It’s almost seven on a Sunday evening and I find myself losing the plot. Who am I? Where am I? What am I supposed to be doing? Isaac is making dinner and Julius is crying for a car or a bike or a wheel or something. When I am with my son, I am okay. When I am with my son, I am also not fully myself. I notice how much I put on my happy, brave face for him. I am not always brave. I am not always happy. I think before I had a child I felt more permission to grieve and process my feelings behind closed doors, in the morning over white lined paper, a cup of steaming tea on the arm of the sofa, socked feet curled under me. Now I don’t know if I own any socks, nor where they are. Now, I rely on coffee in the morning and alcohol at night to re-balance some semblance of equanimity.

I woke up to an email about Patti Smith’s new book. I also woke up with the lyrics to Adele’s Hello repeating over and over in my throat. Hello from the other side. I must have called a thousand times. My angels, I feel I have left you. I feel I have dropped my phone in the primordial bath and you have no way of reaching me any longer. I don’t know why my heart is in a box, why I wear this dark hat. The most beautiful men love me deeply, one I gave birth to, one whose DNA flows with mine in this Seraphim child. What have I done? How far I have traveled to find my home. To find a place outside of me that feels in alignment with my soul’s calling. Ojai – I love you. You are amplifying all of my faults, all of my dreams, all of my yearnings, and how much I am slayed by everything you are showing me. My ego thrashes about before the mirror each day, telling me I am not there yet, I am not enough, I am not lovable, I am washed up. I stand there defiantly and look myself in the eyes until I see who I really am, and can safely walk out the door.

Patti wrote a book called The M Train. It’s about the transience of time, of our lives, the truth of this strange universe where nothing ever stays the same, and loss is just as real as love. Adele’s tearful wails trigger my own. These artists, they remind me what’s pure, what’s really real. Although loss is as real as love, it is only by recreating it, refashioning the broken bits of glass into something worth remembering, something beautiful, something whole again. We must stay authentic. We must share what it’s like to be human. It’s not enough, this surface dance. The surface of the pond is only one thread in a tapestry of creation. How deep is your love?

I haven’t been being very loving. Not to myself, not to my beloved. I am hiding. This shield serves the wounded me, the open sore whose origins I cannot recall easily. Why am I hurting? Because my loved ones leave, because they aren’t perfect, because they don’t always do what I want them to do, because their rough edges chafe against mine. I hurt, in this bright light. You are wresting through your jungle, and I am stumbling through mine. Meanwhile, we are doing our best to raise ‘decent humans’ amid the incessant effort and distraction of expansion that bringing children into the world entails. It’s not that we don’t love parenting, the process of it is beautiful, even elegant (!) – but it’s painful. It’s exhausting. Maybe that’s just me, perhaps because I was never the kind to be patient, or steadfast. I’m one of the most generous people I know, but then again, maybe my idea of ideal parenting requires a saint-like level of engagement?

I steal a moment to write this, and still the dogs bark and the boy imbibes his father to play, and the sun sets over the coast and the mountains fall dark after hours of clouds dancing upon them. The pasta comes to a boil and the doors slide open and shut and life goes on. Always changing, asking of us to play, bringing us to the boil, sliding us open and closed.

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The battle is so intense. Half the struggle is sitting down to this blank page, to the chaos of Resistance. I need to be gentle with myself. What will come out? I have no idea. That’s half the fun. Half the resistance. But I don’t believe it anymore. It’s time to step up to the plate and. just. write. Because I cannot breathe without it. Fuck you Resistance. I know you will be with me my whole life. But I will rise up and face you each and every day. I will do my work because I must. Because I have no other option.  

New Years Gaiagraphy Report, 1.2009, Peter Champoux





This is the message I hear from the chords of my souls music. Perhaps they are angels, perhaps the echoes of a land long forgotten. In this God-forsaken city I have never felt so lost. The hummingbirds visit me almost every day and I’m reminded to keep floating, in the colors, the joy. Never be caged. A hummingbird will die in captivity. I’ve been gasping for air between these four white walls, not knowing where to turn or run to. There is nowhere to run to. Driving around in a car doesn’t do it for me. More sitting, more separation.

