moving day!

Today's the day. I've been blogging here for the past four (!) years, and never really felt like I settled in here. It was my internet home, but didn't feel very home-y. It started as a creative writing independent study project in college, morphed into a few different beings, changed names three times, and has been Feather Spirit for the past year.

But I'm ready for new. Fresh. Clean. Free.

And so I'm moving! You can now find me at ruthpclark.com.

 

It's brand new, it's beautiful, it's simple, and it just feels good. I hope you'll join me there.

If you've been reading here for awhile, thank you so much for following along all this time. This space has served me so well in my foray into blogging and I hope to always keep these archives open.

But now, all the fun will be taking place over here. (And a big project is beginning this week!) Join us xo

 

let it flow.

In the release, we become.

-- Teresa Robinson, via Erica Simpson
 

___________________________________________________________

When you begin to feel the ibuprofen wearing off and you feel like you need to get it back into your system immediately but don’t have any water in the car with you

let it flow.

When you know that your mascara is running down your cheeks with the tears

let it flow.

When you feel like you need to jump out of bed and already start hurryhurryhurrying the second your eyes open

let it flow.

When you haven’t answered text messages in hours and the guilt starts creeping in

let it flow.

When the only energy you can muster is to take a deep breath and stare out the window

let it flow.

When you spot the withering petals and browning leaves and remember the plants needed to be watered three days ago

let it flow.

When you need to put yourself on a schedule and lie down at least once an hour to keep the post-surgery pains at bay

let it flow.

When you go to two different stores looking for a product that you never end up finding

let it flow.

When you type up a blog post and then mistakenly delete the end of it (yes, right now)

let it flow.



Let it flow.
Release, release, release. For it is in the releasing, after all,

that we become.

where the healing happens.

The other day a dear friend told me, “You are really vulnerable right now. Huge transitions. That is when this stuff comes up.”

Just hearing the words “You are really vulnerable right now” was enough to allow some softening inside. Oh yeah. I am.

There are so many meanings behind vulnerable. It can be as simple as going out without makeup on, it can be telling a truth that feels uncomfortable, it can be as intense as finding yourself totally incapacitated and needing to rely on others for basic care. There are so many layers of vulnerability.

This week I’ve found myself on the more intense side of things. Sitting in the passenger seat as my mother drives me to the hospital, lying unconscious on an operating room table, trusting a surgeon to safely remove a cyst from my ovary, recovering at home and relying on family members to take care of me. Total vulnerability, at its finest.

I was worried about this, pre-surgery. Really worried. As my mother and I walked into the waiting room where I’d declare myself arrived and ready for surgery, where I’d be led to a small changing room to strip down, donning scrub pants and a flimsy gown and a striped robe and non-skid socks, where we’d see OR team member after another, where we’d wait for hours nervously before carrying on with the actual thing…..as we walked into that waiting room, I turned to my mother and said, “Let’s just turn around. It’s not too late. We don’t have to do this. We can just run off somewhere and I’ll be a surgery no-show. Please?” Nerves, nerves, nerves.

But, I did go through with the procedure and before long I found myself tucked into bed at home that night, albeit in pain and lots of discomfort.

And suddenly the vulnerability felt a little easier. I was helped in and out of bed. I was brought food. I had full access to straws and trays and as many pillows as I wanted. It felt good. Suddenly I was given the space to unravel to just a little bit, to get down to the core of me, to access so many other ages of myself that were coming up for healing, too.

I felt layers peel away. Suddenly I was 12, 15, 18. Huge ages of vulnerability for me, that weren’t necessarily met with as much care and support as I was receiving in my current 25-year-old self. It was uncomfortable, so uncomfortable, and still sort of is, as I navigate the present world while still having all these gaping wide versions of myself peeking out.

Layers.

Raw, real, open, wanting.

Vulnerability, where the healing happens.

Here’s to healing.

 

 

time to write my own story.

As a little girl, I was always writing stories.

There was the family of ladybugs. There was the X-Files fan fiction. There was the Revolutionary War drama. There was the Italian countryside during World War I. There was the 1930s kid on her typewriter during the Depression.

There was always a story in my head that I was hiding away in, and eventually they’d make their ways out onto the lined pages of lime green composition notebooks or documents in dated Microsoft Word programs. It was always my go-to activity, after reading. I would shakily put pencil to paper in the backseat of the station wagon on long family road trips, hiding out on my top bunk before school in the mornings, hogging my time on the family computer as I typed up plot outline after plot outline, family tree after family tree.

