What is Sexy?

I was eleven years old when I first shaved my legs. They had to be smooth for beach day. When I ran into the ocean, the salt water burned my freshly exfoliated legs like a wild fire. I took it like a champ and just figured it was “one of those things that made you a woman”. I didn’t question WHY I believed it necessary to endure the discomfort. Going to the beach became something of a chore and less of a joy as it became more about appearance and less about fun.

As I grew into my teens and 20’s I did not question what was needed to be sexy. I just did it. From uncomfortable bras, torturous bikini waxes, to sitting in a hair stylist’s chair for what felt like forever to get perfect highlights…..what was supposed to be beautifying, now in hind sight, seemed like a hazing process into woman-hood.

I invested a lot of effort trying to excel UP to expectations of what I thought a man would find attractive. I had society consistently telling me how important that was. Endless advertisements supplied their infinite commentary.

This induced belief system required a process of discomfort, a lot of time, and some pain to be deemed worthy of looking sexy. But, did I feel sexy? I honestly don’t think so. I had been so invested into looking sexy that I barely checked in to see if I felt sexy.

Ready to feel sexy and take charge of my sensuality, I took a pole dancing class in my early 30’s. Bold and brave, I showed up to that 6-week class with a, “Here I am world, hear me roar” attitude. Here’s what I learned. 

  1. It took a GREAT deal of upper body strength to look graceful and not to bash your face or boobs into that pole. Kudos to all the pole dancers in the world who make this look easy.  

  2. One could get really dizzy practicing. I made myself so nauseous one time I almost threw up spinning around that damn pole. Not sexy.

  3. The S-curve that a woman’s body can create is what is sexy. It doesn’t mean you need have an hourglass figure or dress a certain way. It’s about connecting to your sensual serpentine energy. That was empowering.

My 40 year old self today says, “Bullshit.”

No more bikini waxes, uncomfortable bras or coloring and straightening my hair. No more mimicking society’s definition as my own standards of what it means to be sexy. No more sacrificing comfort for cuteness. No. More. Bullshit. 

“It’s fine if you want to shave your legs, just think about why you’re doing it. Think critically about where it’s coming from and why you’re engaging with those ideas.”
— Artists Norah Sadava and Amy Nostbakken, “Mouthpiece”

I now question everything. Ladies, we need to question everything ever programmed within us. If it doesn’t make you feel good; toss it. Disregard the daily bombardment of ads that tell you how you need to look. Per the marketing firm Yankelvich, Inc., the average person was exposed to about 5,000 ads per day in 2018.

Explore what makes you feel good. Find what makes you feel like the beautiful woman you already are. Have an opinion. Use your voice. Look more analytically at your beliefs about yourself.

As you learn and understand your unique sensuality, please practice forgiveness. For yourself and to the women who came before you. Generations pass down belief systems. It is important to understand why and to forgive those women. We can learn from them and we are meant to. It does not serve us to be angry or blame them. After all, we have been wrapped in the same web together. We each need to recognize and celebrate our individual strengths and gifts and to support one another.

The act of appreciating my body is in allowing myself to stop, listen and sense what resonates with me. While I may not be a roaring lioness on the strip pole, I am a bad ass goddess. I understand the beauty of my body; as it is and not for what it “should” be. The practice of yoga helped me developed an inner connection to my body and spirit. I now appreciate my body’s magnificent capabilities and embrace what attributes make me ME, both inside and out. Perhaps for you, it is a luxurious bath, or leisurely walk in nature - what ever helps you get in touch with your inner self - do it, honor it.

Recently after a shower with my hair wet like a mop, wearing raggedy jean shorts and a t-shirt, my husband said to me, “Wow, you’re hot.” 

Me: (I looked down at my outfit and laughed) Like this? 

Hubby: Yeah. You’re comfortable and that’s hot.”

Best.

Compliment.

Ever. 

“Mouthpiece” is an acclaimed theater piece about the female experience.

For more information, please visit:

http://www.quoteunquotecollective.com/mouthpiece/



Writing To Heal

“One moment we’ll be feeling good, moving on in some productive activity - or some not-so productive activity (one doesn’t have to be productive!) - and something will happen to bring back the the grief as though it were all fresh.”
— "Healing After Loss", Martha Whitmore Hickman

On Friday, August 17, 2018 my dear friend Matthew Hoyne died after a well fought battle with cancer. We knew the day would come when we learned of his diagnosis. Even so, the sadness, grief and missing him was no less.