I am coming home to my Self. My intuitive wild woman self who does not accept this city. In New York I could walk anywhere, ride my bike to the river or the park, sift through the fascinating people who bring their cosmic spark to the sidewalk. I miss the animals and the angels there. In Pennsylvania I would leave the warm threshold of the house and walk to the forest, breathe in that ionic air and the scent of the sweet grass on the neck of the wind. In four seasons I would walk. When it snowed, the canal was marked with the tracks of skiers, the water frozen over, the boughs doughy with snow.

Deer tracks, fox prints, the gaze of a black bear meeting mine. The circling hawks and falcons. The great open grasses and the moon hanging over the river. God I miss that land. The land which fed my body as it grew another body, my first born son. The land which held me as I mourned my first miscarriage. The land which celebrated me and welcomed me as my life turned on in it’s great arc around the sun. On that river bank my body caved opened to offer my son to the world, in that house, on that land. Like so many deer had done before me, depositing their young into nests of soft grass in the dark.

I will always be inextricably linked to that place. I am in a great desert now, wandering aimlessly, sometimes chattering like a mad person with the flames at my throat. I have no water, no food, my soul is starving, gasping for air. Listen. Listen. Listen. I am going deeper, deeper into the space between the spaces. This is undoubtedly part of my journey – for reasons unknown to me as yet – and it has been one of the hardest chapters yet. What am I to learn from this pain, this separation? I am learning more about what I want, where my inner compass points. And that is enough for me. This knowing. This listening. These chords.

This song.


“The doors to the world of the wild Self are few but precious. If you have a deep scar, that is a door, if you have an old, old story, that is a door. If you love the sky and the water so much you almost cannot bear it, that is a door. If you yearn for a deeper life, a full life, a sane life, that is a door.”  

 Clarissa Pinkola EstésWomen Who Run With the Wolves: Myths and Stories of the Wild Woman Archetype 

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It’s been a long time, this heavy trawling of the oceans floor. I’m so tired. So close to the bottom of the barrel. But I believe I have reached the edge of my being. And good. My fears have nothing to do with what society has taught us we ought to be afraid of – of wilderness, and chaos, and darkness, and the lands  beyond. In fact I am afraid of mediocrity, of apathy. I’m not even afraid of disappearing anymore. I yearn like a caged animal to reunite with the forest, the river, the wilderness.

For the first time, I have discovered Women Who Run With the Wolves. Finally. These words are a balm to my bruised ribs, sore from slamming myself against the constraints of my space. And I realize, I am beyond that space now. Rest. Stop trying to be in this space, this space of domesticity and normalcy. I am a wild woman. I need the dank dampness of the earth’s ground beneath my feet and the smell of the forest and the stag in the cornfields in the full moon light.

This is what I miss about where we once lived. A house on the edge of the wilderness. Very few people live there. Most people stayed in their homes with the safe lamps and the TV screens glowing. When we first moved from New York I was the same. I was terrified of walking in the dusk along that path. But at the end, when I was pregnant and full of the mystery of life, I would trek alone through the snow up to my knees to the edge of the forest and breathe. Just me and the land, the gentle sweet spirits of yesterday, the thin legs of the deer, the hot breath of the bear.

Now where we live I don’t see the bear, or the deer, or the fox slinking along my back fence, the snow falling quietly as my warm house envelops me. The gentle steady river where I buried my placenta, where I buried my sorrow, where I let go of so much. Now, where we live, I hear the train and the cars and the motorcycles and the fuzz of electricity everywhere which interferes with it all. There’s an apartment block next door where families of children look in through our fence and families of adults’ eyes dart quickly to our deck before shutting their doors.