I distinctly remember the feeling inside of all that story-telling – it seemed miraculous to me that I could create any reality I wanted. I could dream up the most preposterous scenario and it wasn’t preposterous because it was a story. It wasn’t real. I could make the main character as thin and beautiful as I liked, I could make a romance as whirlwind and ridiculous as I liked, I could make the setting as gorgeous and Hollywood-worthy as I liked, I could make the family members and friends as nice and kind as I liked.

They were stories. And in them, I could be whoever I wanted. There was nothing holding me back, no reality to take into consideration, no limits. I could literally dream up the life I envisioned as “perfect,” and make it somewhat real.

This was where I lived. I had found power. And no one could shut it down.

But over the next fifteen years the stories became less and less frequent. I went from bookwormy homeschooled kid to public high school transplant and although I liked being in the creative writing club, it wasn’t cool. I tucked away all my historical romance plans and tried my hand at a few nonsense angsty poems (which were really the only things acceptable within our tortured teenage writing realm) and hated it.

Writing became less and less important to me. My creative writing teacher in high school was actually a 20-something, uninterested psych major who took points off when I started a sentence with “And.” My creative writing teacher in college had us doing things like writing descriptions of the weather and going around the circle sharing what our favorite words were. It was painful, and I was slowly letting go of any leftover passion from the backseat family road trips. Families of ladybugs frolicking in cornfields were things of the past.

And then a funny thing happened. Last year I began making vision boards for each month at the new moon, and in August a board took shape with the words “time to write my own story,” smack in the middle. Of course, the idea of writing a story was just an analogy for creating one’s own life, and…..it held the same exact feelings I’d found in writing all those years before – a power in ownership, awe at the thought of creating whatever I wanted, no need to hold back.

All those stories I was making up? I could actually do that. I could actually dream up what I wanted my real life to look like and make that happen. Write my own damn story. I didn’t need to take on anyone else’s story as my own. I didn’t need to let things happen to me. I didn’t need to passively float through the pages of someone else’s story.

I could write one myself. From scratch. I could gather the paper and bind it together and decorate the cover and begin to fill it with words, words that resonated and meant something to me. Words that I wanted there. Words that were beautiful and hopeful and inspiring. When I got down to it, I knew exactly what I wanted and didn’t want in those pages.

And so I started writing my own damn story. Slowly, slowly, it’s been taking shape and starting to look like how I dreamed it would. Because I stood in my power. Because I took pen to paper and created it.

And the funny thing is – once I started getting back to that little girl that found joy in creating extensive 1920s Italian family trees, I realized…..I actually am a writer. I’ve actually always been a writer. I have piles and piles of journals and diaries filled with words. I have a diploma proving that I studied words for four years. I have a blog that’s now almost five years old, filled with words. But really, none of that even matters…..because if I want to be a writer, I can be. If I feel like a writer, it’s because I made myself one.

That’s what I’m writing. That’s what I’m keeping. That’s what I’m creating.

Let’s write our own damn stories.

twenty-five.

There seems to be something about this age.

Twenty-five. This quarter-life time.

People keep telling me.  
When I was that age, I picked up and left. 
I lived wildly.  
At twenty-five, everything changed.  
Your mid-twenties are such a great time for inventing yourself.  
When I was at that point in life, I felt like I could go anywhere, do anything.

There's this constant state of flux surrounding twenty-five. There's not a lot of solidity, there aren't many sure-things, there's not a lot of pure, absolute truth. Everything is changing. You think that adolescence is the time for figuring yourself out, discovering who you are, trying on your morals and values for size, playing around until some semblance of a grown human being begins to form and take shape.

Adolescence has nothing on your twenties.

 Here I am at twenty-five, still figuring myself out, discovering who I am, trying on my morals and values for size, playing around while some semblance of a grown human being forms and takes shape. I've floundered in my years-since-college, retreating back to some safety as I pieced my Self back together and gathered some tools for the road. I've quit my safety job, leaving it behind in a quiet, anti-climactic, stepping-away. I've taken a new job and a leap of faith, finding myself vacillating between Connecticut and Rhode Island, between my childhood bedroom and a spacious loft, between Small Town and Gorgeous City. I don't have anything with me besides a bag of clothes and this computer. Back and forth I go, navigating twenty-five, toeing the lines between young and old, unsure and sure, early twenties and mid twenties (and not quite at late twenties, I don't think).

Perhaps this isn't a twenty-five thing. Perhaps this is just a thing, a thing that happens when you awake from sleep, when you can't go back to the way you were, when your heart opens and all this light pours in and closing it again feels downright painful. Perhaps this can be a thirties thing. Or a forties thing, or a fifties thing, or a sixties thing. Perhaps it's not really a thing at all, but rather an era of time that begins with the awakening, and continues on for years. Perhaps this is just the initial moment of flux, like stepping off a merry-go-round and taking some time to regain your balance and get reacquainted with the solid ground beneath you.

