Sinking back in.

2016
.......

She stood next to me while I put on my make-up. It was Easter Eve and the presence of God/Source Energy, the God in everything, was swirling around us.

"How do our prayers go where they need to and get answered? How is that possible?"

I could feel my body light up. These questions are pure delight.

She then turns around and runs out of the room, "Never mind that is a stupid question."

I walked out to the living room. I told her that this was not a stupid question. That adults think about this, write books about this, are in constant wonderment and awe of prayer.

I spoke a few words about energy and allowing. She was embarrassed by her own wonder and wasn't ready for a big discussion. As though she should just automatically understand prayer, while all the adults around her are searching for their own understanding.

Why do we pray?

.......

Last night I fell apart. I contracted. I went deep inside of pain and fear.

I felt like a fraud. Like I was letting everyone down. I was triggered out of my sense of calm and a recently found deeper empathy for myself into the belief that I was going to lose everything. Because of criticism. Because of the last year of chaos and unknowing. Because my unworthiness was being splayed out for me to see.

My love and I started fighting. I pushed. And pushed. My tears felt like they were taking over my body. I readied myself for him to leave. To prove to me that I was losing everything, including his love. I was embarrassed and vulnerable and scared.

I was sobbing with my head down in my arms. I heard him grab his keys and walk out the door.

See, I am losing everything. I contracted deeper into the pain. I would just feel it all tonight. I've been here before. It has all fallen apart before.

Why do we push away what we love and want and need the most?

A few minutes later he walked back in, grabbed a beer and sat down next to me.

"Are you done pushing me away yet?"

.......

When we were talking about money stories in my business circle I asked the women what motivated them? Money is never the actual motivation, it is simply the currency we use to manifest the desire.

My past motivations have been freedom and adoration. Those drove me to create, to write, to connect, to find answers, to manifest this business that feels larger than what I can understand yet.

Both motivations were found from a flip of what I lacked into what I knew was already in my future. The lack, the falling apart, the falling to my knees on the kitchen floor in surrender, in sending out the prayer so I could find acceptance for what was to become new.

To take the pain and fear that was and allow it to tell the new story. One that does exist in vibration and energy and the God in everything. One that is already held in a truth that comes from its telling.

After feeling the truth of the story that you no longer wish to hold true. After the prayer. After the acceptance. After the push. After the place the story started and into the one you now write on the blank page, on the mantra stone, in bullet points or list form.

Of freedom. 
Of adoration.

And now of safety inside of love.

The new motivation born into a future self. The motivation that will bring me to her. That already is. The woman whose currency is now safety inside of love. Who believes she can have abundance and love at the same time. Who knows that her superpower is loving. And who receives all the beauty that she puts forth.

The story becomes a shift in vibration, like a magnet attaching me to her and I feel my cells literally change as I close my eyes and integrate her into my being.

Safety inside of love.

.......

2017

.......

Each year when a new circle begins, I begin again.

I teach to learn, to become a better teacher, to understand and explore what I most desire. This circle gives me a chance each year to understand the magic of the Universe on that next level vibration. 

I am integrating her. The one that came before, that is aching for new discovery.

The integration piece is one I prefer to skip. 

So here I am. Sinking back in. 

The circle opens.

You know the best time to launch a new circle?

When all 5 kids are on school vacation, in the midst of packing your house to move, inside of boundary work with behaviors that are causing you great anxiety and then they start puking all night with fevers.

There is never going to be a right time for most anything. It will never be convenient. It will never be perfect. If you are like me, you'll probably already be tired tomorrow when you wake up today.

And you do it anyway. Or because.

Because change isn't something you schedule into your life in perfect little boxes on a calendar with washi tape labeling each move.

Choosing it. 
Doing it.
Claiming it.

The magic. You. Your yes. To you. To this life that holds so much possibility.

Blessing who you are now while you become the one that is starting to emerge.

Knowing the kids won't be sick forever and the boxes will be packed and that choosing you is the most important choice because your vibration changes those that you love and nurture.

This is what I repeat to myself. This is what the ones who love me tell me.

This is what I want to tell you.

There is never a right time. 

So choose now.

Choose you.

Grab your magic, feel the possibility.

I'll see you in the circle.

xo

“HANNAH HAS A GENTLE WAY OF SHAKING UP EVERY FIBER OF YOUR BEING BY OPENING YOUR EYES TO WHO YOU TRULY ARE AND HOW YOU CAN BRING YOURSELF FORWARD INTO THE LIFE (AND SPIRIT) THAT HAS ALWAYS FELT JUST OUT OF REACH. SHE TAKES YOUR HAND AND GUIDES YOU HOME, TO THE BEST POSSIBLE VERSION OF YOUR TRUE SELF. ONCE SHE HAS TOUCHED YOUR LIFE, YOU WILL NEVER BE THE SAME AND YOU WILL THANK THE UNIVERSE EVERY DAY FOR GUIDING YOU TO HER.”

Guiding Home.

everything will change

do you believe in luck

how much is spirit
how much is you
and are they woven

everything my love will change

you deserve this
you were born for this
everything leading up to now was drawing it towards you

and if you believe in luck how do you define it

if you are lucky what path have you dusted off

how much is chance

how much is every moment you stung sung drank pleaded grasped prayed dreamt let float away

leading up to this gift
this gift that you are drawing forth

you

everything baby will change
everything my sweet will change
and i will hold space for you
protect you
guide you

and the ground will expand
and we will breathe

the exhale the inhale the blessings

everything sweet one

will change

Four Quarters.

I've been thinking about a cigarette. Not an entire one. Just a few drags. A quarter of its whole.

When I first moved into the Loft I would go out to the deck late at night and smoke a quarter of a cigarette. Often early in the morning I would smoke another quarter.

Eventually the quarter turned into a half and it started to become something I looked forward to. At some point I had to stop, which only smoking one to two cigarettes a day was incredibly challenging.

I remember one night a friend of mine joined me outside. It was 2am. The snow started falling. We blew the smoke into the cold air as our hats were being covered in little flakes. I remember him saying he was the happiest he had been, right there, in that moment. I didn't want it to end.

There were more moments like that. The morning after I was asked out on a date for the first time. I was crazy excited and I went outside to have my quarter cigarette and I felt butterflies of my becoming. My longing for love.

It was never about the cigarette. They were this thing I started doing before I had the courage to leave my marriage. Almost like this weird way of attaching to freedom and doing something 'bad' so that I could prove to myself I wouldn't blow up the world if I didn't follow the rules, if I acted in a way I wasn't supposed to.

The cigarette was my way of easing into this new life that I didn't think I deserved. The cigarette was the transition into the fear of what was next. The cigarette was that tiny head rush sitting on the porch, knowing that the courage was gathering and it was going to happen.

The cigarette, it was part of my magic.

I also started running.

I was barely eating and my body was slimming down fast.

That transition was not all kale and bee pollen.

It was the quarter cigarette as I gathered my strength to step into my next iteration.

Today as the sun was shining outside I thought about the cigarette, as I've been thinking about it for the last few days.

The culmination of the last thing I was manifesting has come to be. Last year during Magic Making Circle I was manifesting Dave and I buying a house together. A home where we could raise our kids, where we could have space, where our next chapter together would come to be.

I tell the women who circle each year in that circle that we do the work in our 6 months together but then it is in the seventh, the eighth, the ninth month that you better get ready for the magic to sink in. For the Universe and you to start lining up to the vibrations you were calling forth.

And boom. I'll get the emails, the messages.

They are like me, kind of like, "Holy Shit, this really happened."

That is usually when I want the cigarette. As we now have manifested the home. The place of my next iteration.

I went for a run. I took my vitamins and drank my greens. I had cashew yogurt with paleo granola. 

I felt angry. Unsettled. If I could just have that quarter of that whole cigarette this would all feel better.

Because what often doesn't get talked about is that once your dreams realize, there you are. 

Like being naked in your life. Raw. Real. It is usually when the work happens. 