Power lines criss cross the sky and vandalized grocery trucks trawl the streets fishing for dollars – Coca Cola, brown onions, bags of Doritos. The ice cream truck, another shark. We go to the ocean and it washes away the dust that gets into pores from the dry square of yard. There is no garden here. The sea’s power enlivens me and reminds me of the thrust of nature. In the waves I am part of the flow again. I push thoughts of Fukushima and dead seals from my mind and stay grateful for what we do have. I feel exhausted, and yet I want to do so much.

I can do nothing. In this place, there is only the still knowing of my own heart. The anger is a fuel and shows me there is work to be done. I can channel this anger, this sorrow, this grief into forging new paths. I keep hearing the instruction within me to go to the shamans, to go into nature, to go into myself, into Spirit, and listen. I soak up documentaries and photos and books on this wilder way, and suddenly I know where I’m going. North and East and far, far, away from here.

Female emotion isn’t seen as ‘safe’ or even normal, but hidden away in bathrooms and bed covers. Female rage even less so, hardly acknowledged, never honored. My rage is so strong it shatters me – and I know I need to pick up the pieces again. My sadness is a clear message that this is not it. I am brave, and vulnerable, and honest and real. That is who I am. So I pack my bags and head for the hills. I am free – always free – to follow this call.

My lover boards the same psychic train and we remember what we came here for. It’s not for the money or the notoriety or the objects in our home. We are here to live fully, listening to the hum of our song as it recedes and returns from within. It’s been a long time since I heard this song in the moonlight. Today, I am relearning its words. My instrument – my body. The song, my soul. Breath of the bear, thin legs of the deer. This is my song, my medicine. Me.

Posted in LIVING ARTIST | 1 Comment


The Indian ragas play from the room next door and the air is cool and damp in LA. We eat porridge with macadamia nut butter and Spanish bee pollen, drink cardamom coffee and exalt the beauty of our life together. I’ve come a long way. It’s funny, creating. How free do we feel to create just for the sake of it? I am coming to know myself again. Through all of this business called life, I am arriving at the threshold of who I am, who I might become.

In Paris the idea of having just one child ignites me with inspiration. I was born into a large family, but who says one isn’t the new three? Suddenly the idea of traveling to India in a few years, and Bali, and having the freedom to write and produce my novels, my work, my soul work…  gives me fresh eyes and a canvas rises up in my mind. I’ve always been interested in walking a different road to the one more traveled, dancing to the sound of my own heart with its unique tune. I knew I wanted to experience the adventure of having a child. When I google female authors who are mothers, it’s fascinating to discover that the greats mostly had one:

“It was only when I was working on a book investigating what it means to have, and to be, an only child that I realized how many of the writers I revere had only children themselves. Alongside Sontag: Joan Didion, Mary McCarthy, Elizabeth Hardwick, Margaret Atwood, Ellen Willis, and more. Someone once asked Alice Walker if women (well, female artists) should have children. She replied, “They should have children—assuming this is of interest to them—but only one.” Why? “Because with one you can move,” she said. “With more than one you’re a sitting duck.”

I know how hard it can be to juggle one’s self with one’s family – we have historically carried so much of the care taking. I’m intimately familiar with this challenge, and so I am called to galvanize myself and others by supporting women around motherhood, to be a source of encouragement for women going through that monumental transition. Is it because I am Leo that I care so much about what is here in my soul, that wants to be expressed? I need to LIVE my truth, to live these hushed dreams. My artist self is so thirsty, so longing to see the colors that dance in my soul, to paint this world anew and see the beauty that sometimes I forget is there. Perhaps I can be a better mother, a better artist, a better support person for the people in my life and the world, if I am true to myself.

I’ve often felt afraid to speak my truth, for fear that perhaps it would isolate me or that you would leave me alone and forget about who I am or could be. But I’m already slipping through the sands of time. If I don’t speak out, it’s done. Life is already happening. Each new second is replacing the last and I am not being myself. I want to inspire everyone to live their dreams, whether that is parenthood or a new life or a new novel or a year in Morocco.  I just want to be true. I just want to be authentic. What does that mean now?