With Matthew’s passing, I consciously decided to give myself the space needed to experience and process my grief. Though familiar with loved ones transitioning, giving myself this needed space was a first. I didn’t properly grieve when friend Kelly and my mother passed away. Instead, I went back on auto pilot; returned to work, planned my wedding, and relocated to Old Town Pasadena. Nine months later I found myself with an anxiety attack at Home Depot. The trigger: my husband asked which large flower pot I wanted for our balcony. That was it. 

Wiser this time, I allowed myself to be with my emotions as much and often as they were willing to arise. I took advantage of the bereavement support made available by Serenity House and decided to participate in a Writing to Heal Group. The group met once a week, for five weeks. In each gathering, we wrote about our grief for ten to fifteen minutes, the rule being that your pen had to keep moving across the page. Worry not about punctuation, grammar; just expression. We then each shared our writing. Listeners could comment on what was shared, not judge the writer. 

This particular group happened to be all women. These women were not afraid to say how much they hated hurting, or were angry for missing, or were simply grateful for loving. It was comforting to hear their words, while being able to share my thoughts and feelings in a open-setting. Writing, sharing and relating through our grief was a profound privilege. It was empowering to be a part of such an amazing group of ladies, who bared their strength by being vulnerable, honest and REAL.

Following is my writing from our last week together: 

When I stopped and listened, my body told me what it was holding. That gave the gate-keeper of my emotions to tell me their story. And there it was, almost like a surprise; my boxed up feelings. I could feel the crease of concern between my brows. My brain was trying to understand what was coming out of the box - as if in doing so - it might be able to keep the waves from rolling out. But, out they came. Anger, sadness, grief, an intense frustration of not being able to articulate the feelings, guilt for the feelings, and hurt. My heart though, felt like the patient mother; waiting, observing and able to embrace every part of me that was present, with absolute love. My body wanted to get up and run out of the room proclaiming “Nope! I don’t want to feel this!” but my heart allowed for everything simply to BE, to flow, to process. I simply trusted the wisdom of my heart, the Love. I surrendered. 

It was ok to feel what I felt because emotions can guide us. I had to wonder how much I had been burying. Was I coping? Ignoring? I was not sure and decided to not judge myself, but nurse myself. I decided to just be there, in the moment, as I was. I started there.

A few days later, during my morning pranayama practice, as I watched my breath, I could feel that little pocket of wanting to cry. And it was ok to feel that way.

In a society where talking about one’s grief can make people uncomfortable and the subject of death is still largely viewed as taboo, Writing to Heal was deeply healing. Creative expression without judgement, who would have thought that baring one’s heart and soul with fierce honesty would prove to be just what I needed? There where many moments when I cried along with the writer as she read her words. Other moments, I wanted to give a high five for their authenticity. I may never see these women again, but they have made an imprint upon my heart that will forever be. 

Though I miss my dear friend, Matthew, I am so grateful for the never ending love that always IS. I feel as though he continues to gift me his friendship through the love and support of amazing women all around me. Thank you, Matthew.

A heartfelt thank you, to every incredible woman,

that touches my heart and blesses me with their friendship. 

If you are seeking support through your bereavement, please take a moment to contact your local Hospice Care. There are many free resources available. Below are two websites you can refer to:

www.grief.com 

http://www.mygriefangels.org/grief-support-directory-.html


Remember, you’re worth it.

Maybe....I'll Care More Tomorrow

One of THOSE days….you know, where if you end up taking a shower that day you considered it a big success. Where any make up feels like a lot of effort and thus a waste of effort.

So it was…the day was gloomy. The city awoke beneath a heavy, moist cloud and stayed stuck inside it, all day. As I walked through the dampness, I didn’t even notice the droplets that clung to my hair and sank into my sweatshirt. 

I wondered if I was sad. There certainly was a lot of transitions taking place and I was beginning to feel behind on all of them. Where as only a few weeks before, I was on top of it all like a bouncing ball that said, “follow me, follow me!”. 

But, I didn’t feel so bouncy. Even my hair felt heavy.

With little enthusiasm, my mind rattled a few things on my to do list around in my head. Meh, maybe I’ll care more tomorrow.

