Leaving The Loft.

“If I stayed here, something inside me would be lost forever—something I couldn't afford to lose. It was like a vague dream, a burning, unfulfilled desire.”

― Haruki Murakami

We had decided to separate. The thought of moving out of the house was more than he could bare. Our pain was deep. The kids. Us. How do we navigate this newness. How do I allow him to have sadness and regret and start to crack open without trying to fix it, to fill in the cracks so he won't have to feel it?


I woke up at 4am with a jolt.

I saw a circle of women. We were change and love and fierce because we were creating together.

In this circle all of the magic that was happening would ebb and flow through a space that held beauty and faith and change. That held light.

My life in that one moment changed and I find myself sitting here now, in this space of beauty, faith and change.

I was stepping into such deep truth in my life and this was the answer that came from the surrender into faith.


It is a story I have told for 4 years. Of our decision to enter a soft separation. Of my decision to get The Loft.

It is a story of a disco ball manifested and hung as a symbol of all that was coming. That already was.

It is a story of letting go. Of loving someone enough to know that we would be happier inside of a new soul contract.

It is a story of the first young, alive lover to find me after a marriage decades long. New touch. Taste. Breath. And how he would crack me open.

It is a story of lifting up. Women brave enough to walk through her doors and sit in circle sharing words they didn't even know were there. The way they infused their spirits into these walls. The way they trusted this space to hold them.

It is a story of surprise and gifts. The one who helped me dream the space, gave me permission to leave inside of a secret note in my vision book, to make the crate wall, the dance in my truth. The tuna and cracker dates and the beauty she infused. And the one that would become my partner, my nurturer, the magic of coyoteloon. Who would come to pack boxes and bring me tea. The one who would teach me to release control. Who will lift a canoe onto her car or my heart when it is broken.

It is a story of creamy coffee in handmade mugs. In bed with new babies, best friends, snuggles, tears, giggles. Co-sleeping with friends. Attachment friendship-ing. The way one would share stories late at night as we piled into the big bed with the cool white sheets. The enchilada pie the other one made as she mid-wifed me through loss. The vision pages. The giggles. The coffee sipped. The complete unconditional love they taught me.

It is a story of Friday nights and Sunday fun-days. The huge bug that crawled all over the basement floor before the bed frame and how I would crack up when she described it to me. The way she made me feel at home in my own home. The letters to the Universe we would write sipping cocktails and wanting more. The good-byes we have said together. The nothing is the same now and today is amazing and amazing.

It is a story of sunsets. An old brick building filled with stories, framing a sky that held magic. Sitting on the deck having wine tastings and thai food and their birthday parties and wondering how something so urban and quite ugly could hold such amazing beauty. Coffee dates and tequila nights and magic cookie jars and surprise friendships and beauty and tears and change.

It is a story of space becoming a home. The three of them in our tribal living space downstairs. Moving them in, the first Christmas, the hamster who was freedom, the scooters in the hallways of their industrial home. Mac and cheese served on blue platters under the disco lights with cloth napkins and tellings of their day.

It is a story of a man. Manifested from a jar and a sticky note and a moth and his name and his gorgeous gray hair. The one that would ask to kiss me on our second date. And how instead of saying yes, I climbed onto his lap, my eyes looking into his eyes. The moment I knew he was my fire, and I his earth. Twin souls. The kiss that felt like melting into the person who had been searching for you his whole life.

It is a story of a brick wall. Photo shoots, videos, the stories told and the way I look back now and see the change in who I have become. Lines in new places on my face. Stress wrapped around my jaw. Deeper wisdom that only can be born through the manifestation of a life lived inside of the trust of surrendering to God, to the Universe, to the stardust that wants magic for us.

It is a story of saying good-bye. Today as walls become bare and the truck fills with the contents of a magical space filled with twinkle lights and faith, today we are saying good-bye. As he fills the holes in the walls and I drink a pot of coffee. As we make love for the last time in the big bed, under the white sheets, his fire and my earth connected.

It is a story of the eve of my new life. We are terrified, sad and filled with promise of what is to be. The gifts waiting inside of our new life. Together. The magic that swirls at the lake and our dreams of what we now can create and give and manifest. It started as a love story, became a love story and ends a love story.


And the voices that came back echoed over and over… trust yourself, trust yourself.

And the signs appeared as if out of bubbles of trust.

Disco balls, texts with yes, Buddha heads, smiling eyes, women radiating me to open and trust.

In a deeply personal retreat circling with soul-sisters my own words found hanging on a wall that I might have forgotten I wrote:

When we step into the deepest level of care for ourselves, meaning we claim it, the dreams we never believed could come true start falling as though stars from the sky.


Fierce, fierce magic.


It is a story I have told, once before and over and over.

Today we say good-bye to The Loft.

Today is the Eve of my new life. The dream. The good-bye. The trust.

It is a story of prayer, which today is simply...

Thank you.