An Invitation

Those poets and artists and makers of music. Those brave dreamers who sit with me and confess to the poetry in their bones. Those star-kissed unrepentants who speak with the raw pain of failure and longing on their lips… so astounding to me as I see them through my singular shifting and faceted being. Such. Permission. 

Those women. Those sit-down-lower-your-voice-you’re-too-much women. Those play-it-right-follow-the-rules-only-if-it’s-perfect women. Those fuck-this-make-my-own-path-don’t-need-anybody women.

Let’s jump naked into night waters. Let’s whisper to the trees. Let’s talk about our emptiness. Our stuckness. About the self-doubt that moves in us like mist or even as fast as lightning. And let’s talk about our joy. About our knowing that the purpose of this one brilliant life is. . .  right there. Waiting for us to speak it. 

I want to know.

If there is a place where truths aren’t mumbled but screamed: “YES!! Hold me accountable! I’m done sabotaging myself! I’m done playing the part of the sacred victim! I’m done shrinking! I’m already whole!” Would you step into it?

If there is a place where *what do you do for a living* is replaced with: Who were you before you were born? Is this life you’re living…you playing small? What is the most courageous thing you could do for you, and you alone? What hurts the most? Would you dare step inside?

It’s a quiet place. Sometimes dark. Sometimes it’s the perfect dusty yellow pink light of dawn. It’s a place of dangerous tea parties and subverted paradigms. Of fishnet and vellum. It’s a place where curiosity and wonder and courage AND fear are essential. It’s a place of questions. 

Will you join me there?