I Always Answer When The Universe Knocks Twice

two

Six months ago I was in a coffee shop near my home and picked up a business card. It grabbed my attention for many reasons;

  1. The design was a partial mandala made up of symbolic shapes.
  2. The mandala with colored with chakra colors.
  3. The symbolism and  inherent femininity of the businesses name.

Everything about this business card spoke to me. I went home, looked up the website on the card and felt even more drawn in. I felt that I was meant to connect with the woman behind the business, for some reason I hesitated, somehow I knew it wasn’t time.

A few days ago I was with my soul friend at a tea shop near my house and while checking out their bulletin board I found a few things that spoke to me. I jotted down the information to look up later.

This morning I looked up the bulletin I was most interested in, an event I would like to be part of as a volunteer possibly. It sounded like a day camp for pre-teen and teen girls over the summer that was all about connection and sisterhood. When I pulled up the website there she was, that same woman.

This is the second time the universe has presented this woman to me. This time I reached out.

I am interested in the event and would love to help if help is needed but now it is bigger than that. I needed to reach out because for some reason I am meant to make a connection with this woman.

Two has been my favorite number for as long as I can remember. In general I prefer even numbers but two in particular is special. When the number two presents itself to me I always listen, it is usually telling me it is time. I don’t need to understand things when I see this symbol, I just know it is time to take action.

Side note: My life path number is 6. I learned this sometime ago and while I wholly identify with this, something also felt off. When I first looked into numerology I was sure my life path number would be 2 because of how this number has showed up over and over and over in my life from a young age. Fast forward, numerology apparently goes beyond the life path number (I am new to this and still learning) there is a destiny number as well, also called an expression number from what I understand. I did the math, low and behold my destiny number was 2 when I was born, just like my life path number was 6. Now it makes sense. 2 has always been a guiding number for me, a number that helps me know when to take action. This all makes sense now.

Through my intuition and guidance received by my guiding number I somehow know my path is meant to cross with this woman. I do not need to know why or how, I did my part.

Ashes and Balloons

balloon

I have been thinking about my breath recently. I realized a while back my tendency to hold it… hard. It is as if it gets stuck. Stuck in my mouth, my nose, my throat, my chest; never making its way to that parts of my body that are screaming for it. I was in a lot of pain a few weeks ago, so much so that I thought I was going to wretch. I held my breath tight, I held everything tight. I do not like to throw up, I know most people don’t, but I am pretty willful about it, much like a child refusing to eat their veggies I will do almost anything to avoid it. It turns into an all out war and the biggest victim of this crisis is my physical body.

After a while of holding my breath along with tensing every muscle in my body I let go. I let go and I took a deep deliberate breath into my belly and then let it out. My belly was screaming for that breath and when I finally gave in I actually began to feel slightly better. My lesson learned that day is to trust that my body knows how to take care of itself. I do not have to tense up in a power struggle with my body in order to avoid an outcome I find unpleasant. My body knows what to do to take care of itself, to heal itself. I do not have to control this, I am safe to let go and trust that my body will do exactly what it needs to do, even if that is wretching.

I was thinking about my breath again today because I found myself holding it again while talking about and experiencing emotions around something very difficult for me. Again I was not trusting my breath or my body.

I was not trusting it because this time I had this vision in my head that if I let go I might start to hyperventilate until I was so filled with air that I float away never to be seen or heard from again. OR that I would take one long deep breath that reached all the way down to the bones of my feet and when I let it out it would take all of me with it and all that would be left of me would be a deflated balloon, empty and left over, overlooked completely. OR worse yet, that breath out would reduce me to a pile of ash easily scattered on a breeze never to be seen or heard from again.

I did not trust it. Then my body began to hurt from the tension and I had to ease up. Once I started listening to what my body needed and taking these deep healing breaths focusing my breath on where the pain was most intense – my neck, my heart, my throat, my whole upper body- it felt better.

 

You Can Tell Everybody This is Your Song

us

A very special part of mine and my husband’s love story is the part where he asked and I said yes.

When my husband and I first began communicating online I made it clear that I wanted to take things slow and get to know him through email before meeting up. My husband respected this boundary and one month later when I asked him out on our first date he asked, are you sure you are ready? and I said Yes. My husband never made a single decision without me whether it was surrounding our first kiss or moving in together. He always asked and I said Yes.

I love this man because he has always understood that love is not about taking, it is about asking. Something I believe many people do not do because to ask is to allow yourself to be vulnerable, you have no promise of the outcome. That never stopped him though. He always asked. My kind of love is vulnerable. It is honest, without armor, it is built on trust. Trust that when you are standing there naked in your vulnerability asking, the one that you love will not leave you stranded, even if the answer is not yes. There can be love in answering No as well. Sometimes that love comes from within, it is how we show up in our self love. Self love does not take away from the love of the other which is why there is love in answering No as well.

In our story more often than not when he asks I say yes, and we both know that when we do say No that is coming from a place of love as well. What is important and what makes this love story special is not the reply but the fact the he asked.

I love this man because he has always understood that love is not about taking, it is about asking.

The song lyric that popped into my head when I first considered writing this post was I hope you don’t mind that I put down in words how wonderful life is while you’re in the world.

If you ever read this, you can tell everybody this is your song.

Bowl Full of Cherries

cherries

When I was 9(ish) I was sitting on the loveseat after school eating cherries. My brother was sitting on the floor of the family room playing Nintendo. I was watching, bored. I wanted him to play with me and I knew he wouldn’t so I devised a plan for a game of cat and mouse.