The emotions will pour into each box I will pack and wrap in tape and label for the rooms of this life that I actively chose to manifest.

This last circle of the magic was all about manifesting home, safety in love.

I don't need the cigarette, as much as I think about it. I don't need to risk the addiction to something that will hurt my body.

I can't have it now because it wouldn't fit into who I am now, who I love now, who I chose to be as mama and lover and friend.

But then. Back then. It was a lifeline into my future self. She would sit on the porch after they went to school, after she ran. She would pour her coffee and smoke her quarter cigarette as she meditated all the feelings from her past keeping her trapped.

And then. On that deck, in the snow with him, in the sunshine waiting for her becoming, then she needed it.

She had so much to say good-bye to. And that cigarette saved her, held her, protected her.

In the first days of our love I would try to hide the taste and smell from my kisses to him. He always knew.

He patiently waited for me to be ready. 

To be ready to say good-bye to that quarter of a whole. To no longer need that to feel safe.

He wanted to be my safety. I fought it, pushed. 

And now, today, when I'm thinking about the cigarette, and I'm so freaking crabby, I go outside and sit on his lap in the sun. I kiss him. I'm terrified. And I am safe.

There is part of me that is terrified with what I drew forth. Which is the story within all the dreams I call forth into my now.

I really didn't want to tell any of you about the cigarette. Which typically means it is exactly what words need to be written.

Dreaming is messy. Manifesting is exhausting and triggering and so damn hard because it is asking you to make peace with parts of your past so that you can release the she who was. It asks you to trust. It asks you to believe. It asks you to get more vulnerable than you want to. It asks you to look beyond all you think you are worth into the magic that is you.

And it works. And it is the most real thing I know.

The quarter of the whole is only in my memories now, dancing into my longings that want me to remember how to ease the fear. 

But there he is. The one I manifested from the magic. And there is our home. And there are the someday dreams that will come after the integration of this life I grew from the seeds of the work.

Magic is the whole of all the quarters of our dreaming and feeling and desiring.

I've been thinking about a cigarette and I trust myself to no longer need the quarter of the whole.

This is who I am. (Except I don't know)

She used to tell me that after time at the Loft she would leave feeling sexier, more desirable.

Everything about the Loft oozed sexy. Disco ball hanging from the ceiling and twinkle lights wrapped around the stairs and vintage shot glasses lining the wall of the kitchen.

The Loft was born from a moment in time when it all needed to change. I needed to find my life because the one I was in was hiding my true self.

The feeling of sexy was because at the Loft, it was about your essence, your shine, your exploration, your simply showing up as you, no walls, no judgement.

That is sexy. Confidence and other women lifting you up fosters that feeling of loving who you are in your skin.

.......

We had agreed to separate and he didn't feel like he was emotionally in a place to be the one to leave.

I woke up at 4am and I saw the space. I saw the brick wall. I knew that it was where I was supposed to be.

I found it the next day. Exactly as I had seen in my vision.

The Loft held my (re)awakening. It was super charged with the decisions I was making to become the woman I was growing into when I was 19.

The same morning I woke up with the vision of the Loft I saw a circle of women. They would travel to this space, retreat in this space, become along with me in this space.

My business would co-create with my life, as I transitioned so would the journey of my practice.

The Magic Making Circle was birthed for this space, from this space. The Lift Ups, where 4 or 5 women would gather for a weekend of intense vibrational shifting, were born for this space, from this space. 

The woman in that photo above was born for this space, from this space.

.......

We didn't let the kids know what we were going through for almost 3 years. When we decided to legally separate the kids came to live at the Loft with me. In a few hours I transformed it from retreat-awakening-woman-space to home.

We all slept tribal style in the basement. The kids skateboarded in the long concrete hallways. I always felt sexy there. I was a woman becoming and my body was tingling with sensuality and a chance to be better, to give us a playful, fun, beautiful life.

I used to wake them up playing a song, singing and dancing. We had fancy mac and cheese candlelight dinners. There were always people around. Hosted dinners. Sitting on the deck with neighbors. Walking to get the mail and flirting with people on the way. 

I still look back on it and think, holy shit, I did that. I dreamt it. I made it.

It made me.

.......

The Magic Making Circle was born because of that space. 

I always felt sexier at the Loft. My work vibrated differently there because I was held inside the walls of my work as my life as my teacher. 

I miss the woman in that photo because she has gone through a shit of muck. She lost a lot of hair. She gained weight. She spent months terrified that she would be homeless. She became a single mom. She lost friends. 

When I look in the mirror there is a new face looking back and I have been trying to wrestle up compassion for her because I keep trying to see that other woman. 

The one who felt sexier.

The one who was so brave.

The one who was falling in love.

The one who ate potato chips for lunch naked.

The one who had this ridiculous energy of freedom inside of her.

As I've tried climbing back into her she continues to be in my past, no matter how I grab back at her image.

When I was working on launching the Magic Making Circle for the 5th year I kept wondering if maybe it was time to let it go. I couldn't feel that woman anymore. 

My intuition guides every decision I make and there was something churning me up, telling me that something needed to be new.

I am just now climbing out of the hardest year of my life and I am still looking in the mirror trying to understand who I am now.

I looked at the sales page from last year and one of the month's work is called 'Beautiful Dreamer' and in seconds I could hear a song playing in my head from when I was a young girl. It was like I went back in time and was sitting near my record player singing.

You, you're different
You go your own way
Come what may
You seem to do, what you should do
And nothing ever gets to you

You're special
They wrote a song just for you
Beautiful dreamer, that's your name
And I wanna be the same way too

Beautiful dreamer
Share a dream with me
You beautiful dreamer
Dream on and on
Through eternity

Some may all you foolish
But only those who don't believe
They can't conceive that dreams can come true
But I do cause I'm a dreamer too

Beautiful dreamer
Share a dream with me
You beautiful dreamer
Dream on and on
Through eternity

You, you're different
You, you're special...

From Fame. The show that I would dream could become my real life. The one that took me into the world of acting.

And that song, I would play over and over and over. I know each word as though I wrote it.

And boom. Just like that. I could understand what I have been feeling.

That song is me. 

Each repetition that I played as that little girl infused my spirit. Charged me.

I am a beautiful dreamer and that is what I teach.

The work inside of Magic Making Circle isn't just a course, it is my life. In circle we dream together and create together and learn who we are.

Year one I manifested the Loft and this gorgeous circle which continues to take my breath away. 
Year two I manifested my awakening, sexually and inside of freedom.
Year three I manifest the man I love, who has shown me safety inside of love.
Year four I manifested home, the Magic Lakehouse for my retreats, the urban farmhouse, the someday home for our huge family.

Year five I feel empty of a dream.

And I'm a dreamer.

And how can I teach a course about creating magic in your life when I have no idea what my next dream is because I still don't recognize who I am in the image looking back at me.

And then. I read this...
 

“WHAT YOU DO IS TAKE WOMEN WHO DON’T EVEN KNOW HOW TO BELIEVE IN WHAT THEY ALREADY ARE, DON’T KNOW THAT THEY SHOULD, AND YOU GIVE THEM HOPE, GIVE THEM THE TOOLS, INTRODUCE THEM TO A WAY OF LOOKING AT THEMSELVES, THE WORLD, EACH OTHER – THAT ILLUMINATES, ILLUMINATES THE PATH THAT WE FAILED TO NOTICE WAS BENEATH OUR FEET ALL ALONG.”

Year five.

Year five is the integration of all the magical manifestations that have come from my beautiful dreams so that I can learn who she is. The one looking back at me. The one with so many stories to tell. The one who needs to rest and plant and make home and love. The one who has been begging silently for the chance to catch up to her own self. 

To look in the mirror and know her.

I remember the song. The dreams. The women. Dorothy and the slippers. The path. The work of magic, which is the beautiful dreamer who goes her own way, come what may...

Walking in ashes.

I've been in that place that entrepreneurs go when they know that change is coming. 

