love

In Bloom

Karma isn’t retribution.

Karma is a mirror.

Healing is never about the person you believe hurt you-this part is where most people get stuck. Healing is about taking the time to face yourself-your blind spots. I have been trapped in the loop of blaming the other person, but it leads to nothing but repeating the same cycle in the same karmic loop over and over.

Relationships are the ultimate mirror-and I didn’t like what was being reflected back to me. I had low self-worth, I didn’t take risks, I felt stagnant, heavy, bloated, sick, I was seeking guidance in someone other than myself…

Listen, this is the soul-contract I signed up for. My mother was emotionally unavailable, critical, masculine, and my father was angry, petty, manipulative and jumped ship any time things got too hard.

Not the best foundation to work with as a child.

I repeated these relationships with men over and over again.

And yes, they were a reflection of me.

There was ONE moment in each relationship that mirrored a pattern to me that I was not willing to deal with anymore.

Thank you, God, for the revelations.

It caused me to jump off the speeding train I was on- the one desperate for validation, the one who needed the instagram photos next to a man to prove I was desirable, the one who was performing sexuality, motherhood, womanhood…

It’s me who needed to change.

And I spent a lot of time doing that.

I don’t recognize the woman I once was anymore. I still do not completely understand what happened.

I walk into rooms and people stop their conversations, and just *stare*

My inbox is FILLED with men (I would never date lol)

I get things handed to me, and I am open to it. I do not feel guilt, I do not feel like I need to reciprocate, I just feel open to receiving.

My body lost all the heaviness. My whole face changed- lighter, feminine, glowing. My heart released everything I was holding onto for since childhood, and I forgave myself for the choices I made when I didnt know better.

I allow myself to *feel* without rationalizing. I allow myself to do what makes me happy in the moment, not wait for someone else to bring me joy, and I trust my intuition deeply-she never, ever fails me.

Is it an energy? Is is an aura? Is it the God inside of me?

Is it the fact that I sat and faced myself every single day without distractions, without dating, without men, without makeup, without weed, alcohol, sex…things people use to soothe themselves?

Is it because I want my daughter-the love of my life- to watch her mother live in the truest, most aligned, most beautiful, most creative version of herself? That I never want her to live *small.* That I want her to tap into every beautiful part of her being knowing she has my love and support.

Maybe.

My energy is finally CLEAN.

I still believe in relationships. I know my person is searching for me too- doing the deep healing it takes to create a healthy foundation. He’s probably reading this right now, because God will lead him to my heart. Not lust, status, or validation- nothing shallow.

That is over.

Because that isnt me anymore.

Cheers to the healers, the healing, and my soulmate- Who will know, deeply, he is the luckiest man alive.

Because when he meets me, he will see his own reflection too-love that is whole healed, and awake.

Queen of Hearts

Once, when I was sixteen, my father woke up early and toasted Engligh muffins for me.

But he burned them.

He always burned everything; Leaving the ashes of his mistakes trailing behind him for someone to clean, and my fingers were singed from all the times I had to sweep his fires under the rug.

He had even spread cream cheese on top, though most of it was so hardened that it cut the side of my mouth when I bit into it. Crisped crumbs sprinkled down onto my shirt and I plastered a smile on my face as I winced because I was so used to pretending things were good even when they were hurting me.

My father had a shit-eating grin on face that was so foreign that I started to choke up (not sure if it was the burnt toast lodged in my throat or that empathetic, emphasis on the pathetic, nature I cursed God for bestowing upon me)

He was so fucking happy for one fucking minute.

And despite feeling lonley in his presence, despite feeling invisible, confused, fearful, angry-

I had never loved him more.

No one ever did special things for me; especially not men.

How kind of my father- though he left and he left- what other man would do something so nice for a girl like me (one who was never chosen)

So I’d spend many years accepting English-muffin-crumbs of love, from others just like him.

That meal taught me to feast on ashes and call it love.