It means being honest about my feelings. I love being a mother, but gosh it’s hard. God it’s tiring, and frustrating, and full of surrendering the things I have loved most. I love watching my son grow, and yet I know I don’t want to go through the intensity of this again any time soon. I want to sleep through the night. I want to write for at least an hour without interruption. I want to be able to travel to far away places without the regular exhaustion that bringing a small child entails. If I had a lot of money, a big house, a lot of hired help, I’d consider having more. If I didn’t have this giant swell of an ocean pressing against my being telling me to undress and undress and get more and more naked, I would consider being someone else.

I can’t be someone else. I can’t do the two or three kids in the house on the quiet street with the shady trees and the school lunches. I don’t think I can be happy there. Not without some massive sacrifices. Not while I watch my partner achieve things beyond his wildest dreams. I know women before me have done it, and they have been happy to make those sacrifices, but something tells me that’s not what I really want. It’s been fascinating discovering what I really want. And always as I press against the door of what I think I want, it doesn’t open, so I turn around and see a quirkier, different path that feels more like home. Thank goodness for that.

I have to be true. We have to be true. It doesn’t make sense to me to hold these facades any longer. I feel them all around me in the world, too. So many people pretending, trying to make something happen, trying to get a result. I don’t buy it. I just want to be real and see your realness too. Your true self, your quirky, poetic, dancing colors. That’s it. I’m stripping. Life is too short to be someone else, to live by the books, to float along without diving into this ocean within. Life, thank you for showing me the options. I’m not sure I like anything on the regular menu, so I’m coming into the kitchen. Show me your spice rack and I’ll show you mine. Let’s cook up a storm and rewrite this tired song because the melody haunts me (and thank goodness for that.)

Posted in LIVING ARTIST | 6 Comments


It would be a lie to say that I’m not trying to piece myself back together after becoming a mother. I’m not sure where writing starts and motherhood ends. I’m writing this standing up with the laptop on top of the fridge. Nope, not anymore. Now I’m writing this at 11:33pm on the green velvet couch while everyone else is sleeping and resting. I delete my frustration, close the computer and start again the next day. Here I am again the next morning, trying, trying again, to be happy.

Why do I write? I write because something calls me to sit here and type at these keys and organize my thoughts into something other than grocery lists and the housing market. I write because I miss the woman I used to be, the artist who never envisioned herself as a mother, who didn’t have the patience to be a mother. I write because I’m trying to sew her back into my life, trying to find some way to meet with her everyday over coffee, because I miss her. Our relationship is so charged that I put it off and put it off, this meeting, and then when the time comes, I drink and eat nervously and wonder what she’ll think of me. What I’ve become.

I’m trying to make space in my life to be happy again. Happy beyond the happiness of marriage and parenting, where my patience is now monumental. I seem to have become a woman whose daily actions are those that my artist self resists. Ordered and restrained and forward thinking and mundane, really. Sacred mundane. Washing, cooking, rocking, singing, playing – not so much actually. Why don’t I play anymore? I suppose I feel too jaded to play. So sad.

So I write to start playing again. I write to carve some time for myself every day. I write to get back in touch with a part of myself I have let calcify, for fear that she might ruin everything and turn the house upside down and be too dramatic and too emotional and too unstable. The child within me. I suppose I have tried to be the grown up, to do the things that grown ups do and move on from those frivolous times. How BORING.

What do I miss about you, artist?

Where do I begin. I miss the way you walk, the way you see things. I miss the way you don’t give a damn. I miss your ideas, your dreams, your favorite foods, the black coffee you drink. I miss your fun. I miss your sense of style. I miss the way you love your lover. That look in your eye and the spark in your heart as you connect with what inspires you. What inspires you? He asked last night. All I can think of is the straight open road, and motels, and bad diner coffee, and gas stations. I want to be on the road again, throwing it all to the wind. Baby in the back or not, it doesn’t matter. She wants to read again, learn again. Turn the volume of the music up, up, up.