I even tried to distract myself by viewing the annual chalk art produced in front of the mission. Despite the wetness, many vibrant colors sprang forth, defiant to the moisture. And still, my heart went “Humph. Ehhhh”. 

I went grocery shopping and had to be mindful not to toss everything without care into the cart. I just felt so uninspired, by anything. 

I wondered, did I expect to feel inspired all the time? Was I supposed to be in love with life, everyday? Wasn’t I though? Or was I?

Maybe I was just what I need to be: aware. Aware of how I felt emotionally and energetically. I allowed my body to follow in suit, rather than force it to do something beyond its reserves. I just simply allowed myself to be.

My dog even eyed me suspiciously, “What’s going on with you today?” Her solution; to pack as much of her 80 pounds on top of me and fall asleep. I think in her sweet way she was trying to comfort me. 

Maybe I will care more tomorrow, or maybe not. I think the important thing is that I’m being honest with myself rather than hiding away from my Truth. Right now, this is my Truth. 

My Reactive Depression

On Tuesday, June 6th 2018 fashion designer Kate Spade hung herself inside her New York home with a scarf. She left a suicide note addressed to her daughter, age 13. Two days later on

Thursday, June 8th renowned chef Anthony Bourdain hung himself in his hotel bathroom in Kayserberg, France. He too also had a daughter, age 11.

1987: I was age eleven when my mother tried to end her life by taking a bottle of pills. It was her second attempt. The first was when my mother was in college.

1993: I learned about the second attempt from my mom’s sister. The story was delivered without much compassion, shared very matter-of-factly. I was not given time or space to process the information in a healthy way. Furthermore, I was not allowed to tell any of my friends because each of them knew her as a "professional figure and leader" in our school. 

Questions spiraled: didn’t my mother love me? Didn’t I matter? Did she realize that I would have been the one to find her body? Did she consider how that could have affected me? I believed I was not enough for her to want to fight her inner battles and demons. This felt like a betrayal.

2004: Deep in the trenches of depression, my mother was placed on suicide watch.

My sister and I went from daughters to guardians for 72 hours. My mother’s behavior during this period demanded attention. In an effort to provide a healthy distraction for my mom, I gathered a group of her friends to go out to dinner. My mother became jealous because I “stole” all the attention. It was that evening, as I watched my mother strive to have all eyes on her, that I realized the depth of her wounds and how those wounds had hurt me. Our relationship was built on approval, not unconditional love. She was competitive, not compassionate. One could not help but wonder if her call for help was really a call for attention? The very next week I started seeing a family therapist. 

Cut to present day…..

I tried my best to process the news about Spade and Bourdain. I consistently checked in with myself to see if I was feeling emotional or reactive but nothing registered. In hindsight, I certainly did not feel like myself. I felt tired, burnt out and attributed it to the fact that my husband Dan and I were overdue for a vacation. Being burnt out made sense.

Our vacation was three weeks and I felt burnt out through most of it. There were so many beautiful sights and wonderful experiences with family and friends but I felt separated from most of it. It was as though I watched it all from a distance.

Near the end of our vacation, I learned about Reactive Depression from a dear friend who’s mother did end her life when she was eleven years old. Same age as I was when my mother tried to take her life a second time. 

Reactive depression is a subtype of clinical depression or major depressive disorder. It is also sometimes called an adjustment disorder with depressed mood, and is characterized by a depressed state in direct response to an external event. * The term resonated with me. I felt the veil begin to lift; I began to understand what my body was doing, how it was reacting. The body is our best companion and it too will register and process an experience in its own way.

Back in Santa Barbara, in late July….

We watched “The Snowman”, a psychological thriller which stars Michael Fassbender, a detective in search of a serial killer. In the beginning, a young boy’s mother takes her life right in front of him. As the car sunk into the murky ice water of the frozen lake, the mother gazed at her son, while the boy watched helpless. The boy in the film looked to be about 10 to 11 years old. My eyes blinked rapidly in astonishment and I thought “What the f** is up with all these parents committing suicide whom have children?”

I felt a shudder of anger wash through me. In moments, Guttural, deep sobs unleashed from deep within. My husband held me and I allowed myself to shake in his arms as whirls of emotions purged deep from my soul.

