from blood to blood

Dec 5

Finally, the blood is here and she is full and juicy and red and gushing. After a 47-day cycle, nothing is more satisfying.

So much is coming up for me right now. About life and aliveness. About men and the masculine in my life. About polarity and equilibrium.

I miss feeling wild and free and just ALIVE. I’ve become so domesticated the past 8 or so years. In order to heal the trauma and habitual fight-or-flight patterns I’ve had to slow down, create safety and self-regulate but at the expense of feeling that buzz of aliveness from the constant drip of cortisol — the only addiction still wired into my cells.

I used to live one day to the next, totally absorbed in each moment in perpetual survival mode. It was exhilarated and I loved living in the emotional chaos of one adrenaline rush to another in the form of a lifetsyle that meant never being settled, feeding off uncertainty and danger, defying conventional society.

I wanted to change. I chose to heal. I knew I had to stop chasing the chemical highs that were my normal from growing up in an unstable environment. Yet I mourn a version of myself and my life that was once my own. I feel complacent about my life. I feel rebellious and filled with rage at a world that has gone mad under the guise of protecting itself from the unpredictable nature of life.

The past two years have shocked me into a fearful complacency that I am not familiar with. I am trying hard to shake it off. Is it age or is it too much comfort that makes me fussy about details like the just-right firmness of a mattress and how the morning light creeps in?

There was a decade of my life where none of that mattered, years spent sleeping in strange uncomfortable places bouncing awake bright-eyed and filled with enthusiasm. Like the time I fell asleep on a chair in the middle of the Mexican jungle waiting for the world to end. It was 2012 and the end of the Mayan calendar. To awaken at two in the morning to the sound of distant drums and following that sound to a circle in a clearing. Where I stripped off and danced and sang in the rain until the sun rose with 50 strangers whose names I did not know.

is that life over? Is our world so regulated that I will never experience this kind of spontaneity and freedom ever again? Is that girl I once was gone?

Replaced by sensible bedtime rituals and daily routines to protect the fragile vulnerabilities of my human body and mind. I miss the liberated wildness from a life where I did not care what happens while fiercely appreciating the tenderness and sanctity of life I have now. I want to find an in-between those two versions of my world. A “middle way” as Buddha suggests.



Dec 8

I am moving through the final threads of healing something around men and the masculine. I have been carrying a thread of disappointment around with me the past two years as I make peace with how my own conditioning has led me to participate in and enable the patriarchy and take responsibility for my piece of upholding a sick and imbalanced perspective. With this recognition, I have witnessed so many disappointments. Men, so self-unaware, so entitled, so irresponsible, lacking integrity, shielding their fragile egos with little lies. There is a holy rage running through me and I need to burn it out.

As I feel it I heal it. As I feel it I redefine it. As I feel it I see another path. As I feel it I let it go.



Dec 20

I woke up late and pulled on leggings and a jumper to jump in my car. I picked up a friend at the end of her road and drove to the most south-western point of Mallorca. We hiked up a hill that made me pant and sweat and groan until we were greeted by views of an island that looks like a dragon’s head rising out of the sea. We sat at the lookout and snacked on carrots and nuts and let our hearts fill with the nourishment of nature’s beauty. We scrambled down a cliff face where the path fell away and trudged through bushes and grasses to find our way until we were met by the glittering sea again. I stripped down she did too. Naked we tiptoed our way into the cold winter sea until our bodies submerged. We screeched with delight as our breath was returned after the initial exhilaration and remembered what it is to feel alive.



Dec 25

After months of stagnancy, physical and emotional pain and drudgery, and wading through sticky molasses-like energy, so much are finally shifting again. I have almost finished my Compassionate Inquiry course with Gabor Mate and not only is it fuelling me on so many levels professionally, but it has also offered me a new perspective on my own childhood trauma and the tools and practices I have around handled these aspects of myself.

If the last two years taught me anything it is the deep capacity to hold space for the darkest parts of myself and others in such a way that it is so safe and easily transmuted. My emotional maturity has new layers to it. I used to bypass and diminish the aspects of myself that required validation of ugly emotions and feelings but I don’t do that anymore. It is all welcome here. My capacity and compassion have been broadened and expanded. It is so safe to go to those places within myself now. Which is significantly mirrored in my work.



Dec 29

I just woke up from the strangest dream…

I was a slave, working for a wealthy family. It was set on the seaside in an almost apocalyptic version of the ’80s or ’90s. I owned nothing, got paid nothing, just slaving all day every day and rushing in some meals in between. I felt like I had zero choices zero possibilities, nothing to live for. I wanted to die. I felt at peace with that decision.

Two of my slave friends, a daughter and her mother felt the same so we decided to run away to kill ourselves. The mother had access to syringes and poisons that put you to sleep forever and we planned everything meticulously. We ran away from the house we were enslaved in and met up in a slaves room of a hotel one night.

Each of us had syringes filled with this poison each sitting on a single bed. I  was so ready for it to be over I rushed to put the syringe in my left arm and pushed the liquid into me. As I lay there on the bed I started to feel really sleepy and I thought this is it this is my time. I was at peace and content to go and fell asleep.

But then later I woke up. I looked over and saw my friend and her mother dead on their beds. And I looked at my arm and there was a big swollen bulge where the poison had gone in. In my rush to get it done, I had pressed it into the muscle of my arm instead of a blood vessel and my body had neatly protected itself from the poison so I find myself, alive, breathing, with a second chance at life.

I have nothing except my life. I realise something. I am free! I always was free. All I had to do was make a new decision and act. All it took was to leave the situation I was in. All it took was a leap of faith. Life wanted me to live. It always does. We can always make a new decision and act on it. Liberation is literally a choice away.

Wild. What a wild dream.



Jan 6

I have had a devilish relationship with my body and its fluctuating weight since I can remember, like most women I speak to. I have a small frame and put on and lose weight equally as easily, but staying in that self-determined “perfect” state has been near impossible. 

I “feel” the best and like my body the most when I’m slender. When I’m slender I’m not eating. I’m newly in love or stressed or heartbroken or travelling in a country where I don’t control my meals. I wonder if that feeling that I’m chasing is actually love. The love of a world that validates a woman when she is slim and gives her snide side-eyes when she’s not. 

Why is it that we live in a world that celebrates women for their girlish figures? It is normal at 40 to still want to look like you’ve hardly been touched by the life that you’ve lived? 

Most importantly when do we begin distinguishing between our conditioning and our true desires to redefine what we really need to feel good / loved / safe?

Hey, I don’t have answers. Nor am I cured. I lie here writing this laughing at the absurdity of me wanting to starve the softness of 5kg off my bones. That’s why I’m asking questions here.

I think my period is due.



Jan 9

Every time my blood returns I celebrate. I have celebrated and loved my cycle since I was 23, naturally compelled by the secret mystery that lives within me. Every month it’s a delight when those first twinges of my uterus lining tearing, move through me bringing me back home into my body. I am grateful for the cyclical capacity to let go and release emotionally and physically over and over again, reminding me that I can trust the rhythms of life. Nothing lasts and nothing is lost.


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