let's dance into joy.

{I have become so pulled to these women in magazines, 

letting them keep me company before transforming them into art.}

I have been working with Hannah for well over a year now. Visioning, moving through holidays, taking in her sweet voice, going for moon walks, connecting within her tribe.......it's been a year of love and heart-opening and connection and magic. 

At the retreat last week, I couldn't help but realize all that had brought me there.

In November 2011 little mentions of this "Holiday Joy Up" kept getting my attention on blogs, Facebook, and Twitter -- I'm sure glad I listened. From there I dove into a magical community of women that I'd soon call my friends -- some of them my very best friends, now. We've met for the first time in coffee shops, awkwardly at first.....we've circled at book signings and eaten gluten free cookies together.....we've exchanged phone numbers and texted like mad.....we've had entire novels of conversation in Facebook messages that most definitely must become a book one day. These women are my women now, my life. And I'm so very grateful.

Today Hannah has declared a day of giving, and is generously giving away entries to her upcoming program, Spirits of Joy, like mad. It's beautiful. It's totally transformed my Thursday. (Which was looking pretty bleak at 9am, as I stood amidst eight toddlers screaming and spitting and hitting, trying to breathe in that moment.)

And so, I'm here to give away three spots in this program, this program that will have you dancing into joy and leaning into ritual and journeying into magic. It's 30 beautiful days of soul work, prompts, connection to spirit, creative exploration, and gorgeous visioning through daily emails and videos. I'm so excited to be able to give away these spots and know you will love it.

We start this Monday.

If you'd like to enter, leave a comment here by midnight tomorrow and I'll randomly select three winners.

So excited to journey together.

So excited to love each other up.

So excited to dance into joy.

In gratitude,

Ruth

UPDATE 3/16: The winners are Stephanie Maurer, Deb Taylor, and Deb Reynolds! I'll be emailing you lovelies. Thanks everyone for entering, I wish you could have all won :)

on friday I manifested a miracle.

I am beginning to open to receiving miracles,
a bloom unfurling its petals,
a hawk rising up.


On Friday I manifested a miracle.*


An overnight retreat in Rhode Island,
A grand operation in exquisite self-care,
A gathering with 15 women I call my sisters.

A day of circling, sweating, eating, connecting,
A night of laughing, yoga-ing, crying, slumber party-ing.
A morning of painting, visioning, restoring, hugging.

At one point I fell asleep on a bed of salt rocks in a heat therapy room filled with pounds upon pounds of Himalayan salt rock.
At one point I turned to Hannah and said, "I love that we can just be crying together on a Saturday morning."
At one point I was lounging on a heated water bed drinking liver detox juice in my bathing suit indoors.
At one point I found myself saying, "I feel like you remind me of someone. But it's not someone -- it's just you. My soul already knows yours."
At one point I was covering my hands in fuschia paint and pressing them onto canvases.
At one point I stood beneath a 50-degree drench shower having just come from a 140-degree steam room.
At one point the word "trust" was being inscribed onto my arm.
At one point I just stood in the loft's bathroom smelling the soap.


And then, back home.


But not home to fall back into the usual swing of things.
No -- after retreating, going back home involves slowness and integration and peace and  reflection. You re-enter home more fully yourself, standing brighter in your light, topped off with love and support and deep, deep connection.

Thank you.
I am grateful.
All is well.


And I begin to wonder how I can create more of these soul-filling moments, how I can work to ensure that moments of such deep, deep connection are my real world, instead of leaving and going "back to the real world" with a sigh and a shake of the head.

This is my real world.
This shit is real.
This can be the norm.
This is so, so possible.


How?
By staying open. Open to receiving miracles.
By saying thank you in advance.
By visualizing yourself there, knowing that it already exists on some other plane of reality and all you must do is reach out and pluck it -- and believing that, fully.
By  realizing that failure is just an illusion. That the Universe (or God, or Source, or Great Spirit, or...) is always behind you ready to scoop you up and hold you, safely. Failure is just an illusion.
And, by choosing love.



And that's it, isn't it? Love. All there is.

How could there be anything else?

Today, I am so filled with love.

Thank you.

*Quite literally, I manifested this. Never doubt your own power. I confirmed my attendance before thinking of the funds, and instead of declining I held the belief that the money would come, I trusted with a supreme trust. A week later, the money did come -- in the form of some unexpected affiliate monies that I hadn't even been trying to earn. Bam. That's how a manifestation miracle works.