One time. Two times. Even a a third time.

Until I was left starving.

Until I refused to accept it.

I refused to fill the stomach of another with a five course meal of beauty, brilliance, thoughtfulness, depth and authenticity with only scraps in return.

I cannot offer high-end meals to those who are used to drive-thru, and I cannot lower my value to accommodate those who will never rise to meet me on the rooftops because they are comfortable sitting in the parking lots.

I took my thoughtfulness, my loyalty, my depth, my support, my magnetic star, my beauty, devotion and love-and put it all back in my own cupboards.

I took my creativity, my voice, my authenticity and sweet vulnerability, packed it in Tupperware and stacked it on my own countertops.

I took my body-this delicious, beautiful fruit-and decided to save it for someone who earned a VIP invitation to my table.

I learned.

I finally learned.

How to feed myself

Parallel Lines

I tried float therapy today.

I lay there, naked, in a pool full of epsom salt in total darkness.

A total claustrophobic nightmare for some; a deeply safe space for me.

I spent most of my childhood hiding in tiny, dark spaces.

Fighting was like listening to music in my house; there was a unique beat, rhythm, and pattern to each argument which, like any long-running musical, eventually becomes predictable. Their hard-hitting footsteps, like a pounding bass drum, boom-boom-boomed down the hallway and that was my cue to find a space to drown out all the noise.

I liked lying on backseat floor of our big, maroon van that was parked in the garage. It was like wearing ear plugs molded specifically to the shape of my ears. I’d close my eyes and dream and dream and dream…

Sometimes I was famous like Mary Kate or Ashley Olson and people would stand up and applaud me for being cute, blonde and quirky- not chubby, thick-haired, and near-sighted. I dreamt Bill from Bill and Ted’s Excellent Adventures would be sitting next to me stroking my hair and telling me I was the most beautiful girl in the world, or that Brett Adams in my class would finally love me for being smart and funny even though I wasn’t pretty.

Mostly, I would just scream. I knew…I knew…nobody would hear me.

These were the years my eyes went bad. Maybe God was shielding me from being able to see; so I could dream instead.

****

Today, I’m in a pool, on my back, in the dark, once again.

And I feel safe.

My mind went back to elementary school-I had not one single friend back then. I truly could not relate to the joy of other children. I used to circle the playground round and round and round until the recess bell rang, singing songs to myself repeatedly, counting my steps, one two three one two three one two three…observing my peers jump-roping, chanting, throwing basketballs into hoops, cheering, laughing, playing….

This girl named Nu called me dumb one time because she asked me a question and I wouldn’t respond (I was, what is known now in education, as a selective mute.) So I created a game where if I circled the play structure at least 30 times before the bell rang, Nu would magically fall off the monkey bars and break both of her legs.

In a strange twist of fate, I still circle the playground, round and round and round as an adult thanks to mandated-teacher-recess-duty.

But, this time, the adult Maria gets to watch her own daughter as she swings effortlessly from one monkey bar to the other. The adult Maria gets to watch her daughter make up choreographed dances with her friends, try handball for the first (and only) time, run and hide in the ‘stinky’ bathroom, play “dare or dare” (no matter how many times I’ve told her truth is also part of that game.) The adult Maria also gets to hear “MOMMY WATCH ME!” at least six times in 20 minutes.

She isn’t alone.

She never will be.

She has me.

In the dark, tiny pool I thought about how often I get to hug my baby throughout the day- when she’s upset about a friend not sharing, or excited about finishing an art project, or nervous about getting pink eye… I get the gift of lifting her up in my arms and swinging her in a circle and telling her she is my favorite person in the whole world (pink eye, or not.)

I also had another vision- the one of adult Maria running to my younger self; that little, scared, lonely girl circling the play structure…

…and lifting her up and and swinging her in a circle, round and round and round, and telling her, she is my favorite person in the whole world.

Maybe healing is just that-finally holding the child we once were and refusing to let her circle alone.