But this is my twenty-five. And there seems to be something about this age. This quarter life time.

It's scary, but it's so damn good.

on taking up space.

spread out your arms, they tell you. stretch your legs wide and let your limbs venture off the mat, they tell you. this is savasana. this is five-pointed star. this is your moment to take up some space. don’t be afraid to do it, they tell you.

for the past six years I’ve lived in a bedroom the size of a large closet. eighty-eight square feet once hated and despised, now adorned in prayer flags and twinkle lights and thrifted furniture, scented with patchouli incense and wide open windows. as soon as I learned to embrace it, it treated me well. it’s become my sanctuary, my breathing space, and it’s not uncommon for anyone to walk in and tell me it feels peaceful there, that from the road the windows into my bedroom exude warmth and belonging. 

slowly it seems I’ve been growing out of it. slowly the walls feel as if they’re closing in and the floor space is disappearing and I can’t breathe as easily as I once could.

but as it turns out, the walls aren’t closing in. the floor isn’t disappearing. all eighty-eight square feet are still there, same as ever. it was me, creating that closing-in. 

because now I found myself out of that bedroom…..and yet still in that small space. once those walls are built up…..well, they’re hard to break down. I find myself now outside of my bedroom, outside of my small town, outside of my home state. I find myself in a gorgeous, spacious loft, with high ceilings and high windows and lots and lots of open air. I find myself in a busy city, with people and streets and energy, more than I’ve ever known before. and yet, I can still feel my walls around me. wherever you go, there you are.

in the tiniest of moments, I break down the walls with a breath. not a small quiet breath to merely pass the air, but a large lung-expanding inhale and exhale. sometimes when it gets too quiet and I’m feeling too compressed, I take one of those large lung-expanding gulps of air and feel my self taking up space. my lungs fill and my chest grows big. it’s loud and the noise fills the silence. I let it all out and feel how the air has changed, the space around me feeling different. in that one breath, I take up space.

I wish for more of these breaths.

I wish for my eyes to be open wide. 

I wish for my feet to take steps firmly and noisily.

I wish to speak loudly and unabashedly.

I wish to look around, hard, and really see.

I wish to move my body freely and without inhibition.

I wish to be as present as possible, in whatever space I find myself in.

not afraid to take up too much space. not afraid of the outcome.

me. wholly. fully.

taking up space.

navigating transition -- and staying open.

Sometimes it looks like writhing in pain and knowing that the bed beneath you will support you and hold you. And so you begin to trust, ever so slightly.

Sometimes it looks like asking the tough questions, braving the risks of sounding rude. And smiling knowingly at the literal sore throat that follows. And so you begin to trust, ever so slightly.

Sometimes it looks like letting go of the content and simply noticing the feelings and sensations as they pass through, waiting on the next breath as a signal to carry on with the feeling. And so you begin to trust, ever so slightly.

Sometimes it looks like splaying out in the deep dark trench you've found yourself in, even though you don't see a way out and can't remember that trench existing before that moment and feel as if it must be infinite. Yet, splay messily you do. And so you begin to trust, ever so slightly.


Because staying open and beginning to trust.....they're kind of the same thing, aren't they?

And so you begin to open and trust, ever so slightly.....

every part of you is right.

 

{Love note and salt rocks still hanging out after #operationselfcarelikewhoa.)

 I am always saying, “There is a part of me that _____ but there’s another part of me that ____.” Always the parts, many parts, usually at least two or three or four strung along into that sentence, punctuated by buts.

There is a part of me that wants to but  

there is a part of me that doesn’t want to but 

there is a part of me that doesn’t care. 

There is a part of me that feels like I should but  

there is a part of me that worries what everyone else will think but 

there is a part of me that just wants to say fuck it.

Stop, she tells me. Try saying“and” instead of “but.” There is a part of you that wants to AND there is a part of you that doesn’t.

I think about that. I sit in silence for a few beats and realize that yes, I am allowed to have different parts of me feeling differently. There is no but. 

There’s a part of me that wants to just go for it, and 

there’s a part of me that’s scared shitless, and 

there’s a part of me that thinks I should do things the respectable way.

No buts. Just ands. We can embrace all these aspects of our selves, these multiple facets all clamoring for their voices to be heard and seen and accepted. 

These don’t need to be opposing. You are not a contradiction. Every part of you is right.

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.