Interested in this? For more info on #operationselfcarelikewhoa, see here!

f*ck "stuck"

It wasn't long ago that I found myself stuck.

Physically, stuck. In my car. On a snowy, slippery path declining straight into a river. Couldn't reverse out of it, couldn't move any farther forward. My palms were sweating, my heart was racing, and my lunch hour was quickly running out. Soon I'd be late getting back to work. And here I was -- stuck.

I tried rocking back and forth, going from "drive" to "reverse" as swiftly as I could. I'd back up a few inches and think I was saved, only to have my tires start spinning again and slide back down the hill, even closer to the river. Being in a state forest in the middle of the day on a Tuesday, there wasn't anyone around to beg for help. I felt doomed.

After a long while, I realized I could pull forward and off the path to the right, risking gunning the engine and avoiding trees and picnic tables and any unseen rocks far enough to swing back around and meet up with the main road farther down. In a moment of bravery, I did just that. I managed to steer clear of any stumps and ended up getting one wheel up onto the main road before I was stuck even harder than before -- now looking like a fool, having driven my car through the woods from the direction of the river. Holding back tears, I saw a man and his dog pull up just then and asked him to help push me out. Within just seconds, I put the car in neutral, steered straight ahead, and this earth angel pushed me to safety. Adrenaline rushed and I was freed, only a few minutes behind schedule. I thanked him profusely and sped back to work, shoes soaked and pants muddy.

The thing is.....in that moment of sweaty-palms, racing-heart, and teary-eyes, I was so totally sure I was stuck. I was stuck. My car wasn't moving. The snow was against me. I'd be there forever, or until a tow truck came. There was no getting around it. Stuck, stuck, stuck.

Once I was able to gain some perspective on the situation, I realized how familiar that place is: going into survival mode, dropping down into a pit of despair, throwing up hands and throwing in the towel. It's so easy. And it's a pretty common place -- you've said yes to plans you wished you'd said no to, you're in a job you hate and there's no other options, you declare yourself depressed and there's no way out anytime soon, you don't know what to do in that tricky situation. For the past month I've known that place intimately. Shutting out light and declaring myself "stuck." Waiting for the upswing, as if it's some great outside force that's going to come sweep you off your feet and drop you back into the real world. Deciding it must be a reaction to a food or a general dissatisfaction for current circumstances. The label of "stuck." Anything to keep the responsibility away.

Yes, I know that place, well.



To which I now say, fuck "stuck."

(I say this in the gentlest of ways, like an urgent encouragement of the word "stuck" to dislodge itself from your mind.)

"Stuck" is just a mindset. It's not real. It does not define you. Contrary to what your mind is trying to tell you, it isn't a place you're in.

It's a state of being, in your head. Which is good news, because we can change those much easier than we can a two-ton vehicle sliding through the snow on a hill.

Flip the switch. Feel into what you need and make any tiny little adjustment that needs making. Open the heart chakra. Make a decision, in that instant, to let love in. Smile, breathe, trust. You are not stuck. Fuck stuck. You are never stuck.

Just open. Open yourself up a tiny little bit, invite in a gentle softening.

Suddenly a crack of light will make its way into your field of vision. You can step forward and open the door, and that crack will become wider, bigger, brighter, until the whole room of your heart is lit up. And you can hold onto that doorknob anxiously, just waiting for the next opportunity to ease it shut again, or you can

let it go. And exhale and smile and let it all pass through you, aware and trusting.

And throw your arms up and stand in your light, bravely.

Because you are never stuck.

haven.

I'd like to see the South of France.

And Asheville.

And Sedona.

And Reykjavic.

And Tuscany.

And South Africa again, too.


What is the proper method for going about life when a severe case of wanderlust sinks in? The method doesn't even have to be proper. It just has to be.....a method. A coping mechanism. A bandaid for the time being, until the world travel can really happen.

Perhaps there needs to be the expansion, first. The watching of movies and the reading of National Geographics and the stumbling upon of photos that take your breath away and spark a sincere desire for more. For possibility, for excitement, for culture. One minute you're putting in Under The Tuscan Sun for a cheap weekend chick flick and the next minute you're pressing pause abruptly, looking up sharply, and speaking aloud to no one in particular: "I must go to Tuscany." (This has happened to me once before -- I was drifting off to sleep when I sat bolt upright and declared I must go to some such place. And I did, four weeks later -- although that was just to NYC, not across oceans.) The presence of possibility must be there first.