I’ve become more mature, that’s for sure. But maybe she has grown up too, through this whole motherhood business. She’s definitely been watching and learning right alongside me, except now she’s pretty pissed. Angry that I haven’t let her have a voice. Like a sultry teenager, I’ve been driving her away with my rules and rejection. But she is my flesh and blood, she is part of my soul. I need her! So I make her a playlist to sing her back into my house. I tell her I will listen. I promise I will pay attention when she calls me away from the sink and the kitchen sponge to be with her.

Why do I resist her like I have? I passed a street tonight called Normal Street (literally) and she sensed my desire for balance and equanimity and stability and security, but before the thought became a feeling she said ‘PFFT. Normal!?’ How BORING.’ The glittering freeways crawl like rivers of metal and we keep driving. She’s the only person I care about impressing these days, so I’ve decided to listen to her more. I like her. If I can bring some of her spark to my mothering, and some of my salt and earth mothering to her life, we might just be okay. We could live together, even work together! Baby steps.

Tonight she sits on my couch and eats an artisanal donut and vibrates with the energy of someone exciting and new. She feels she is a little more welcome here. We listen to Fiona Apple and Cass McCombs and melancholy, triumphant songs. Candles in the Rain. Dark Paradise. I feel relief just to have her in my space again. This relationship I have to her is as complex as any passionate love. It’s wonderful to discover who she is again, to hear her stories and sense who she has become while she has been away. Where has she been? I am fascinated. What will she make of today? We are learning to trust each other, two women, respecting these lives we’ve created in parallel universes, bringing our hands back together again, salty and rainy and sticky and alive.

I started this post with the words of Annie Lamott in my head – “Before I became a mother I couldn’t write if there were dishes in the sink. Then I had a child. Now I can write if there’s a corpse in the sink.” Not sure what there is in my sink right now, but learning to let go of those endless ‘shoulds’ and focus on the truth of what’s important to me in my lifetime, my body, my soul. Anyone else out there feel like they’ve been ripped in half post-partum? I miss the old me, yet respect the new me. Oh, life. 



It’s 80 degrees and sunny in LA and I miss New York. I miss the stinky garbage and the hot concrete on those shady streets downtown with the wisdoms scrawled into them. I miss the buzz, the other buzz that isn’t the nine lane freeway buzz and the threat of drought in the air. I miss the red brick facades and the ladders coming down off the balconies and the trumpet players in Washington Square Park.

I’ve been here six months now and I’m realizing how hard it has been to move. We had New York on our own terms. We’d come in and come out. Oh, the out and oh, the in. We loved returning to the intersection on Canal and West Broadway, spotting the rebels, the mavericks, the kooks out for their first walk in days. We loved leaving, too. I will never forget when you first took me to Pennsylvania. I fell asleep in your lap and woke up to the smell of river and grass and damp sweet heavy night as they wound down the window.

We stayed the weekend while hurricane Irene blew through, scattering leaves and twigs and felling a few trees across the canal. The air was pregnant that summer, every summer. We had coffee and pancakes and I took photographs of you in your all black long sleeve pajamas and bare feet, reading the inscriptions on your bottles of flower essences, feet on the coffee table, your face like Michelangelo.

Just a month or so later, we were back and I had a few rental houses lined up for us to look at. You picked me up from the airport and had a hot roast dinner and a rollie cigarette ready in the passenger seat. We drove through New Jersey and across the majestic Delaware in Pennsylvania and stayed at your brothers house for a long weekend. We drank Prosecco on the old porch and danced barefoot indoors.

A year later, I would walk the tow path along the canal and tell you how high the corn was growing. You were traveling, playing your music to different audiences every night, and I was traveling too, along that beaten dirt and gravel path, watching the subtle changes in the landscape, familiar with almost every tree, almost all the grasses. I would run my hands along the tops of them as they swayed in the evening breezes, the moon high above the river bed.