I wrestle with the full being of my mother’s dark side. People like to argue their perception of her with my reality. Many people had the impression of my mother as a solid individual: strong, independent, direct and a get-it-done person. There was certainly that side of her. However, those closest to her knew she battled depression. I suspect, that had my mother sought counseling she would have likely been diagnosed as manic depressive. She operated magic on the highs and crashed into the darkness when in the lows.

I am grateful to have released those deep and heavy emotions that were buried for so long. I feel reconnected with myself in a deeper, loving way. I understand there will likely be triggers in the future and I accept that. I don’t believe my mother intended to hurt me or my sister in the ways in which she did. She was wounded and didn’t give herself permission to heal. 

Though my mother did harm, it is up to me consciously heal. My personal practice is to allow and give myself time and space to process when something surfaces. I know and trust that I am worthy and it is up to me fill the cup. My daily practice is to love thyself. Life lessons are profound and may we all have the grace to be present for them within our own hearts.

If you are in crisis, call the National Suicide Prevention Lifeline

1-800-273-TALK (1-800-273-8255)

https://suicidepreventionlifeline.org/

 

READING REFERENCES

*Definition of Reactive Depression

http://www.psyweb.com/articles/depression/definition-of-reactive-depression/

 

Coping With a Parent’s Suicide

https://childmind.org/article/coping-with-a-parents-suicide/

 

An Open Letter to Any Child Who Lost a Parent to Suicide

https://psychcentral.com/lib/an-open-letter-to-children-who-lose-a-parent-to-suicide/

 

Support After Suicide (Provides helpful tips on how to be a supportive partner/friend)

www.supportaftersuicide.org/au 

The Jeweled Heart

There was a little girl who really wanted to receive her mother’s love. She did everything she could do, but it was never quite enough. As the girl grew older, her attempts changed. Still, the girl did not win her mother’s love, but instead her mother’s constant disapproval. The girl was very unhappy and begin to feel trapped. She tried to understand, tried to reason, but could never really make sense of it. 

Then one day, the girl met a beautiful gypsy. The gypsy had a big, red jeweled heart. The gypsy could tell the girl was intrigued by its beauty. The girl asked what the jewel meant for she had never seen something so bright, bold and clear before. The gypsy said “Love”. The girl was mystified as she didn’t know love could look like this. The gypsy offered the girl the jeweled heart as a gift, for free. The girl was stunned and asked, “What I have done to earn this?” The gypsy said “Nothing. Love is free. Everyone possesses the ability to love and everyone is worthy of unconditional love. You may have this”. 

The girl, amazed to tears, gratefully took the jeweled heart into her hands. As she held it, she began to feel its wonderful, warm, liberating power. She began to understand that it felt right not being earned and that it felt even better to share the love without asking for anything in return. 

With this new knowledge, the girl stopped seeking love from her mother. She was simply happy and chose to share her joy with others. One day, she came home and could not find the jeweled heart. Frantic, she managed to find the gypsy. “The jeweled heart suddenly disappeared!” The gypsy replied, “Once you chose to share your love with others unconditionally you no longer needed the jeweled heart to understand your worth. The love, the worthiness, was within you all along. You have embraced this. Thus, the jeweled heart returned to where is resided all along: within you.”

“Real love inspires us to focus on giving more than getting.”
— Sheryl Paul, "Conscious Transitions"

 

 

I Miss Her, Sometimes

A few weeks ago I revised my profile photo to bring awareness to an upcoming event. Within minutes, I received a comment.

“You look like your mom. I miss her.”

I wasn’t at all surprised. All my life I have heard that I am an image of my mother. Ever since she passed away 6 years ago, the new adage has been “I miss her.”

When I was younger, I internally cringed when people said that I looked like her. I do not deny that I look like my mother; it’s obvious in photos of her when she was younger. The negative association stemmed from my mother replying to these type of compliments with “Oh, but she’s SO much prettier than I ever was.” And she meant it, with a bitter tone, that was hard to miss. Each admiration was quickly chopped down to be about my mother’s insecurities. Always. 

My mom saw my sister and I as extensions of herself and there was not a lot of room to disappoint. Being that I looked a lot like my mother, added an intense pressure of having to do and be what she wanted me to be. I failed. 

My mother and I had a combative relationship a good portion of my life: when I was child and had not yet succumbed to being a mother-pleaser and in my twenties when I decided to consciously honor thyself and forgo the life mission of trying to win my mother’s approval. 