And then there's this idea of home, that home is found within you, deep in the recesses of your heart. And that home doesn't depend on where one is physically in the world.

I've always struggled with that one.

It can be especially difficult, when you're trying to navigate the deep recesses of your heart and your outer surroundings are so decidedly not home. At least, not in that moment. Unpacking your belongings and setting up shop within your own body can seem like the farthest thing from truth.

 

And then there are moments when you're cleaning the bathroom, immersing yourself in the most mundane of tasks simply because a series of repetitive actions without much thinking sounds good to you, and you're suddenly caught by the Saturday morning sunlight catching the water droplets in your just-scrubbed sink and you think to yourself: "That has got to be the most beautiful thing in the world." And so getting out the camera and taking pictures of the bathroom sink becomes perfectly natural, in that moment. It is the closest thing to truth, safety, resonance, and warmth that you've felt in awhile.

The mundane suddenly becomes the magical. The act of making the bed, refilling your water glass, hanging up your coat, setting the alarm, pushing in your chair.....punctuated by the most astounding moments of clarity and contentment. One day after another, in and out, mundane and magic.

And then -- you've created a haven. The word "haven" has been following me lately, tugging at my heels wanting to be heard. It feels nurturing and expansive and personal. It feels like an enormous blank wall, all your own. Settling down into this haven, unpacking the items marked "fragile" and spreading the softest comforter over the bed -- this is where the room for possibility is created. The room for moments of sharp wanderlust that hit you gently in your gut and make you think, "Oh yeah. I'll go there some day, for sure." The room for hyper-awareness of the clarity and contentment that will undoubtedly rush in.


Someday I'll see the South of France. And Asheville, and Sedona, and Reykjavic, and Tuscany, and I'll go back to South Africa, too.

But for now, I'm setting up a haven. Deeply and soulfully. And stopping to take pictures, yes.

The Transition.

After the labor, and before the pushing, there is the transition.

The hardest part of the birth of the thing.

The part where the thing is lodged in such a way that it cannot go back the way it came, and it cannot yet move forward.

Lodged. Shifting. Dilating. Preparing for entry. Waiting on the precipice between born and unborn. Getting set to move head first down the canal.

The laboring feels long gone. The laboring that lasted hours, days, weeks, months, years is done. Completed. The heart has moved on. If there are any nostalgic whisperings, it is too late.

There suddenly seems to be no space for recovery, no moments for integration and processing and accommodation. There is burning. There is hurting like hell. There is feeling like movement is nonexistent, and there is also the feeling of the most powerful movement that could ever be experienced. Lodged, yet expanding. Rapidly.

It cannot be sucked back up, and it cannot be forced out, either. It is exactly where it is meant to be.

The body knows what to do. It is not time to push, in transition. There is nothing to do but keep breathing, holding out hope, grasping onto the faith that it will soon be transformed. For transition is often when the faith is lost, when throwing up the arms in exasperation occurs, when plans are angrily thrown out and medication is requested, stat.

The forest of transition is thick. And dark. And seems like the only thing ever known.

It is the hardest part of the birth. And it is also the shortest.



Yet on the other side of this transition-state is life. That thing that is being birthed. That thing that is being born into this world.

It is your life, your creation.

It is you.

And after long last, it is positioned for entry. It is time. It is pushed out easily, sliding freely into existence.

The pushing isn't much of pushing at all. The pushing is the easy part.

The world erupts, love radiates, stars explode, rainbows burst forth, and all becomes sunny and free. 

Through the thick forest of labor and depletion and exhaustion, this seemed impossible at times. You only had an inkling of an idea  

that life of this caliber was possible, that love of this magnitude existed, that joy of this kind was an option.


Transition is the hardest part of the birth. And it is also the shortest.

Have faith. For when transition sets in, it becomes clear:

Hold on a little longer. Breathe. Keep the faith. Recommit to feeling good, to that great expanse lying before you.

For birth is imminent.

a note to you, to me.

To feel good is to feel alive.

And to feel alive, you must follow your aliveness.