The next year when I miscarried, I sought solace in that forest. It was only when we mounted the hill before descending into the valley that I felt free to grieve, to enter that dark forest of grief within myself. I swam in the river a lot, at first afraid of what lived under the mud within it, and then grateful for its constant presence, its soothing cool in summertime, the green pressing all around, the wide dominance of it in winter with the shards of white ice and snow floating down it.

I hated having to burn oil to warm the house. I didn’t love the water pressure in the shower. We never found anyone we could really relate to out there, no one really like us. But god did I love it there. I didn’t want to leave. Not one bit. I still don’t. But I have. I have left and it was one of the hardest things I’ve had to do. I was pregnant there, walked the deep snow with my heavy belly and heard only my breath and my footsteps in that snowy cover. I loved the deer and the safety I felt. Always safe, always welcomed.

Snow Canal II watercolor/paper by B.F. Postel

Julius was born at 919 River Road. I was born, too. I think part of me is still embedded in the floor boards there where my first born burst out of me. I left her there. Maybe she will never leave. It is her house as much as anyone else. Will we return one day? I don’t know. Will we truck all of our belongings across country again? God that was an effort. But in this moment now, I fantasize about it, about moving back to New York, back to that house where I was born.

I always wanted my children to have that forest, those animals. I sense we will return someday, I’m not sure when it will be. Maybe in our old age, maybe in a few years. A sense of belonging. I’d love to feel that. That wild city, those gentle hills. They will be with me forever. Until my reunion (or a resolution) it’s you and me California, you and me.

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As the vibrato chop of the helicopter rushes over our night-drenched house, I remember. I remember the dusty trails and the peppercorn boughs. Little dangling trinkets in the sun. I remember how the oil drills filled the space between the horizon and me, and how I turned away. My son dropped his wide little knees to the dirt and put rocks in his mouth. I pull them out but don’t care too much. “This way,” I tell him, “this way.”

It’s hot and dry, and I am so very thirsty. I remember what it felt like to give priority to this flowing. This trickle which when I let it turns into a gushing river. I remembered today, as I walked that eucalypt mountain, the wilder girl in me who doesn’t bother with the time of night, the provenance of the menu, the state of the floors. Now with my son, my precious darling son in my life, I am encouraged yet again to break free of my self.

It’s a sacred thing, this receiving, this offering. I’m seeing how very vital this creating is. I had forgotten that with this giving, we find each other. We become closer to the heart of ourselves and our humanity. It’s all I seem to write about these days, but that’s okay. From the moment my eyes open in the morning, I am in a constant state of doing. Wash this, boil that, rinse that, cook that, strip this, clothe, wipe, nurse, respond to this, wash that, cook that, clean that, and so on and so on it goes and goes and goes.

You can’t imagine (mothers you may) how refreshing it is to just sit here at 12:19am after all has been said and done, and just write. Let it all drop off the edges of my fingertips. My eyes are so tired and my back aches from carrying my son up a mountain today, but I don’t care. This is my church. I am listening. I am here.

It’s been a long time coming, this trickling back. I know some part of me shut down when I experienced a miscarriage seven weeks into my first pregnancy. In that frenzy with all the ambulances and tears and ginger movements, I lost my courage to give. But something is changing in me. I am gathering the magic again. Slowly I am walking the trails, looking back through the shadows, the forests of trees, and I am seeing myself in it all again. I am participating in this sacred river again. There is more to life than meets the eye, I know it. I feel it. I remember it.

They breathe deeply next to me and I feel so content. I don’t need much. Just a few minutes to swim in this sun river, this beloved dance. Can you remember what it was like, my soul? What it was like to be so incredibly YOU? Let’s go back there again. I will take you. Hold my hand. Don’t let go! Until next time – my eyes are open and my pen is poised. Bring it on, magic, oh yes bring it on.

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It’s 12:37pm on a Thursday afternoon and I am a hot pulpy mess of relief and recognition reading Mama, Bare which arrived in the mail this morning. My husband opened the package and I handed him a cup of tea before holding it in my hands. Just the image on the cover sent a strange warmth over me. I had to sit down to let it rinse my heart further.