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Over time, I worked on healing myself and that allowed me to be present during her transition. I will not go into the details of that chapter here simply because I am not ready to share the most personal, intimate details of that experience that were profoundly beautiful and powerful. After my mother died, I began to dream about her. They were not just dreams, they were visits. Intense, spiritual visits that brought forth a deep healing. They continue today.

For about a year after she died, I had moments when I would think, “I should call Mom and share this with her” and then I would remember. There have been and will be occasions when I wish she was here. 

When Dan and I were traveling around the United States, while in Colorado I found myself in a funk because I was in search of my life’s purpose. I was questioning if my ability to channel was my purpose. Was it worthy? Was I?

The energy of my doubt and confusion was as large as the herd of buffalo that crossed the road we watched from a distance. While a large, male buffalo scratched his butt on a post, my heart sent out these questions like a satellite looking for Jupiter. The post eventually fell down and the male buffalo walked on. That night, my mom came to me in a dream.

I had picked up my bag and was just about to exit the door of our little wooden cabin where we had stayed for the night. In came the phone call. I answered and knew instantly who it was.

The connection was staticky but her voice clearly said, “What you are doing is worth it. It is important.” I could feel the energy it took get those words across the ruffled connection.

Then, she was gone. 

I feel more connected to my mother than ever before. I can connect with her anytime I need to because I am fortunate to have the ability to channel. It’s like a dial up to the other side. Our spiritual connection is strong and the love between us is one of the truest feelings I have ever known. It carries that sense of heaven that my grandmother did when she came to visit.

When people ask me if I miss my mom I pause before I answer; I know they’re expecting me to say “yes”. The truth is: sometimes. People miss other people when they are no longer present in their lives; a family member who is passed, a friend traveling around the world, an ex-lover. My mom is present. Her and I are connected and she is here when ever I need her. 

The topic if I am like her is a different blog. (wink wink)

 

The Girl That Once Lived in a Tree

There once was a girl who lived in a tree.

She befriended the flowers, birds and bees

and talked to the ants and spiders

that crawled along beside her.

She read books and sang songs

and went on magical journeys that were long.

When tired, she nestled in under the nests 

and allowed her fears and worries to rest.

When the Tree spoke to her, she listened,

sometimes aware of the tree’s tears as they glistened.

The Tree was wise 

and knew of the girl's dreams

and allowed her to be without disguise.

She beamed

bright as the moon,

and strong as the sun.

No fears loomed 

for the girl trusted The One.

In the branches and trunks of the Tree

the girl allowed herself to be,

ever so happily.

There once was a girl that lived in a tree.

“Trees are sanctuaries. Whoever knows how to speak to them, whoever knows how to listen to them, can learn the truth. They do not preach learning and precepts, they preach, undeterred by particulars, the ancient law of life. ”
— Hermann Hesse

The Dancer Within

When I was little, I would sit and watch the dance rehearsals my mom led. I would color or play with my toys, enjoy the music and happy energy that filled the room, sometimes an entire gym.

My mother was the department head of the Physical Education and Dance Department at our local high school; my sister’s and my alma matter. My mother developed the department into a successful division within the high school: it made money and improved many students’ self esteem. As young as I was, little did I understand how powerful of a positive impact the dance program had on my mother’s students. The annual Spring dance recital gave students something to look forward to; communion and community. 

As I grew up, I didn’t want to be a dancer like my mom. It was a disappointment - me not being a dancer like her - that she reminded me of quite often. I didn’t want to BE my mom.

I was a choir geek. I joined choir in seventh grade and was involved in a group all the way through my sophomore year in college. I loved singing and because of the various shows, I eventually became comfortable with stage movements once I joined our high school show choir. This led me into taking dance classes in college. I developed my foundation as “proper dancer” easily; it felt natural. It was as though all the dancing I had been exposed to at a young age had seeped in, stuck, and was oozing out. Being around the choreography, costumes, stage layouts and arrangements were absorbed by my young mind like osmosis.

In college, I would practice a dance piece hard and for many hours to get it just right. Ironically, I loved it. Choreography wasn’t about perfection for me, it was more like a road map in which to explore  and get familiar with my physical body. Suddenly, my lanky arms and legs had purpose! There was something almost magical when I felt my body in rhythm with the music.