It is the desire to burn it all down around you so that from the ashes the rebirth can rise.

This place is confusing and frustrating and you spend time in waiting.

For the download.

For the communing with Spirit.

For the magic.

For the words that channel into you.

It has been a hard. I've been here before.

You sit with yourself in the uncomfort and you find stillness.

.......

And then a message on Facebook from one of the women who has brought crazy amounts of joy to our circles...

I’ve spent a lot of my life wondering where my people were, and maybe more specifically, where my women were. When I was first introduced to Hannah Marcotti by a friend and colleague, I knew I had found a kindred spirit. While I might not have understood at first glance what Hannah did exactly, I knew she was a unique and important soul for me to know.

The first circle I signed up for was her “Being Mama” course, and holy crap ladies, it changed my life. It wasn’t a fast shift - but from the first email prompt I knew. (I had that stomach flip that happens when you know you’re about to see everything differently).

.......

And then Ruth.

She left a voice message from Australia for me.

She told me about a coffee date she had with a women she had met virtually 5 years ago during The Joy Up,  a program I used to run 3 times a year that connected women from all over the world. The Joy Up created friendships and support for hundreds of women.

Ruth reminded me that this was the power of the work, she wanted me to remember what this work has brought to her, to the woman she had coffee with, to so many.

I sat in my mini van listening to her voice (I miss you like mad, this world traveling friend of mine) and I started to cry.

The last time I felt this same way, knew that change was coming, I burned down the core of my business to the ground. I let The Joy Ups go so I could make room for a deeper magic.

The last time I felt this way, it was because I needed to go deeper. 

Magic Making Circle was born from the ashes. It saved my life. It gave birth to the woman I became, the one that risked everything to leave her marriage so she could once again become the mama-the lover-the free spirit, her essence of love and nurture. 

And since the first Magic Making Circle I could write 4 memoirs. Each about a woman becoming.

I probably should write at least one of those books, perhaps one will be born of the ashes.

I am ready to go deeper again.

I am craving it.

It is time.  

I am ready to walk in the ashes.

I am a woman becoming.

Walk with me. Throw off your shoes, and let's explore this ground together.

Crazy bored with myself.

There is this thing that happens in the online world. 

It changes. Fast. Lightening speed.

Just when you think you've figured out Facebook, boom, Facebook laughs in your face and forces you onto a Facebook page. 

Just when you think you've figured out the Facebook page, boom, Facebook laughs this time a bit more evil like and tells you now you have to PAY for anything to be seen.

Just when you think you are over Facebook and will use Instagram (insert social media of your choice), boom, they decide to do exactly what Facebook is doing and you won't be seen by many of the people who follow you any more.

It happens fast. And you have to adapt. It isn't a big choice, you just do or you don't.

.......

I used to be madly in love with so many women who worked in similar circles as I do. Like hard core, crush, love, give me give me give me.

I used to be madly in love with my work, with the way I could take a piece of my life, my story and turn it into an offering, a teaching, something that could lift and provide a path towards the beautiful iterations we get to be inside of in this life.

Something happened. The cozy community, the networking inside of ease, the smallness that existed inside of something huge, shifted. Saturated. Got so noisy. Busy.

My inbox is filled with emails, newsletters, words, poems, prayers, lessons, gifts and sales.

The conference where I used to gather with all these women who I lust after, lost its enchantment, and slowly we all stopped attending.

Many of my women friends had babies, got married, moved.

And I got separated and divorced.

I miss them. 

I miss the passion for this online world.

I miss my big retreat lakeside each year.

I miss deeper connection in person and through online community with women.

I am bored of myself. I am bored of doing it the same way.

Not because I don't think I am pretty cool, but because I feel I've lost this really fucking important piece of who I am inside of this call to keep adapting and making paid ads and make things shinier and bigger and more wow.

.......

I want to iterate. Again. But not because it is being dictated by sponsored posts or how many people I can get to watch a Facebook Live.

All of that is fine. Learn it. Understand it. Choose what you like.

But that is not what motivates me. That is not what keeps me interesting and likable. That is where we get lost and become just another email, another email people don't open. 

My motivation for the last 8 years has been my freedom and my happiness.

Not my joy, I have joy that sits in my belly and visits my heart and feels gratitude.

I knew that to be happy - those moments when you giggle so hard you cry, when you cook a meal and the first bite someone takes brings on the words that fill you up, the moment you wake up your kids and they put their arms around you for a snuggle - to be happy I would have to seek out my freedom.

.......

Happiness. Freedom.

And I did. I found it. All. Both. More.

I am free. I am happy.

And I am bored with all that was because something new is brewing again. 

A new motivation. A new passion. A new force.

I am so pissed off because I keep waiting for it. I've made space for it. I've slowed down my business. I've thrown my heart into my family and home.

.......

I have mastered the art of separation and divorce and single parenting and falling in love. Not everyone loved this chapter of my life. But it saved me. It gave me freedom and happiness.

And kind of like the miscarriages I had, I can be there for the women who are going through this and it is impossible to know what it feels like unless you have been inside it.

That is not judgement, just the truth of shared experience of loss.

I've manifested the shit out of my life.

I get scared by it, of it.

The speed, the intensity, the way things show up looking totally different than I expect but bringing me the desires and changing me once again on a cellular level, kind of like when you stop eating crap and make some kale and homemade chicken stock cellular change.

I'm close. Truly close to finding my next why, the thing that creates the next level of magic.

The Magic Making Circle will be back, but I am chatting with it, and listening, and I know that it will be new. It craves that something that I'm feeling in my soul. The motivation for its birth has come to manifest and now I want to take it deeper. I'm listening.

.......

My tether right now is home. The part of me that I don't feel bored by is the way I show up as nurturer. As lover. As mama.

In this transition time for me, because the iterating has been like whiplash and the quiet hermit mama has needed her space, in this space the one who wants to create and connect is the nurturer. 

The one who is less ambitious and starving, the one who is safe and wants to love and give.

She is the one I am communing with, getting soft with, opening to.

I've been side by side with women who judge themselves for all of it. Who think they should be making more money by now, who think they should be crying less tears and feeling less pain by now, who believe that they should weigh less by now, who are berating themselves because they should have left by now, who are afraid to live because they should be something something something that they aren't right now.

.......

You. And I. We are where we need to be and it will change fast, so for now, can we (even if we are bored with ourselves or judging ourselves) just be here. Here.

It is a new dialogue, these emails, the social media, the offerings, the websites, the asks.

Being new is trusting in the future. Being new is faith that when the cells rearrange it will someday feel good, blissful. 

Because it will.

When your leggings are tight.

I bought a pair of leggings in the next size up. Just to have something that felt normal on my skin. It was a moment for me when I wasn't admitting I had failed my body, my insides, but I was opening to the truth that I needed to feel comfortable while I figured out what was going on.

Gaining weight, not fitting my clothes has sent me into a hermit state for the last few months. (OK, well, more of a hermit than I already am!) I was avoiding getting my hair done, not wanting to be social. I wasn't recognizing the person looking back at me in the mirror.

I've got this man who loves me. Who fell in love with me when I was at one of my favorite states of my body.  I felt embarrassed in front of him for the first time in two years when I was naked, trying to hide myself from his eyes. He continued to use his words of love, telling me I was sexy and beautiful and how lucky he was.

But I couldn't feel it. None of it. I felt shame.

Shame is what happens to me when my body gets bigger, bloated, unlike what I am used to.

In that shame I become ungrounded. My moods are inconsistent. My thoughts become consumed with how this happened, why this happened. Leggings stretch, mine were stretching out.

|| Rooting In. Lifting Up. ||  It grew from this place of not fitting my leggings. Of knowing that I was not planted, rooted in what I know brings my body freedom, my insides joy. I didn't want to talk about this part of it. I sketched out ideas for a new circle, a devotional circle. Something that would feel like a Lift Up born from the connection that women make when they are inside of a common intention. 