And then I couldn’t get up. Reading these stories of motherhood – of mothers bare, of women who have gone through what I’ve gone through, who are going through it now with me, who understand and articulate the wild land that one enters upon becoming a mother – my heart is carved open and strange animals are falling out.

As I push deeper into my twenty ninth year on this planet, as Saturn swells overhead and the days open and close, I am seeing more of myself: my San Andreas fault; the piles of gold within me, guarded by some jealous dragon. I am seeing who I was before, who I am now, and who I might become. The path is filled with danger and delight in equal measure. Every moment requires total focus.

Motherhood is like a famed river I had put on my itinerary. I’d heard of its curves and falls, its glory and magnificent views. Like planning a trek, I had much to prepare for. I read all the trail books – mostly just plotting geography in X’s and Y’s, a few lists of how-to’s and what-to-bring’s, and geared my mind for the adventure ahead. I was excited, giddy really. Naively so. My mother in law said to me, “Everything else is like kindergarten compared to this.”

I yearned to fling myself across that cliff. I knew I wouldn’t do it in any other area of my life. Motherhood was the one thing that would keep me committed to something much, much bigger than me. As soon as that fusion of nuclei hit my womb, I knew my old life would be over. Something in me wanted that. I think I knew what was in store, the dramatic shifts, profound changes, sudden drops, euphoric highs. This was something I couldn’t turn away from.

Julius and I, a few days postpartum

As I read Mama, Bare, I am reminded of the crippling loss (and so the incredible gift) that giving birth is. We prepare so much to meet our children, but little is spoken of the years following. I stumbled across a quote before my pregnancy which haunted me in the best way. The midwife had said that the first year of motherhood is more difficult than the birth itself. It is ‘the year of travail’, when a mother must give birth to the woman inside of her, the woman she is becoming.

It’s been a gnarly birth, that one.

Sometimes I think other mothers make it look so easy. How can it be that everything is so tidy? That their daily lives are so full of positivity and connection to the cosmic OJ? How is it that they don’t close the bedroom door and cry into their pillow or attempt a million adjustments to make that feeling go away? Maybe if I quit coffee, drank more coffee, quit sugar, treat myself, took a course, moved house, plant a garden. Maybe if I had a dog, or my own car, or different shoes, or more flowers, or a cocktail, or a new mop, maybe then I’d be happy.

Maybe if I write that book, or paint that picture, or keep everything neat and tidy and perfect, then I’ll be happy. No, mama. I’ve been going around in this circle for a long time, and I’m finally waking up to what I am running from. Myself. Dragon, I see you, and I’m standing here on this cliff looking into your eyes, feeling your heat, sensing your claws, and I’m telling you, YOU ARE NOT WELCOME HERE. Like Galadriel in Battle of the Five Armies, I’m telling you, go back to the void from whence you came! Yeah, this is me speaking, and I’m not willing to accept you ruling my life any more.

I know now that this lull in energy has been my strength building, so that I can face you, mighty guardian and dispel you from my kingdom. The gold here is mine to claim, and I know you don’t want to share it Dragon (EGO.) But I do. The blinding light within me must be released. My own light is scorching me, and your claws have scratched at my heart long enough.

Oh yes, of course I have loved you. It has been a sordid and secret love affair, really. We had our fun, and you have served your purpose – protected my greatest gifts and kept our treasure well hidden. But where do we go from here? It’s really time you moved on.

Who am I without you? I don’t quite know yet. My son has been fending you off for months. Maybe we can live this road together somehow. Just like the little girl within me who I cradle in my arms, the one who was terrified of being left in the dark. Maybe you can live in here too with the girl who starved and denied herself, who slowly learned to love her body and whose shoulders I sling my arms around every day. Perhaps you, shadow, you can live in here too.