I grew to love East Coast swing and salsa dancing. I picked those up like I had taken professional classes. It seemed I couldn’t get enough of any style of dancing. But, my body had its limitations; I pulled my left hamstring and that took me out of the practice. It was a forced break, that I resented at the time.

The two things I did not ever experience with dancing was feeling beautiful and whole. Due to the competitive nature, I always felt inferior, inefficient…a lack of skill, tone, strength, and beauty.

I found yoga in my late twenties and it felt so organic. People would say “well, it’s because of your dance background.” Perhaps. I loved exploring what my body could do and learn. I marveled being in a pose and feeling the changes in my muscles, the alignment of my joints; the connection to myself deepened on so many levels. Don’t get me wrong, in the beginning, I was after perfection in my practice. I really thought it had to look a certain way, based on what little I knew. 

Fast forward 14 years later, I became an advocate for the Accessible Yoga movement. The belief is that no matter your size, shape, age, illness, injury or ability - you can do yoga. Everyone can do yoga. I make my classes accessible: no person left behind. Not even myself.

I have had to recover from an injury to my right shoulder and left hamstring (again). That’s what happens when you try to sprint up a steep hill after a powerful dog who is half breed with a billy goat. I continue to practice and teach because I know how to modify and, more importantly, not push my body beyond its capabilities. The journey in healing is not about getting back to “where I was before” but simply allowing my body to heal as it needs to. I do not push my body beyond what feels right for it. 

My husband and I recently went to see the musical “Kinky Boots”. As I watched the final number, I could feel my entire body remember what it was like to be in a stage production; the coordination, camaraderie, communication, synergy and connection with the audience. I remembered it well. For a brief moment, I pondered “Should I take up dancing again?” It was just a moment.

I’m not interested in getting my knee to sweep past my head with a high kick or wrap my leg around one shoulder. I’m more interested in experiencing the subtle shift within. Today, when people compliment me on how pretty my practice is, a part of me cringes inside. They usually say something like, “You must have been a dancer, I can see it in your practice.” The practice isn’t about what it needs to look like; it’s about what it needs to feel like. It’s my intention to bring that awareness into my classes, to share that with students.

I am honored to be able to share my love and knowledge of yoga with people. My intention is to provide a safe and nurturing practice. It’s not about the headstands, it’s not about how cool you look; it’s about how you feel and being honest with yourself about it. I love looking at my students and seeing them each in a variation of an asana (pose) that is right for them. It shows me they’re honoring themselves and their needs. That’s perfection to me.

Today, I’m invested into the practice of self love. The dancer within shows up sometimes in the way I extend my arms or in subtleties like transitioning between poses, but the dancer in me knows that the love of dancing was only a path to what I do now. 

“Yoga is a dance within…and then something inside you grows so big, it spills out like champagne, that’s when you dance on the outside.”
— Tao Porchon Lynch

Incarceration or Incubation?

“I just want people to take a step back, take a deep breath and actually look at something with a different perspective. But most people will never do that.”
— Brian McKnight

The Thomas Fire ravaged many acres and disrupted many lives. The city of Santa Barbara was a ghost town amidst the dark, smokey haze that blanketed the region. Ash fell like snow and the sun, if visible, glowed an eery red. It was almost apocalyptic. 

The holiday season certainly took a detour for many. For some, the forced incubation felt like incarceration, others a time of reflection or a great excuse to get out of town. Residents that did stay home were sequestered, sealed in from the smoke, haze and ash. When outdoors, residents were required to wear particle masks. It looked like an attempt to keep a plague from spreading like a wild fire.

I locked myself in our bungalow and found life stripped of luxuries that varied from electricity,  daily walks and teaching yoga. I watched for updates constantly and talked profusely of the “what if we have to evacuate plan”.

People were not able to breathe fresh air for weeks. Never before, I had been so aware of how precious a breath of fresh air was. 

Many people did loose their homes, but not their community. Community, through the kindness of action, arose in many ways. Public libraries handed out free masks. People opened up their homes to evacuees and had guests sleeping wall to wall. Local eateries donated meals to first responders. People posted updates on FB to make sure all loved ones were up to date. Volunteers worked 12-hour shifts at the evacuation centers. Most of all; people said “thank you”. I didn’t hear anyone ask “Why are the fire fighters not doing a better job?” Even out-of-towners want to deliver cookies to the fire fighters.