I wanted to feel the ground, in circle. I was craving the practices that healed me, that started it all, that allow my freedom of spirit.

I was struggling to talk about the program, to write about it, to share it. Not my normal state of being inside this work.

I circled back to shame. The hiding. The hermit. 

And of course, the whole reason that I needed to give words to something new. Because I am new. In a new body. Making a beautiful plan to feel rooted in again. To feel my beauty again. To stop hiding.

The circles that come together inside each new offering change me. The women change me. They teach me. They take the work and they grow it, blossom it, make magic within it.

Two weeks ago I started the work of rooting myself back in to the devotion I feel for my body, my spirit, my home, my love, my kids, my dreams. I cut my hair. I welcomed back the way of eating that adores my body and mood. I drank extra tea when I was mad at water. I'm often mad at water.

I pulled my leggings on and they feel right again. I am standing in the mirror and not using the words that were hurting my soul, those words I would never say to another.

This morning I stood in the rays of sun streaming onto the wood floor and I could feel the earth rising up into my skin. I felt the opening of self back into the world. 

My devotional practice letting the shame melt into my past self. So I may lift into the woman who takes up her space on this beautiful earth. 

The leggings that helped me find my words around the magic that is inside of this circle that called me to find it, to grow it, to know it; those leggings on my body, ready for these days together. 

When shame melts and rooting begins. When shifts are daily space makers. When the sacred infuses into the everyday and becomes walking prayer.

I am ready. In this repetition of time, of change, of acceptance, of speaking a truth that allows for this devotional to unwrap.

A note from Valentine's Day

I was explaining to Dave last night on Valentine's eve why Valentine's day is important to me. 

Other than the fact that there is a day all about showing and sharing love. I mean, ignore the flower and diamond commercials, a day about love!

When I was married, I shared a birthday with my husband. And because I love to celebrate and make things special I usually was making the cake and dinners for our birthday and anniversaries. 

I didn't have a day that was just mine, since meeting him at age 19. I wasn't resentful, I just had this little girl part of me that longed for that special day.

So, one year I asked him if Valentine's could be mine. I wanted to claim my day as the day when the world was glowing under a giant glow of love bubbles.

Mostly it stuck. It never really became Hannah day, but the intention was there. And I had asked. Which was super hard for me, still is, but holy-wow am I getting better at it.

I do have a Hannah day now. Dave and my girlfriends have made it crazy special and loving. I don't technically need to steal Valentine's day anymore as my day. I can probably let it go.

.......

This year all 5 kids spent three days making Valentine's cards for their friends and teachers.

Our 11 year olds made Valentine's from their giant stuffed animals who are apparently in love. (The cheetah and the tiger, the tiger played hard to get for a while there, we weren't sure how it was going to play out.) Then they came up with their own designs for their closest friends.

Our 7 and 8 year olds had completely different approaches. One powered them out in batches. No nonsense style. The other I had to bribe with hot chocolate and lollipops after getting through a few at a time. Neither of them ever wanted to write their name again after 30 handmade Valentines!

The 14 year old artist who blows me away every year with what she comes up with, ended up printing funny photos of each of her friends and then writing clever little memories on them.

Our house was covered in pink pompoms and glitter heart covered doilies. 

I don't have many memories from a young age. I do remember making Valentines. The table filled with supplies and colors that just feel good inside. I remember going to school and wondering what each child would bring and sometimes looking for those extra special words tucked inside the one the boy-crush would give.

The taste of candy hearts after giggling about the messages like little fortunes of love.

The anticipation of the giving and receiving.

The day of love.

.......

I actually don't want to give it up, this day. I love this day. Adore this day. 

I know that there are people who just don't like this day. Who struggle to look past the ads to spend money on shit we don't need or the way it has become about buying rather than making or who have hearts that have been hurt.

I know what it is like to have Valentine's day come and have no one's arms to fall into. To have no one to wake up next to to kiss.

I also know that a day that is on our calendar that is all about love is nothing to take lightly. I could honestly care less about Columbus Day, but I try.

But a day about love? I don't have to try. We can't ignore this one. We need it more than ever. This day.

.......

I'm so in love with my man I have trouble wrapping my brain around it. We were fighting last year on Valentine's day and my stomach felt sick being alone, away from him. We were really stupid for a long time, constantly pushing and punishing each other. 

This year we are smarter. We have more fun than I thought possible. More sex than I thought possible. More intimacy than I thought possible. More joy and excitement for our becomings than I thought possible.

All of those day's of love, when I asked for it to be my day, when I was alone with my heart longing for love, when we were fighting and hurt, when I am blissed out; all of those days were part of the circle of love.

That is what love is. The struggle. The hurt. The faith. The longing. The anticipation. The kiss. The devotion.

This day is all of it.

Root in today. Deep down. Root down into love and feel it from the earth up into your feet, rising up through you, lifting you, surrounding you in a soft pink glow and a vibration that is the connection to love. For love. Of love. 

This day is ours. Crazy special magic that feels sensual and open. Love.

Just a little something I wanted to say today, on Valentine's day, my super special day.

Lost on a Mountain.

I started jumping up and down as hard as I could when he went inside to get the two who had come down the mountain settled in the ski lodge. He tells me when he comes out if the others aren't down he is going to climb the mountain on foot to find them.

It had already been so long in 10 degree, wild blowing wind weather that I was numb despite a lot of layering. I kept jumping. 

We had let the big kids each take one of the Lucas' up a mountain they had never been on before after a ski lesson that left the two of them completely confident that they could ski down with their brother and sister. The instructions were buddy system. Pairs of two. Be patient. Careful. Do not take your eyes off of them.

Later when Dave and I talked about it, both of us knew one of them was just not ready yet, but he is an incredible sales man that kid. He can convince you of just about anything. We were taken in by his deep desire and bravery of wanting to go on the big mountain.

Mostly, we just didn't want him to be the man out in the tribe going up the ski slope.

I see a guy coming down the mountain helping a kid. He has the medic symbols shining bright red on his jacket. I know right away it isn't our kid but after he settles the boy back with his parents I go over.

I let him know that we have two boys still on the slope, no sighting of them and far too long after the others had come down. Dave gets back. I can feel him ready to pounce up the snow to go rescue our people.

The medic tells us to stand with him and wait a little longer. A few stragglers come down. Not ours. I just want this guy to go up and get my kids. 

Then we see it. A man holding our Lucas in front of him, helping him ski down. Eli by their side, skiing down slowly next to them.

Dave gets to them first running through the snow to meet them as fast as he can. The dad who found them and helped had kids of his own, and apparently had found them walking down the mountain, Eli carrying both of their skis. 

.......

I'm new to the ski parent role. I kind of really love it. Watching them go from falling down every other second to riding lifts and mastering each lesson they take is thrilling for me. It is a lot of work with 4 kids on a mountain. So much stuff and time and patience needed.

The lodge we go to is almost always packed so I carve out space to lay out each kid's boots, pants, jacket, helmet, goggles, gloves and mask. I try to get them to understand the order to putting it all on. We usually get about half way there before Dave gets back from packing the truck and goes to work fastening all their boots. 

You have to check in and ask them who needs to go to the bathroom about 5 times. It usually isn't until they get their pants and boots on that one or three need to go. So we pause the process and they stomp down two flights of stairs to the bathroom.

That morning as I was wrangling three of them stomping down to the bathroom an older man comes up to me and says, "I just have to stop you. I've been watching you. I want to tell you you have the most amazing amount of patience with this herd of yours." He touched my arm and smiled at me as I laughed and told him how much I needed hear that.

We kept walking and I realized two of them didn't even have to go to the bathroom, they just wanted to go with me. Which cracked me up and I shooed them back to the bench to finish the gearing up.

During their lessons Dave and I get a break from the freezing cold and go to the bar. He has a beer. I have a Skinny Girl Margarita (which is seriously so good). We sit and talk and thaw out. The last time we had 2 1/2 hours to wait. I told him we would most likely run out of things to talk about.