Even if this means saying no to an invitation from your best friend, an extra shift, more money, that job offer, your dearest family member. A no to what doesn’t feel good will be a yes to yourself.

Follow your aliveness.

When your body feels at peace, that is aliveness.

You must say yes. You must pick up each breadcrumb of truth as it comes and sit with it, however small it may be, and say thank you.

And then wait for the next one.

You may wait for a long time. You may want to stray off to the right or the left and forget about the breadcrumb because in that moment it will feel easier to find something else than wait for more aliveness. It will feel easier to give in to the negativity and drama and just let yourself sink into it, simply for a place to sink into.

But it will not be easier. It will not feel good.

And to feel good is to feel alive.

So you must be devoted to feeling alive. You must tell yourself over and over again countless times a day, “I am committed to feeling good. I am committing to what I know because it feels better.” You must remind yourself of this often, as many times as it takes. 

It may take a shitload of times. It probably will. And that’s okay. 

Eventually it will start to feel more normal. And more easy. 

Eventually you’ll be so far across the tightrope that to go back the way you came will feel just as intimidating as moving forward.

And so you will move forward, following your aliveness, picking up the next breadcrumb, making your way to the other end of the rope.

You will discover what feeds your soul, and what does not. You will begin to recognize the breadcrumbs and find them more easily.

You will begin to know more clearly what you want to feel, and how you want to feel. You will paste those words and images up on the walls around you as your soul soaks up the feelings, and your actions towards aliveness will become guided by these intended feelings, without you even realizing it.

You will become so in tune with your body that simply thinking of the word LOVE in your mind will be enough to quell your hunger, at least in that moment.

You will become so in tune with your body that it will whisper into your soul things that you cannot even comprehend or understand. And despite the lack of comprehension and understanding you will listen for the sake of that commitment to aliveness. 

You will not know why closing out that browser window at that exact moment feels so good, but you’ll be happy you did once it is closed.

(And to feel good is to feel alive.)

The aliveness will show up. It will never fail you. There will be no logical need for worrying, since the aliveness will always come. You make take a strange path as you follow the breadcrumbs, but that’s okay. The breadcrumbs will always come, and you will need to have taken that path to see them. Do you see? There is no logical need for worrying.

Eventually, living in the flow will feel so good and so damn easy that you’ll wonder why you never did this sooner. Suddenly decisions as simple as what to eat for dinner and as complex as where to live in this world will feel like the most natural thing ever, and you’ll go with that flow of aliveness simply because it feels good, letting go of the worry. And it won’t be until after you eat the dinner or after you sign the lease that you’ll realize it – how much that decision resonated, how proud of yourself you are, how simple life can be. And you’ll wonder if everyone else knows this and if it came sooner or easier to them but,

you’ll be really grateful you discovered such a beautiful secret. 

You’ll find other souls along your path who are also picking up breadcrumbs and you’ll glance sidelong at each other and smile quietly knowing you know the same beautiful secret. 

And you’ll want to keep going, keep taking the next breath, keep looking out for that next breadcrumb. Because it will feel good.

And so you’ll keep going. And the good feelings will come.

because i always seem to forget how good it feels to pick up the camera.

in case you ever questioned the efficacy of acupuncture.

First, she needles my back. Face down, table warmer on, my face cradled in the head rest, neck releasing and relaxing. Despite the occasional noises and voices from the hallway, I'm able to focus on my breath and the soft Native American flute music and close my eyes as my body drifts off into the most delicious 20-minute nap I can ever remember. I sleep lightly and wake every now and then, wondering how it hasn't been 20 minutes yet -- it's as if time has stopped for me. For a delicious 2pm nap.

Flip over, sheets rearranged, she needles my front. Feet, legs, abdomen, hands, ear, forehead. Another 20-minute nap. Only this time, I've just had my delicious power nap and I'm wide awake. I decide to focus on my breath and the most amazing thing happens -- I go so far into my body, so deep into the nuanced sensations that come with each passing thought that I seem to leave the table, the room, the building. I'm suddenly deep within my body, feeling how one word creates a particular sensation and another creates something entirely different. I'm acutely aware of my balanced state -- the feeling of a calm, serene body of water at my heart space, evenly and peacefully lapping at the shores of my limbs and lips. I breathe into this, feeling and noticing, feeling and noticing. One stray thought pops into my head -- a tiny, nagging thought that would typically spiral me into a thought avalanche and bring about deep worry -- and I'm magically able to say hello to it, to feel the separateness of me and it, to breathe again until I can stand tall in my peaceful heart space waters. And just like that, as I loosen my grip and remember my breath and feel the worry float away, I'm able to control my mood, my present. I feel powerful. I want to laugh. Take that, anxiety. Take that, panic. For this is the exact way to counteract it, this is my method of rising above it, of knowing I am not it, it is not me. Imagine.

