black blazer speeding through the stop sign. We came literally inches from smashing into it. With my hands tingling and my heart pounding, I pulled over to devote all of my attention to just breathing.

The litany of petty customary complaints that sully my first world perspective fell away instantly in the stark reality of life's fragility. Flashes of what it would be like to be paraplegic, brain injured, or childless, shocked me awake. Problems? What problems?

Suddenly working limbs, eye contact with my boy, a family and partner that love me, and the blank canvas of life ahead was all I ever needed in the world. 

Happiness has been there all the time, like my heart beating whether I notice or not. It's a baseline condition when all my essential needs are met: shelter, food, water, and love. Yes I cover happiness up with concerns about business, parental expectations, political stress, and other drama. But when something like almost dying clears the bullshit away, all that remains is gratitude and the simplicity of happiness.

Last night my husband read me a beautiful reminder from Eckhart Tolle. Success isn't something that we attain by sacrificing and working hard. Success is simply being awake to the one and only moment in front of me. Making this moment the best one. Then whatever I am "doing" is infused and amplified with how I am "being". That conscious moment is success. These moments strung together like pearls make for a continuous life of success. Never forfeiting present life for some accomplishment down the road. (Ask any old or dying person, they will agree.)

I bring this up for two reasons. First this gives me a chance to thank my husband, Benny, for inspiring me to write this post when he asked the question, "What if you didn't know that you were already happy?"

The second reason is that happiness and success are often linked. Therefore it is imperative that we understand the true meaning of success. When we see it as possible in this very moment unburdened by effort, deed, or triumph, then we can slow down. We must slow down, let go of the all the ways we're shoulding on ourselves, all the ways were making this moment wrong.

Stop now. Breathe. Success and happiness are yours right now. See you've been happy all along and you didn't even know it. 

Can you feel it? 

What we give our attention to grows. I think I'll leave mine here for awhile.