.......

After we thanked the father who helped Lucas down and brought the kids into the lodge they told us the story of what happened.

Lucas couldn't do the side to side movements down and kept falling. Eventually he just gave up. So Eli carried both of their skis down the mountain for a long time before they got help. I could see Eli's nervous system was shot. He was exhausted and a bit faint as his body warmed up. 

He told us he carried all the skis because he didn't think they would ever make it down otherwise. 

We were crazy proud of him. Them. 

I watched as he did some self repair on his nervous system, closing his eyes, resting his head in his lap as we waited for Dave to go get the truck. I made him eat some cheese its. 

.......

Just when we think we've run out of things to talk about, we lose our kids on a mountain for long enough to realize, again, how in love with this family we created we are. To jump up and down on the earth that roots us, that holds us. To collect more stories of our lives. 

We get home and I make them little pizzas and we let them watch tv. They tell the story over and over.

.......

And. There is no mountain we would not run up to find each other. 

Being Mama || A pay what feels good program

{Being mama}

A 20 day practice in nurturing attachments, making home and becoming all the love.

When :: April 1-20

Cost :: Pay what feels good.

The four of them pile into the car and I hear them talking about planning a camping trip after their hike. The little voices are telling of how they want to rough it and bring only basic needs.

"I need to bring an apple though, can I bring an apple?"

"Oh totally, we should all bring apples."

"I want pistachios, can I have pistachios?"

"OK, pistachios and apples, but the rest we hunt for."

"Tacos. I am totally bringing tacos."

Being mama is the drives to camp, the wiping of tears, the band-aids, the stories, the amazement.

Being mama is the creation of a vibration of self turned into another. And becomes the setting of love.

We went out for dinner on the one year anniversary of our first date. He told me what surprised him the most about me was that I was like a Mother Earth, that my mothering and nurturing were my superpowers. He said that it wasn't just the way I mothered our kids, it was the way I mothered everyone. How deeply important taking care of people was to me, how it made me who I was.

All I ever wanted was to be a mama. To have a big family. To learn how to love inside of nurture, attachment and freedom.

When I met him I had healed so much inside of me that allowed my mothering to flow again in the ways that brought me and the kids alive. When we are lost, our mothering can become strained and broken. 

When I met him I had found that place again, the one that could see myself through his eyes, and know that I was once again being mama.

Being mama was not what I expected. It lifted me up, shook me out, challenged my knowledge of who I was.

Being mama is a journey I am constantly learning, adjusting and in awe of.

I fell to my knees crying in the kitchen. The kind of cry that rips you out from the inside and the noises primal and aching. The child who had challenged me for years mixed with the heartbreak inside of a marriage threatening to fall apart left me yelling and losing it. A mother lost. A woman longing for herself to come back. The result, pain and screams and melt downs and anger.

He came into the kitchen. He told me the truth. That the mother I had always longed to be, the mama that was born inside of me, was no longer there. I was lost. She was lost. What was left in her place was someone who had no idea who she was or what steps to take next.

And her heart was ripping. And on the kitchen floor, filled with sobs that became prayer she knew that all she ever wanted was to be mama. And she would do everything she could to find her way back to joy so she could adore once again being mama.

Being mama is becoming empathy for the one who will crack open as she is no longer just herself.

Being mama is finding our woman-self who will rise inside of the mama and love deep, hard, strong.

As I was learning to parent in a home as the only adult, we would have mac and cheese night when they would return to me from their dad's house. I would set the table with candles and use our beautiful blue platter with a little chip in it to serve. I could feel myself growing back into the mama I used to be. Inside of magical rituals. Waking the kids up with dance parties. Adventuring on road trips. Reading The Alchemist in the big bed together. Playing best thing/worst thing. Creating chore charts. Laughing after the lights go out and meditating to avoid homework.

Being mama was now led by pure joy, even inside of the devastating loss of a marriage. The middle one, the one who had brought me to my knees on the kitchen floor put his arm around me one day and said, "Mama, we are better now. I can feel it."

Within a year his melt downs and the anger that was inside of him started to ease. Being mama is believing that when we are our amazing woman-selves, we can create practices and attachments and the love that allows them to become completely themselves.

That is the beautiful work of being mama.

The stories, the learning, the play, the failures, the tantrums, the snuggles - all are being mama.

"Dear moon, when I splash the water on me could I please be able to fly?"

Their favorite rituals are around the moon. Full moon magical water, their crystals soaking up the energy and the little love notes. One of my boys always knows the night before a Full Moon, his body becomes wired and alive and he will feel sleepless.

"Mooooooooooommmmm, is it a Full Moon, my body is so crazy right now?"

They make New Moon wishes around the fire. Hang their wishes on the Dear Universe tree. The rituals and ceremonies and celebrations that allow me to infuse myself with my spirit gift them with honoring their rhythms and feel deep gratitude for their choices and feelings.

Each week we find a reason to have a celebration. These days it is celebrating on Thursday nights when my love returns to us for the weekend from his work in the city. They blow up balloons, plan dinner and cook it, pick out a dessert (because dessert). 

What I have learned from the other mamas in my life is invaluable. They have taught me how to make home, to deal with transitions (especially now with parenting after divorce), to handle a tantrum that lasts for hours, to make the every day special, to celebrate just because.

Being mama is the inspiration and connection to the tribe of mamas who circle us, teach us, become the everyday shamans of nurture.

Being mama is creating the simplest bits of magic for our little ones and creating beauty in tiny corners and moments.

The five little ones called a family meeting. I gave them each an ice cream cone, knowing that when our mouths are distracted just a bit, we listen that much better.

One wanted to talk about how he feels like his brother is being a bit mean to him and it is hurting his feelings. Another wanted to talk about getting positive attention rather than negative attention. And then there was the one who wanted to make us all laugh because she so loves when we all laugh. 

I told them I was starting to feel like a maid, that I needed more support around the house to keep things in rhythm. 

"Well, mom, here is the thing. You feel like a maid because you walk around cleaning up after us, picking up every little thing. If you stop doing that, you might not feel like such a maid."

Wisdom from the babes. 

"So I think you are right. Who will be cleaning up then if I stop being one step behind you?"

"Um, usssssssss I guess..." (And then he emptied the dishwasher in full amazement that I do that every day...)

Being mama is intuition, open hearts and ice-cream-cone wisdom.

Being mama is learning to guide them in picking up their banana peel and returning their shoes to the shoe corner and leaving the lunch box on the counter each day after school, especially when it is so much easier to just do it ourselves.

This year I will turn 43. 

Often I still wonder when I will grow up. And how I got here.

The three pregnancies I lost before my daughter was born. The colic she had for months as we learned to become parents inside of the chaos of a little body struggling to find peace. The decision to stay home with her and learn how to eventually create my own business. The surprise baby years later. 

Co-parenting with their dad who supports my new life and theirs as he stepped into his. Witnessing the way he has dealt with his grief and is creating space for surprises and joy for all of them.

Co-parenting with my love, who we manifested into our life. The man who teaches us so much and gives us play and adoration and safety. Kids who call each other 'bonus siblings' as we blend our families together inside of our love. We are in awe of how blessed we are and the gems of wisdom these kids are teaching us about ourselves.

Watching them grow and change, learn to swim, have a first girl (or boy) friend, honor their needs while creating boundaries.

My love calls the moments we are inside of with these little ones, the stories of our lives. We are trying to write them down, record them, honor them, hold them tight as days pass and more are written.

Being mama is letting go of expectation of what it will all look like or feel like or become because there is no way we could ever have known how hard, how much love, how all of it will unfold.

Being mama is the wonder and magic of time and tooth fairies and endless laundry piles and all the stories that become memories to anchor us together.

