my work

My work is to listen to the underbelly of what is being said & bring to light the deeper pulses running in the dark.

My work is to keep reaching beyond my own comprehension at every click of the keyboard; this is the only way words will ever sustain my attention. Writing what I already-know makes my teeth hurt.

My work is to keep my eyes on the page, to ignore the flash and ping and waving hands of device notifications. My work is to stay-put in the now.

My work is to sit in the mornings when my body dictates, sometimes at dawn and at other times in the pitch darkness of the night when everything else is asleep.

My work is to weave the threads as they arise and then allow them to dissolve as freely as they came.

My work is to start over each time I exhale.

My work is to love in the ways I am built to love… to stop saying ‘should’ when I wake up in the morning.

My work is to come to know my soul, even when it means exploding the narrative. Especially when it means exploding the narrative.

My work is to stay so present to my own rhythms, that I am no longer dancing to the noise all around me.

My work is to ground energy, but not like earth, like a fire that smolders and is willing to rage when the time comes to consume or be consumed.

My work is to create; to be a maker in a world filled with people too fearful to admit they are both capable and helpless.

My work is to act as mother, child, and midwife in my own creative process.

My work is to stay focused on each creation like a newborn that needs tending until it grows and leaves home to have a life of its own.

My work is to make peace with countless creative miscarriages along the way.

My work is to listen to the whisper within that tells me when it’s time to add my voice… and to ignore the flashing lights that threaten my life should I speak.

My work is to time travel and rescue every last abandoned child that lives inside my body. Mine and my ancestors.

My work is to love each one of them with such ferocity and acceptance that they wince with the pain of being understood, like the ache of something long-remembered and holy.

My work is to say to other women, you don’t have to do any of that-shit anymore. You are free.

My work is to invite men to shed tears they’ve been swallowing.

My work is being brave enough to offer up my most-tender questions.

My work is to lay to rest what I know & allow others to teach all that.

My work is to stay open to the pain of those who are lost in a trance of righteousness.

My work is to strive to know the unfathomable.

My work is to stop striving to fathom the unknowable.

My work is to walk alongside those I love without confusing them with me.

My work is to fuck-up and get up and learn to walk all over again.

My work is to remember that we all want (and deserve) the precise brand of freedom that most suits us.

My work is to remember that comparison is self-abandonment.

My work is to listen to the whisper within, to stop drowning her out with a volume of busy-ness.

My work is to remember that ‘work’ is overrated.

My work is to let letters pour like lava.

My work is to stay.