Within a few seconds another unsavory thought wades over, and I'm amazed at my ability to instantly notice my body's reaction, to feel my energy slide south into my gut, knotting and twisting ever so slightly. I remind my cells of that feeling of the peaceful, still waters and after a few seconds of breathing, all is well again up in my heart space. Had I not been lying on a warm table in a dark quiet room, I'd probably not notice any of this. In fact, up until recently, I'd never notice, ever.

This feels monumental to me.

And so I continue, breathing and feeling and noticing, over and over again, wide awake, until the 20 minutes are up and my deep body meditation is over. The needles come out and I'm reminded to take my time getting up, and my groggy, messy-haired, makeup-smudged reflection in the mirror smiles back, reveling in the small miracle that's just occurred in this tiny little acupuncture room in the back of a gynecologist's office building.

Me and these needles, man. We've got something good.

just so you know, universe.

 

Someday, there will be a space in the world, carved out and taking up air, allocated solely for me. For me and all my precious -- though few -- belongings.

Someday, I’ll be able to waltz into the bathroom whenever I please, leave the door open if I please, sing aloud if I please, walk about in a towel for as long as I please. There will be nothing in the tub besides my shower things and I will breathe into all the free space with me in my shower.

Someday, I’ll have an entire refrigerator just for my use. Shelves upon shelves and drawers upon drawers, gloriously empty, waiting to be filled with my lemons and eggs and almond milk and bunches of kale. I’ll leave it open for as long or as short as I like and arrange its contents to please me.

Someday, I’ll have a bedroom with enough space for a real bed in it. For a desk and a chair that can be pulled out fully and a comfy chair too, for dreaming and writing. For a floor space large enough to unfurl a yoga mat and accommodate warrior three pose, easily.

Someday, I’ll get to decide
how often or how rarely the hand towels be washed,
at what point in the evening the television be turned on, if at all,
at what time of day the shades be lifted and closed,
what hangs on the walls and what doesn’t,
how often and in what manner the furniture gets moved around,
whether or not incense be burned,
when to throw away the leftovers,
which political signs be advertised
(there won’t be any).

Someday, I’ll get to come home and flop down onto the couch without a worry of who may be coming or going, of what next catastrophe may occur (whether it's made up in the mind or not), of whether the dog has been fed yet, of the home phone ringing with an unsavory caller on the other end. I will flop down on that couch and the only chatter going on will be my own.

Someday.
Someday soon.

I'm grateful in advance, Universe.

felicitous findings.....in gratitude.

Once upon a time I had a blog series here in this space that I somewhat-regularly updated. I called it Felicitous Findings -- mini-posts of five things that made me happy. Gratitudes, if you will. Tiny little things that brought a little light into my life, into this space.

My last post was in February of 2011. Heh.


And yet, gratitude has been on my mind lately. It keeps popping up into random moments of my life, peeking its head around the corner and seeing if I'm paying attention. A couple of days ago I was having a rather low, anxiety-filled day, the rain and gray and gloominess finally catching up with me after an endless week of bad weather. And just when I decided to acknowledge it and let myself feel like shit, a little pocket of space was created, just big enough for gratitude to peep back in again.

And I saw this episode of Your Great Life TV.

And I got three letters in the mail from joy sisters.

 And I emailed a dear friend.

And I remembered other souls are remembering gratitude, too.

And I remembered these Felicitous Findings posts.


And so I will continue them, now. I want to focus on the tiny things I am grateful for at the ends of my days, as I fall to sleep, and copy them here to share. In gratitude. In love.

Tiny shifts. Slowly.

"It starts with our bodies. It starts with taking care of your body. When you take care of your body, you feel good. When you feel good, you think different thoughts. When you think different thoughts, you make different decisions, you take different actions. When you take different actions, your day turns out different. And then you stack a day on top of a day on top of a day.....I mean, that’s your life."

Sylvia Ferrero