20 days of practices and stories and a circle of mamas

• the magic of ritual
• the woman-self inside the mama
• making home
• every day celebrations
• the love language of food
• sensuality of being a mama
• deep truths of the struggles
• prayer as morning coffee
• who are you now
• the woman that came before the mama
• sibling dynamics
• rhythms that flip it all around
• tribe support
• healing our hearts
• story prompts
• playful creativity
• photos that capture the stories of our lives
• mamas nurturing mamas
• beauty in the everyday
• honoring our needs and desires
• all the magic and joy and gifts of being mama

Each day for 20 days

• a morning prompt will arrive in your email inbox
• a private Facebook group will hold all the mamas in our tribe
• we will share the stories of our lives through words, photos and deep truths
• support from other mamas in every space of life
• the village of mamas to lift, witness, inspire, hold, adore and inspire you
• a virtual tribe swirling with all the magic of being mama

A 20 day practice in nurturing attachments, making home and becoming all the love.

When :: April 1-20

Cost :: Pay what feels good

Being mama is the drives to camp, the wiping of tears, the band-aids, the stories, the amazement.

Being mama is the creation of a vibration of self turned into another. And becomes the setting of love.

Being mama was not what I expected. It lifted me up, shook me out, challenged my knowledge of who I was.

Being mama is a journey I am constantly learning, adjusting and in awe of.

Being mama is becoming empathy for the one who will crack open as she is no longer just herself.

Being mama is finding our woman-self who will rise inside of the mama and love deep, hard, strong.

Being mama is this beautiful work.

Being mama is all the stories, the learning, the play, the failures, the tantrums, the snuggles.

Being mama is the inspiration and connection to the tribe of mamas who circle us, teach us, become the everyday shamans of nurture.

Being mama is creating the simplest bits of magic for our little ones and creating beauty in tiny corners and moments.

Being mama is intuition, open hearts and ice-cream-cone wisdom.

Being mama is learning to guide them in picking up their banana peel and returning their shoes to the shoe corner and leaving the lunch box on the counter each day after school, especially when it is so much easier to just do it ourselves.

Being mama is letting go of expectation of what it will all look like or feel like or become because there is no way we could ever have known how hard, how much love, how all of it will unfold.

Being mama is the wonder and magic of time and tooth fairies and endless laundry piles and all the stories that become memories to anchor us together.

Rooting In. Lifting Up. A 20 day devotional circle.

.......

A 20 day devotional circle :: grounding rituals and practices, walking prayer and the raised vibration that comes when women lift up together.

When :: March 1st - March 20th

Cost :: $59

.......

When we moved into the urban farmhouse that manifested with such grace and gratitude I decided that I wanted to hang vintage gold ornaments from the ceiling along with our little twinkle lights. 

I hung only one to begin with, next to our lace curtains in the bedroom. A little reminder of a project that I wanted to take on when space opened up in the chaos of moving.

A neighbor came over one day as we were lifting boxes out of the truck and she told us her brother had once owned this house and that it had over time become known as the Christmas house. The perfect yellow farmhouse in the middle of the city with lights in each window at Christmas.

The urban farmhouse or Christmas house, is my year of retreat into practices of grounding after years of feeling like there was no surface below me to catch me, to hold me, to give me the anchoring my nervous system was crying out for.

.......

Inside my Magic Making Circle I noticed that I was not alone. Of course. We draw towards us what we are vibrating. The women around me needing to find the ground, the earth, the rooting in that feels like home.

I started grounding in small ways. Root vegetables and feet in the earth. Shifting spaces in my home. Deeper understanding of each part of who I am. Letting go of anything blocking my freedom inside of my space. Connection with the women in my circle in different ways and heaps of truth telling and feelings heard, seen, witnessed. 

It started to feel like each day was a walking prayer. A moving meditation. 

A daily devotional to spirit.

Watering the plants, touching the leaves, letting my fingers dip into the soil, scavenging perfect spaces where the light would glow through the lace of the curtains. 

Egg shells piled up in a bowl on a white countertop that holds the stories of the mamas before me, as each fried egg became a sandwich for little hands to hold for breakfast.

The pale lime green of the walls that hold their beds safe, the navy stars and gold hearts on sheets covered with gray fuzzy golden blankets topped with the fuzzy furry giant bears and cheetahs and tigers they cuddle at night.

The way his body feels when we fall into bed each night, naked, lips promising a tomorrow filled with deepening safety inside of our love.

We root in by making space in our life, through rituals that feel gorgeous and filling and by letting each feeling that comes through us have a place of safety.

We root in by putting our bare feet on wet cement, hot dry sand or the first grass of spring.

We root in by letting go of stuff, of old stories, of chaos that breaks our connection with the ground.

We root in by letting each of the parts of us become honored and work as a beautiful system of who we are. 

We root in by becoming walking prayer, meditative trust and the beauty those bring.

.......

And then we lift. 

The connections of ritual. The sharing of stories, fears, photos. When another woman simply says...

...me too. 

...what if?

...how does that feel?

...I honor you.

...you are so beautiful.

...thank you.

In circle we will lift.

20 days together ::

• daily emails with story, photo and simple prompts so we may root in; in the physical and spiritual
• a circle of women; the heart of the magic of lifting up
• rituals of making home; beauty and space
• the sacred kitchen and table; service and feeding
• safety in our hearts; reverence and adoration
• shifting of space; release and opening
• the parts of who we are; feeling and being seen
• walking prayer; faith and repetition

The gift of words from past circles ::

“What you do is take women who don’t even know how to believe in what they already are, don’t know that they should, and you give them hope, give them the tools, introduce them to a way of looking at themselves, the world, each other – that illuminates ILLUMINATES the path that we failed to notice was beneath our feet all along.”

“She has a magical balance of ferocity and gentleness that speak directly to your heart while not leaving your mind out of the equation. Oh, and she rocks.”

“There are moments in our lives when someone extraordinary comes into view, bringing with them great spirit and the power of transformation. Hannah Marcotti’s deeply rooted authenticity, gentle love and soft caress, creates beautiful spaces for knowing and a safe place for revealing our most authentic dreams and wishes, guiding you toward a realization and manifestation of your true hearts’ desire.”  

“Hannah is honest, real, a storyteller, authentic, magical, passionate, gentle and tough all at the same time…”

“This group, you all…this work, is the emotional scaffold I rebuild my spirit upon~”

.......

Any questions? Please send me a note at hello@hannahmarcotti.com

Rearrange the past.

I look and remember where each piece came from or used to be. The reinventions of space. The years asking whether you'll hold onto something or if you can part ways. The clippings you grew in water turned into plants again.

The Japanese print curtains that were found when I converted a small room in the bungalow into a dining room. The walls became off white and two doors a bright red. I removed the other two doors (the tiniest little room had 4 doors and 2 windows) and our tiny 900 square foot home felt like it had opened up.

The old green antique table that has peeling paint showing a past in turquoise. I didn't buy it the day I saw it. If I don't have a place or a reason I try to avoid impulse thrift shopping. But I kept thinking about it. Days later it sat in my Loft, becoming eventually part of the wall of crates that held dishes and cups and bowls and such.

An old scale that once sat in the boys room next to a found scrap metal collection on a shelf that held most of their memories in books and games and Pokemon cards.

I am a collector of things from the past. Of anything green sprouting from the dirt. Of tiny vintage juice glasses, blue bottles, heavy imperfect mirrors.

Everything that was is now breathing new life, new energy into our urban farmhouse. While we dream of our forever home, with a room for each of our little people to have space that is theirs, this space is the magic of our now. A home where antique Christmas ornaments hang all year because they belong.

Sheepskin. Texture. Lace. Chalkboards. 

A weekly plan for dinners, because this is part of their grounding system, knowing what is coming, having access to as few surprises as possible. The beat of ritual.

Systems for back packs and shoes and pencils and every football and soccer ball are put into place, tested, then usually thought out again. I have to find their flow and their ease. I spent today purging and making new spaces.

Increasing the ease.
Unearthing new beautiful spots.
Watering each plant.

You can feel the air shift when you move, touch, place each thing in a new way. You notice the things that you love, that bring you joy. 

