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Tend to your story, your roots of origin with skin so thick

It needs soothing of every character you ever played.

Tend to your mind, with edges so refined

It has kept you as safe as you needed in times of deep wounding.

It beckons you, from every corner of its universe

From every fractal of its imagination.

It needs respite from the illusions you have mentored.

Tend to your heart, its thinly veiled current of pain haunting you

into depths of unworthiness.

Tend to your God, who awaits you in every creation of your senses,

joining you in respite, one much needed, to give you strength before you rise.

It is only when you are ready, that those ashes will kneel and the rising will be ever so sweet as you

hear your name being called by your ancestors and you voice a new story of creation from this moment forward.

When did transformation become about one person having more light than another?

When did awakening become about denying one’s darkness; only accepting light as the pathway to peace?

When did ego become shameful?

When did embodiment become illusion?

In my over twenty six years of practice, I have witnessed more shame in this race to such evolution.

The separation of light and darkness, the separation of spirit and body, the separation of love and fear.

The separation of health and illness, the separation of knowledge and ignorance.

Oh how the gods must tire of watching us on this merry go round.

Watching us create and recreate shame to become part of the narrative of self acceptance and love.

One day you will tire of this merry go round too.

You will stare shame directly in the face and grant it a leniency with every mercy you have within you.

The separation will stop, first within, and then within the world as you see it.

Yes my friends, you will be free.

There’s this emptiness that coincides with grief.

Its edges become so crisp that when in its midst, one loses a sense of self and understanding of experience.

All that exists is that present moment, hollow yet with such depth of intensity that one feels connected to everything yet connected to nothing.

An emptiness ravaged with emotion and at the same time so still one can feel the precipice of light as well as the darkness.

One can feel the universe in its entirety, both the one within and the one surrounding.

This grief knows no bounds

Yet seems to know us better than we know ourselves.

Once you become acquainted with it, you become more intimately acquainted with God.

From that moment on, you will never be the same again.

There is no easy way out of trauma. I was speaking with one of my clients this week on her narrative, the story she created as part of her traumatic miasm encapsulating

her very existence. I use the word created because she has very little memory of her past and when partial visions flash before her eyes, she creates a narrative to continue to serve an identity that may or may not have been an actuality. She’s not the only one to do this. We all do. We use stories, our version of those stories that happen in our lives, to foster an identity of safety, belonging, nourishment, and life purpose. When I work with multiple family members, I will hear different versions of the same story, as the storyteller forms attachments to those raw pieces of wounding left behind, searching for understanding, binding to people, things, thoughts and emotions that perpetuate some level of survival. Whether that survival is physical, emotional, mental or spiritual doesn’t really matter. How we frame that narrative in our psyches does. The sheer awareness that our identities can be obliterated at any moment we face darkness tends to ignite a terror, a loss of any semblance of self that roots us within and to each other. So we create narrative upon narrative to bind us as deeply into the earth and high into the heavens.

Eventually, we unwind slowly as most narratives begin to change or fade as individual identity becomes less important. There is a connection that happens, a greater connection that allows the trauma to settle into a grace that heals you. Your identity becomes part of the whole, and the trauma has a purpose you hadn’t recognized before. Not just for you, but for the world. The need to worship the trauma and place it as victor on an altar no longer holds interest. The need for the story to make you feel real and authentic in this life is no longer needed.

I love our stories. I love listening to each and every one of them. I respect trauma.

I also love when we become free of those memories and allow them to serve a greater good by igniting forgiveness throughout all of mankind.

The past few months I kept repeating the words “no self”. I pondered the significance for me and for the period of time

We are entering into. The ancestors have been moving beyond worlds. opening new portals which have yet to see light, battling forces

So that humanity can birth a sense of dignity and pride in creation it has never witnessed. The armor which has bound generations together in both darkness and light,

In every miasm that has traversed familial and cultural dynamics, is being pulled apart dramatically between heaven and earth.

The choices we are making are influencing the past and have already imprinted future generations to come.

The spirit world is offering us the opportunity for truth, and that is

Creating internal and external chaos for many.