Maybe you’re not as scary as I thought you were. Maybe your anger is a wound. Maybe you need me to tend to your wound, to place my hands on your beating heart, and hold you close to my own. Oh great cliff, great river, great Love. You have changed me forever. This journey is no simple walk. I’ve never known my strength to be so great. I’ve become so familiar with your velvet cloak. All the better to see you with, my soul, all the better to see you with.

Posted in OH, LOVE, RAPTURE | Leave a comment


This one caught in my throat and makes my heart thump. God I love it.

Women of a certain age are waking up
in the middle of things – birth & death feel
blessedly far away – the raw edge of real
departure & arrival a distant memory –
days fleeting in restful harmony like leaves
seen through a window, drifting with all
the others until they are reimagined
again by light, time & rain. Women
of a certain age are waking to the sound
of their breathing which through the long dark
hours has frightened them. In their worry
to light up a few inches of the universe,
a fraction of the infinite, however minute,
they are waking before dawn to witness
a victory of light, the capture of every single
trench of shadow. The dawn will be theirs
to hold a little while – its lightness –
they will forget some of what they have
experienced & remember what they were
born with, including that which is too early
to remember. Women of a certain age – loving
this lightness – are rolling onto their sides,
rising out of their beds & out of their bodies,
imagining themselves free of the earth
& its drive to replace them, they are speeding
like comets over the edge of the universe,
falling & flying out of the familiar,
plummeting into the unknown to arrive
at a new hospitable household, having slipped
away without goodbyes only smoke as they burn –
bluer and bluer – on the last drop of fuel
found only in the bodies of women of a certain age.

– Bronwyn Lea

Posted in EVERYDAYNESS | Leave a comment


I know what I need to do, what I have been missing. Why I have been so sad. I haven’t been breathing. I haven’t been present. I’m rushing through the chores of the day trying to get somewhere, attain something. But when I’m on my knees scrubbing the floor in the kitchen I ask myself, for what do you want to be remembered by? And then my throat catches and my heart catches and the whole net tightens. I have forgotten my gift. I didn’t think I was allowed it.  Let me go there.

Forget all the to-dos, all the posturing and pretending and trying to make it work. Let yourself feel it. I want to be (myself) an author, a writer, to be known as such and appreciated as such. I’m so many things, and yet nothing but this. I was born with this gift, born with this ability to see what I love and put it into words, capture it, a box full of memories, books full of time, frozen. Page upon page of this excruciatingly beautiful, desperate, heart-breaking dream called life.

I’m finding my way back, through the hustle and bustle of other people’s dreams, the glittering distractions and the mud caked ones too. I’m slowing down. I know when I’m flat and bored and clutching at straws, that I need to go back. I need to return to my love, this love. Oh I have created so many distractions from it. Gatherings and cookings and parentings and meetings and cleanings and studyings. All I need to do is sit here and type.

My heart. I am here. (And then I read all your comments on my previous post and I’m sobbing hot tears of gratitude and relief. How did I ever leave this, this work, this play?)

Because I let other people’s expectations roll over me. I let my yearning for partnership take me over. I focused my lens on manifesting all that I had dreamt of, and I’ve arrived. I have made it. I am here. Now what? Oh yes, that thing you love to do but never make time for? That thing that has fallen to the bottom of the laundry basket? Oh, that thing, that beloved thing. Each day passes and I wonder what I could have done better. I’m filling the bath again and thinking, wasn’t I just here a moment ago, filling the bath at the end of a day? What did I do today that fed my soul? Why am I so hungry?

Time is passing, and I’m kidding myself that there are other things I’d rather be doing. For year’s I’ve pushed this gift aside and focused on developing some other skills. As if I didn’t want this gift, as if it wasn’t mine.

It is time. Time to reclaim this worn tome, this thumb-rubbed blanket that I used to sleep with, dream with, cuddle up and love with. This gift of mine. I’m opening the box where I stored you and it’s as if I see you with new eyes. How did I ever live without you? How much I have to tell you. Let us begin again. My heart, my soul, my only. I’m home. Now what? Words, more words! I will dance with you, and love you back to life.

Posted in LIVING ARTIST | 5 Comments
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