Over the next few days I'll be going into the bedroom, the dining room, the living room filled with couches. Cleaning each corner.

Opening space, sprinkling beauty.

I'm in that space of something new growing inside of me. I can feel it even though its shape hasn't quite taken hold. One of the ways I get it to talk to me is this practice of energy shifting through the cleaning and moving and feeling into the beauty of home.

My past is talking to my spirit and leading her there.

That somewhere, something, somehow place.

What I can feel is the rooting in and lifting up. 

And that is where we will go together.

Somehow. There. In the space of something new.

Finding your name.

Cake for breakfast. A devotional.

"I think I'll be change this year."

"What is a word for being yourself?" Authentic? "Yes, I'll be authentic."

The ten and eleven year old were choosing their guiding words for the year ahead. They are at the age when they can feel that they are separating more and more from the need to please others and find their emerging spirits.

.......

We are in NH, covered by trees dripping heavily with white powder. The frozen lake became our slippery ground. The kids walked to touch the buoy that marks the presence of a huge rock for boats in the summer.

We decided to celebrated the snow with cake. It ended up being cake for breakfast because days feel long but night time sleepiness creeps up on us after hours playing in the cold. 

We love to celebrate, party. To make special the ordinary. Christmas Eve feast of seven fishes, a dish from each person in the family. A speech given before your course was served. A menu hung. A table set.

A devotional to the ordinary. Everyday. Simple. A devotional to infuse spirit into little moments.

.......

On New Year's Eve at midnight and in the hours before I will kiss my love. Each kiss a devotional to the life we are building together. To the hard, hard struggles we walked through to get to those kisses.

We will celebrate finding each other. We will celebrate simple moments. We will release what we've been holding onto which halts our path to reverence. 

A devotional to the ordinary. Everyday. Simple. A devotional to change. To authenticity. A devotional to the little moments. 

And cake for breakfast. Because they will remember that day, together, in the snow.

Solstice.

I have been craning my head up to the sky yelling, "Is this Mercury??" Over. And Over.

Then I posted on Social Media.

We've had a few pretty triggered and sticky days together. I am not communicating anything in a way that brings more ease, only defensiveness between both of us. I know that the words are there, that I can find them to share my fears and feelings. But waiting for them can feel like time slows down, punches you in the gut and tells you how shitty you are at love. So. I wait inside those things and pray for the words that will heal this next layer of our love.

And you all came. You circled me.

You shared words. And links.

You told me you understood. That you were in it, or just found your way out from under it.

It was indeed mercury retrograde. Time for completions. Time for being patient inside of communications. 

I felt held in this crazy love from women all over the world.

.......
He and I had spent the entire weekend together and felt like we were planets apart. We fought, over, we aren't totally sure. His stress. My fears. Every time he gets stressed and behaves differently something deep gets triggered in me.

I don't feel I am enough. I get freaked out. I suddenly can't communicate. I behave differently. Then I trigger something deep inside of him.

And repeat. We calm down. Breathe into the truth of the need to both be right. I touch him, rub him, in the ways I know bring him back to me, bring me back to him. We come back.

One wrong word. Boom. Triggered. Back in. Defensive. I. Must. Be. Right.
.......

He left Monday morning. But he might as well have been gone. Our connection to the other is so sensitive. Extreme. When we are showing up for only our own feelings we can't feel the other person. And it creates chaos in our bodies. We can both feel it in our guts.

After he left I was still stuck inside my own feelings of hurt. I couldn't snap out of it. 

You all circled around me. You know our story. You know he is my person. You know what it feels like to be in that place in love where you are so scared you feel inside out.

I started to soften. I climbed deeper into forgiveness than I think I ever have.

I want to be new. I want to be new. I want to be new. I want to be new.

The old story that I keep living over and over and over is making me sick inside. It is hurting me. Him. Us. And his are too.

What I wanted was to be able to meet him inside of his feeling place even if it didn't make me feel particularly good (because of my stories and the way I take on his feelings) and show up as love. As a place holder for him. As the person who is strong enough to let him fall apart or be triggered or mean or angry or sad or pissed and just hold space so he can move through it.

Instead of the you can't have your feelings right now because they make me feel horrible reaction, I want to be new.

I want to be new. I want to be new. I want to be new. I want to be new.
.......

As I was softening. Meditating into this. States away. He felt it. We were both inside of it.

He said words that I needed to hear to pull me back, to be back. We were in that space of forgiveness. Not for each other, but of ourselves.

I hold on. I don't let go. Forgiveness holds so many layers of fear.

Being assholes to each other. To the one you love and cherish the most. Protection. Stories. Walls. Triggers. Old shit that has dug itself so deep into your cells it hurts to push it out.

I want to be new. I want to be new. I want to be new. I want to be new.

"Damn you Mercury."
.......
And in the day of darkness before the rebirth of the sun he says...I just want to be with you, I am happier when I am with you. I want to be new.

I can see all we are burning in the fire, before we even light it.

To be new means to change. To change means to let go. To let go creates a space holder to love. To love is to be new...

Happy Solstice sweet souls from all over. Let it burn, before the light.

A half story.

I saw it on Pinterest. Cheap ornaments hung on a wire hanger turned into a wreath.

The instructions were simple. I took Lucas to the dollar store and we bought $6.00 worth of balls. Red. Gold. Silver.

That night I had Eli take the wire hanger and a pile of tools and go at it. It wasn't as easy as it looked. Angelina was on my bed doing her math and Eli and Lucas (who calls himself Bobbie when he is home with us, our other Lucas is Evin, with an I, when with us) were sitting with her and all the tools. The three of them have trouble being too far from the others.

And these moments are what I love. The chaos. The way they find their own place and space. The way Eli checks each problem after Angelina finishes. The way Bobbie is so jealous that he can't help her because he only knows 2nd grade math. The tools all over the bed. Evin in the kitchen with me making salad wearing Eli's old yellow apron. Chloe popping downstairs to grab crackers and be as 14 as possible.

The wire is straight and we pile around the table taking turns stringing 4 balls each. We get a few rounds in and it is clear we are going to run out half way in. Then some of them start to fall off.

"So, the instructions said to glue the tops to the balls before you string them on..."

A lesson in believing in the instructions. We keep going. We make a plan for me to get more ornaments the next morning. (Turns out it is not an inexpensive project.)

They leave on Friday mornings. Transition from school to their other homes. The wreath sits half made, all the balls falling off because we didn't glue. The gingerbread house they assembled undecorated, waiting for them to come back.

6 piles of laundry. Library books scattered on every surface of their room and beds. I take the balls off the wire and put them in a bag for the kids to glue when they come home next week. I pick up 13 pencils from the floor and all the white paper they were drawing on each night when they go to bed.

I make each of their beds so when they return it feels calm and ordered. There is still a gallon of milk in the fridge, no one to drink it.

Dave gets on a plane for the week away. I start the laundry. The fridge clear out. The dishwasher starts. I move the gingerbread to the top of the fridge with the bowl of candy to decorate next to it.

The living of half lives. Half wreaths. Half finished projects. Waiting for the chaos to assemble back in. Wondering how to set up a half advent for them. Looking for the ritual inside the quiet of the house. Making space for Christmas.

Waiting for the noise of 5 more bodies vibrating the energy of this half of the stories of our lives.

Changing for today.

Each Monday, Tuesday, Wednesday and Thursday morning this week, at 9:10am, I walk into an overstimulating environment, where purple and yellow surround me.

I smile at the adorable young man standing behind the counter, trying to pretend that I don't look and feel like a frumpy, exhausted 42 year old with yesterday's make-up on. I walk to the bathroom first. Pee. Then walk by the mirror.

I wish they had better lighting so I could see myself instead bathed in warm candle light and pretend to have a few less wrinkles and the thickness that my hair had, just a year ago.