I leapt off the couch, dove in front of him and turned off his Nintendo. Holy hell was he pissed! He yelled at me, leaned forward onto his knees, turned it back on and continued playing.

A few minutes later I once again set my cherry bowl aside, jumped from the couch to the TV and switched off the Nintendo in the middle of his game. He was furious as he once again leaned forward onto his knees and reached to turn it back on. This time while he was leaning forward on his knees I took one of the cherries from my bowl and placed it where he had been sitting on the floor. A moment later, squish! My brother’s very favorite bright yellow denim shorts (it was the early 90’s) were covered in cherry juice the color of blood. My brother’s very favorite shorts now had a bloody butt.

With that the room exploded!

First with my gut twisting roarous laughter followed immediately by a mad scramble as I catapulted myself off the couch and down the hall to hide in safety behind my locked bedroom door; visions of my brother’s hot breath on my neck as I sprinted away.

I do not have a proper ending for the story because I do not actually remember the ending. What I can tell you is the fact that I do not remember means it more than likely ended badly for me as I have always been quite skilled at blocking the unpleasant stuff out.

I got my game of cat and mouse though, even if it was maybe more than I had bargained for.

I have never lived this story down in my family. And while yes, now it is told as a funny anecdote from time to time, I still have shameful feelings about it. My brother was just trying to relax after what was more than likely a difficult day at school- he had a lot of those. Then here comes little sister starved for connection and willing to take extreme measures to be seen. I feel bad for the times I made things harder, I wish I hadn’t. I never wanted to be just another bully in his life, quite the opposite actually.

Sometimes I wonder if I forced him into the role he played in my life when we were growing up. If I had been less of a pest, less needy, less like myself, would he have laid off? Or was I always meant to be his punching bag?

Maktub

I have been trying to feel this new writing space out. It does not have a clear underlying intention the way my last blog did and that has left me wondering who will I be here? What story needs to be told? While I figure that out I decided I would just get started writing because I have to. I have to because I do not have the capacity to hold all of my feelings and thoughts and life inside my tiny little body.

I think maybe it is starting to become clear and that clarity has brought with it some fear. My writing has always been about the one thing I know, me. I might cover outside topics pertaining to society, or family, or relationships, or social justice.. art, music, literature.. Always through my lens though. I know about one thing and that is me. My feelings, my thoughts, my impulses, my wisdom, my story; and at times I am not even positive I do know all of this.

I started to wonder if this is my story space. I have a story space that is private. It is my dark writing place for no one but me. It is where I attempt to process the dark parts of my story in a way I never have before, by externalizing it in a safe way. What if my last blog, and my dark writing space, and the last 24 years of writing, and therapy have prepared me to be seen in a new way: by really telling my story. I know I am not ready to tell all of my story because there are parts that I still get lost in and do not have words for yet. There is a lot that is ready I think though and maybe it is time.

 

My Heart Knows No Age

age

While I was taking a shower today I was singing Down in the Valley by The Head and the Heart and planning out my week. More specifically I was thinking about Moo, my niece. Every summer for the last 4 or 5 years my husband and I have had summer sleepovers with my niece and nephew. They both get their own special day. This week is Moo’s week.

I was thinking about the plans we have made and everything I need to do to be ready, like clean the guestroom. I was also thinking of bigger things like how my heart has never perceived age when falling into friendships.

When I was 21 one of my closest friends was over 60 years old. She was local artist in town and we knew we were kindred when we met. Now one of my best friends is this sweet little 7 year old. Yes she is my niece, she is also my friend, we are kindred.

My husband is younger than me, my closest friend from college more than a decade younger than myself, some of my closest friends and advisors now are more than a decade my senior.

My heart knows no age, whether that be my own or the age of those I love. I think that is good. I think it is good and I think it true for more than just me. A heart knows no age, it just knows when it has met someone that speaks its language, the language of connection and acceptance.

That is What I Felt

While catching up with my mentor we were talking/ragging on Trump. He was telling me his nickname for him and I was telling him how my father-in-law apparently wrote a letter to him at the white house not long after he was elected asking him not to be a boob. My father-in-law wrote the President of the United States of America and asked him not to be a boob. I giggle every time I say that out loud.

I was also telling him about our recent trip to Savannah and how it made me feel emotionally nauseas and although I didn’t know what I was feeling because I don’t know Savannah’s specific history it was enough to tell me I had no business there and am not interested in going back.

My mentor then told me what energetically I had been picking up on: Savannah was a major slave port. Savannah was built on the backs of slaves. Slave trade and labor is an enormous part of Savannah’s history. Not to mention the Civil War.

Savannah is a very southern town with multiple civil war era forts in the surrounding area so I knew there was history, I just did not know what it was. What my mentor shared with me turned my blood cold in my veins.

This is what I was feeling. The violence, the oppression, the feelings of otherness. I felt swimmy and sick taking all of this information in, knowing that I walked that port, stood on the cobble stone streets, walked the path near one of the many forts. Who died here? Who met violence? Who acted out violence against another. Why am I feeling all of this? What happened where am I standing?

Then a man has the gumption to walk through the farmers market and yell at the woman with her clipboard who is asking for residents to sign her healthcare petition that Healthcare is a privilege not a right!

How far removed are we from the terror our ancestors rained down?

Do we still view each other in terms of otherness? Worthy and unworthy?

It is not Savannah’s fault. That piece of earth, that river, they did not ask to be part of this. They did not agree to support this violence and pain. I think about all the old Nana oak trees that have lived much longer than any currently living human; what did they bare witness to? What stories do they hold? Will they ever forgive us for the bodies hung from their branches?