Over the past two years we have been asked to shed many skins, cry many tears.

Our hearts have been broken over and over again as we stare into the mirror and do not recognize

The weary visage staring back at us.

Who have we become?

We think we know our true stories until another story comes out of nowhere and destabilizes our very core.

The time of “no self” will show us threads of a story we could have never envisioned.

A visage we have never seen when looking in the mirror.

Skins we have never worn thus bodies we have yet to become acquainted with.

There will be times when you feel like you are living someone else’s story.

But it will be yours.

And it will be your mother’s.

It will be your father’s.

It will be your children’s.

It will be your neighbor’s.

It will be the world’s story rising up within you and asking you to accept the unknown.

Who have we become?

That question will enter our hearts a myriad of times and a will greater than our own

Will become our saving grace and constant companion in the path before us.

Wishing you peace and gentleness in the unknown ahead.

These are indeed, transformational times.

The threshold where we may not get to choose gender or culture, limbs or features, or perhaps even the narrative that will earth our bodies into that experience.

The fragrance and color of our hair, the width of our bellies, the flexibility of our aging joints, the health of our tissues and organs.

The smile we may or may not have upon reflecting in a mirror.

The narrative that will pursue us until we evolve into acceptance of each and every cell that has chosen to partner with our spirits.

In that liminal space, you don’t expect illness or injury, harm or pain.

We hope to be protected, embraced in a soothing portal of infinity where we reside with a holiness incapable of suffering when we reenter the earth realm.

These bodies.

Whether we choose them or not, they exist to carry us through this realm.

Each cell yearning for a gentle humanity where every body is respected and honored.

Each cell receiving even the slightest touch from another as grace moving fluidly between the heavens.

These bodies become our home as long as God wills it.

A form bestowed upon us to cherish for all time.

Treat them with the respect as the Divine would have it.

Let me be with my tears

From centuries past

Of wounded lineages

Whose courage rebirthed itself with each generation.

Let me be with my rage

Whose screams are heard across parallel realities

In the awake of transformation

Arising from the belly of the beast

Calling out to every god and goddess

To save me from myself.

Let me be with my fear

Whose voice trembles at the spark of faith

That same voice dragging me into the abyss

One limb at a time

Until every nuance of who I think I am

Enters the womb of God

Awaiting to be resurrected.

Don’t rush to heal me.

There is a time and a place

Where all seasons of change

Are bound by the Divine

And sanctified by grace.

Plasma, red blood cells, white blood cells and platelets.

Let’s not forget memories and trauma. I think that should be added to its definition.

I still remember walking into an integrative clinic and looking at an IV bottle filled with a patient’s blood as he was receiving a red ozone treatment and being able to tell his ancestral story as well as see what was occurring metabolically. I recall seeing his grandfather in a war, adorned with metals on his jacket. His mother’s hands were worn from working in the garden, he was deficient in various nutrients and some retroviral imprints were floating around.

The fluids of our bodies can tell as much of our story as can our words. As unsafe as many of us feel inside this holy temple created by heaven and earth,

our bodies offer us the safest healing passage within this earthen element provided by the gods.

We can “leave” our bodies as much as we want while we move through this life, triggered by thought, emotion or experience.

But something always pulls us back. The cells of our bodies grasp onto memories and transport them to different realms, our blood provides a boundary so that some of those traumatic thoughts are forgotten by our minds. Our tissues are always looking for ways to protect us from harm.

And yet all they ask for is our attention, our acknowledgment. A prayer of gratitude.

A reservoir of ancestral stories that are alive within you, your body has the capability of transmuting those stories for potent healing medicine.

It also has the capability of sparking a grace so fierce that any trauma you carry can be silenced into the arms of God.

The flow of blood so smooth that one could hear the laughter of their grandparents.

The incredible transparency of cells that one could see the familial trauma.

The aggregate of all the bodily parts that define our form in this lifetime.

We flounder our whole lives trying to figure out what makes us safe in this world.

Escaping the very vessel which tells more of our story than we could ever imagine.

Come back into yourselves.

To the temple which houses a thousand stories.

Your trauma is as worthy as your triumph.