The other day I thought maybe if I 'dressed up' for the gym I would feel more confident when I was there. So I did an experiment. Instead of yesterday's eyeliner dripping down my face and the dreadlocks in my hair and the stained t-shirt cut down the center I put on clothes that I felt more beautiful in. I put a little bronzer on my cheeks. 

Who do I want to be when I show up at the gym?

I want to be strong, empowered, confident. I want to feel beautiful. Before my body changes from the lifting of the weights. I want to feel beautiful now.

I want to walk in the gym, even though I am not showered and have been awake since 6:30am getting 5 kids ready for school and feel beautiful. I don't feel beautiful unless I dress that part of myself for that feeling.

And it matters. My work outs are more intense. I look people in the eye. Smile.

This is what I need to feel beautiful at the gym. So I don't spend the 40 minutes I am there telling myself how ashamed I am of my body or the weakness in my muscles. 

This is a new part of myself, excavated from the past. The gym was the main ingredient of my life in my twenties. I am not that girl anymore. Seeing myself in the mirrors I often think she should be the one looking back at me.

I can see her so clearly. Her work out shorts that barely covered any of her legs. Her short hair, with little clips all over. Her face clear of make-up. Wearing a size AB bra. So tiny, barely taking up space.

Finding the me now inside of this new ritual has meant letting go of that past self so that I can find the woman now who longs to feel her strength again. Who knows that time has shifted her metabolism and energy. Who knows that she must work extra hard to understand this new body.

This part of me is something I am discovering. I am playing inside of. Wondering what I can wear to feel more at home in my skin when I am doing leg presses. Wondering how this ritual will shape-shift the woman I am becoming.

I want to feel beautiful as I am empowering my body and reclaiming my energy.

I can be new and change and show up for the woman I am today. Who wears a C cup but only wears a bra to the gym. Long wavy tangled hair. Leg warmers over her sneakers. Who takes up a whole lot of space in the world now.

Spiritstyle. A 10 day discovery.

 

When :: January 5th-14th

Cost :: A gift from me to you

Discover your spiritstyle.

.......

this is my spiritstyle. a collection of time and feelings.

the things that if i layer on i become more me.

the colors of cream, mocha, black.

buttery soft. high waist. layered tanks. no bra. simple mala to ground me. fabric draped, falling off a shoulder. hints of sexy and sanguine. 

this is my spiritstyle. the parts of who i am communicated on the outside.

after the dishes are done, rings find my fingers. a final layer.

boots, worn, loved. leg warmers bunched.

a color story that washes over us.

this is my spiritstyle. a woman matching the parts of herself with how she shows up each day.

.......

she said ::

"i feel like i am so many different people in one hour. the little girl, the woman, the bad ass, the asshole, the warrior. they get jumbled together and instead of feeling them i'm trying to ignore them."

she said ::

"i feel that way all the time. and i have been thinking about it a lot lately actually... and how trying to allow space for all of it often leaves me feeling exhausted and depleted. we need all these parts of ourselves. they are vital. because how amazing is that we have these selves to call upon to guide us through what is in front of us in any given moment. and even the ones that appear to be wounds or gaping holes are guides too."

this is how my women talk, daily. these women are my team, my inspirations, my heart. and we don't let any part of who we are get away with not being seen and loved.

one of my wishes last year was to be the most amazing mom i could be, meaning less anger and exhaustion and more fun and loving moments. i could see her. she used to be part of me. she is fun and spontaneous and she includes her kids in all the parts of her life.

.......

becoming a mother changed my body. the shape and size were unfamiliar. my breasts went from an ab to a swelling c. nursing was my life for about 7 years, welcoming each baby with a mother who felt more confident each time.

i started wearing tank tops that i could pull down, instead of up, to nurse. skinny spaghetti straps with a shelf bra from target or old navy at first. then i started to like the thicker straps, hold the shelf bra. now my every day (no longer nursing) tank is from h&m and i own every color. i get the long ones that go over my bum so i can wear them over leggings. 

going from college free spirit to mama challenged something in me. i didn't know how to show up. i tried to fit into a button down blouse with mom jeans look for a while. i put on a bra and bought some shirts from that never felt like me.

i spent years uncomfortable and confused. when i went back to school in 2008 i found myself back inside of the free spirit world. from 3 inch heels to dreadlocks, the women were gorgeous. alive. themselves. the freedom of style and expression sucked me back to the girl of 17 who had no doubt who she was.

she didn't look like everyone else. she followed not a single fashion rule. her hair was wild and she knew that she was alive wearing clogs and leg warmers and leggings that hugged her body. she adored showing up in her spiritstyle because it felt like freedom.

this is spiritstyle. the feeling and witness of who we are.

.......

For 10 days through simple prompts and story we will ::

• look at the different parts of who we are. name them. make a list.
• find the feelings inside each of these parts.
• look back at who we were. remember times that we felt most alive and free.
• go into our closets. unearth past. clear space for how we want to feel in our now.
• play with the feelings inside of how we are showing up and being seen.
• purge what is no longer part of our spiritstyle.
• find the pieces and layers that communicate.
• understand dressing and layering a highly sensitive body.
• discover our color stories.
• vision into our spiritstyle becomings.
• allow change to align us with the feeling of freedom and beauty.
• practice showing up for the different parts of who we are.
• share photos on our private facebook group
• be new.

.......

Discover your spiritstyle.

How to make an egg sandwich.

I got up a little early. Found the carton of eggs from the fridge and lit the heat under a tiny little egg pan. I put the little finger rolls in the oven to toast while I scooped coffee beans into the pot.

Eggs cracked and fried, two by two.

My coffee made the little spitting sputtering noise beside me, telling me I could warm my insides as I prepared their breakfast. Cream in the mug. Rolls out of the oven.

Then each little roll was split down the middle and spread with mayo. The eggs were topped with cheese.

The first sleepy head with the crazy man-bun dreaded from wild sleep wanders in.

"Would you like an egg sandwich?"

"No. I would like two please."

The mess was huge. The kitchen covered in the story of our morning. The bathroom was occupied by the one learning to put contacts in. Two of the boys were trying to get computer time by playing math games. Where are my shoes? Can I eat my sandwich in the car? Can I have another one? It doesn't make sense to brush teeth in the mornings. 

I get the lunches together and I am warm and pulled in so many directions while just trying to breathe through and get them all out the door on time. Hopefully with shoes on both feet.

And eight little egg sandwiches later. 
.......

I walk into the kitchen 2 hours after leaving to do the drop offs to school and it is warm from the sun peeking in the glass door. The shells from the eggs piled high in a bowl waiting for the compost bin. 

The next hour will be spent cleaning up from the story we are living together. For just this one moment I need to remember my why. Why the egg sandwiches are how I love. Why waking up early for my coffee is like meditation space. Why being mama is the millionth time I clean up the crumbs and fill the dishwasher and find the lost socks and crack the eggs as it all goes unseen, but felt in the ritual of the story I am searching to catch and put into words.

I move every part of the mess to the left and to the right of the bowl of eggshells. The white of the counter glows. Reminding me of the clean space I will have soon.

I frame the bowl in my lens and grab my why in a photo, in a blink of time where I will remember the little egg sandwiches in this beautiful kitchen in the urban farmhouse. 

My movements return to the cleaning, the wiping, the rinsing, the placing of mixed matched plates back in their space on the shelf. My why. The eggshells. The way I love. The way mothering is my heart and really hard work. I joke with him on the hard days that I am asking for a raise. He always gives me one. His adoration for me clear in how he loves, inside of his why.

.......

I wander back into the kitchen as I hear him talking on his call. 

"OK, but those are feelings, not numbers."

I try to not laugh out loud. Our lives intersecting are so perfect. He is numbers. I am feelings. I am the early waking with the coffee mug and cracking the eggs. He is the one who infuses us with fun and safety. We are living our whys inside this story.

The clean kitchen waiting for the explosion when they walk through the door. The pumpkins muffins we'll make. Covering the white countertops in gluten-free flours and more eggshells. Continuing to go unseen but feeling why.