I ache for what only mystics and Kindergartners are allowed.
Naps. Creativity. And an accountability to silence.
My first instinct is to fight the pull of this gravity. To show myself superior to my body. To push harder. Do more. And accomplish the to-do list “no matter what.” I was raised with DOING as a God. Keep it together…or else.
I see this sickness in most of the women I work with. We carry the ghosts of war within our blood. We equate letting go, with being prey. Or becoming the aggressor. Not with harmony. Not with deepening into our power.
But our strength is in letting go.
We let go to have babies. We let go to orgasm. We let go to grow our business.
To the pulse of the moment. To the unspoken narrative. And the sometimes tremulous voice of our body.
A woman who is cut off from her ability to listen, is a weak woman.
A woman who can’t let go, will never be safe.
So today, I practice what I’m teaching. With a cat on my lap, and an oaky Chardonnay, I’m making a collage. I’ve been in my pajama bottoms all day. Feeling for the 8 women who will work with me this year. Choosing to be felt in return.
I’m in the surrender.
And this delicious descent, is also power.