Nothing about the fire made anyone less-blessed. I believe it made a great many people more aware of what to be grateful for. I do understand many will be traumatized by the experience for some time to come, but they will heal. For some, people learn the art of letting go through death. Perhaps The Thomas Fire encouraged many of us to let go of what it is not meant to be now. Fire is considered a purifier in some religions and perhaps this is Mother Nature’s version on a grand scale. 

I saw my sequester as a time of incubation.
 

“I love what I do, and I just remember that every breath and every moment is a gift and it can be taken away at any time, so I want to appreciate it and be grateful for it while it’s here.”
— Alyson Stoner

What Does It Mean To Be A Woman?

Ever since I could remember, I have been flooded with images on what the “perfect female” looks like. In my early teens the female silhouette that was en vogue was the curvy, hour glass and models like Christy Brinkley and Cindy Crawford embodied them. Me, being rail thin with no curves in sight, took it to mean that my body wasn’t special. I was different from the magazines, many peers, friends and family and began to feel unattractive. Once that seed was planted, it thrived.

I don’t suppose I ever fit the mold of a typical little girl. I loved playing cowboys, getting dirty, playing with bugs and hated wearing dresses and combing my hair. My first best friend was a boy and I would much rather play with his Star War toys than my barbie dolls and read his dinosaur books over my “cutesier books”. To this day, I still like getting dirty and building stuff.

I’m mentally boggled by the “traditional tasks of being female”; what women are supposed to do.” I don’t mean the ultra-cliche chores like cleaning and cooking. I don’t mind cooking and I like a clean house because I like a clean house. That has nothing to do with my gender, though I know there are people in the world who think so. I’m talking about society saying women need to be pretty, friendly and sexy at all times. 

One time, while I waited on cue to have my photo taken for a Costco membership card, a man whom I didn’t know said, “Smile, you’ll look prettier.”

Excuse me, Mr. Poo-Poo, I’m not your cheerleader.

My friend Kelly, who used to model, would spend time practicing holding sultry poses so that during a photo shoot, the awkwardness of the postures didn’t hurt as much and thus looked more natural.

I’ve been told I have a “strong personality”. I am honest, outspoken, protective of my loved ones, am a leader and can be assertive. Those are traits that are typically associated as being masculine and because I embody them, I’ve been described as abrasive. When I have gotten angry, there are men who have tried to shame me by saying that I’m aggressive. A woman can’t get mad but is only expected to get emotional. Bullshit.

Personality wise, I am who I am. I don’t try to pretend otherwise. As a human being, I am entitled to not always be “on” in order to make someone feel better. As an individual, how I express myself should not be a threat to anyone. As a female, my voice should be heard as equal and my choices seen just as powerful and positive as a man’s. It is my hope that one day all men will understand their own sense of masculinity, because if they did, then they would know it can’t be threatened. 

At 41 years of age, I have finally come to a place of self-awareness and self-love wherein I appreciate my physical body. Yoga helped me embrace the individual beauty of my form. It was through the asanas that I began to redefine each inch of myself, from criticism into appreciation. I now know that every decade has a female silhouette that’s in fashion and society will encourage all women to try and fit into the mold. I dress MY body for what makes me feel good, from the inside out. After 20 years, I have stopped straightening my hair. I was lead to believe that smooth hair was more sophisticated, cleaner and neater. I’ve let my wild waves roam free and it feels great! 

The pendulum is shifting; the divine feminine energy is rising and expanding. It’s being talked about, acted out and shared. Women are using their voices and working together to support one another. 

I’m blessed to have found a life-partner that doesn’t expect me to fulfill certain house-chores just because I’m a woman. I take the trash bins out, mow the lawn and every blue moon get in the mood to bake. My hubby and I make a good team in the kitchen. It seems to amaze some people. Recently, fresh out of the shower, wearing cut-off jean shorts and a nondescript t-shirt, my husband said that he found me at my sexiest, because I didn’t care what anyone thought. 

I leave you with one of my favorite quotes for all my Soul Sisters. Please know you are loved, worthy and beautiful - JUST THE WAY YOU ARE. 

“Wild moon woman

you were not made

to be tame.

You are an earthquake

shaking loose

everything that is not soul.

Shake, woman, shake”

~ Anonymous