Underneath every push is a piece of me resisting to come out.
I am both the mother and the child.
I’m past due.
This birth has an expiration date, yet here I am collecting it like an old mustard bottle in the back of the fridge.
The bottle you somehow do not want to fucking throw away for the life of you.
My God, this bottle of spicy mustard has a seductive hold on me.
Keep me here.
Ignore me.
You will use me for something eventually.
Don’t you dare look at the date on the top of my overspilled muse because that will be the opening of your next cleanse.
But celestial bodies, I told you I’m taking a break from cleaning!!!
Sweet being, how could you forget?
Ordination is not a weekly fridge purge.
It is a moment-by-moment sanctification.
You wake up and you’ve already begun the process.
Must I remind you that the consecration of your livelihood never stops.
It never stops.
What stops is your willingness to find the divinity in cleaning out.
You see it as a chore.
You envision it as an ending only to fight the beginning.
The battle is you.
Not the cleaning, not the bloody processing of emotional ejection, not the agony of seeing your choice of peace coming with the destruction of everything you’ve claimed to be.
The battle is choosing yourself.
The battle is keeping yourself to one promised vision.
The one thing you couldn’t bear to lose; yet, the thing you would love to destroy.
The one thing that keeps you in the merry-go-round because you rather endure that pain than face the unknown of letting it go.
This year has asked you to become unfamiliar.
This year has inquired about your commitment to pain and why it’s serving you.
Every part that you have scolded, blamed, and cursed is under your internal employment.
They work 24/7 for you, only to make them work harder instead of listening to the stories of their departments.
There are no more team meetings to be had that are judgmental.
There are no more zoom calls for the heart, it can’t hang- it wants your real touch in person.
I’m re-organizing the orb that is my bodily company and permitting them to quit without a two-week notice.
Safety isn’t real if you are depicting it off a single moment in your past that kept you frozen there.
Safety becomes a role and a mechanism, not a gentle push.
Fear becomes the underlying chronic inflammation of what you are trying to keep safe.
This next push in your life comes with a moan because the life you have molded has only allowed you to control what the push tastes like.
The push simply can not be formulated to your liking.
I repeat my love, it can not.
It is downright absurd and preposterous to think your next falling is only allowed to push you to a certain degree.
It’s like saying, yes, I want to grow and I crave expansion, but not in the way where I have to grow and expand.
The real push is not gentle because it is a calling.
The invisible forces around us do not have their phones on silent.
When they call, they fucking call.
I’ve ignored their messages for so long that I began to think that it would be the easy way out.
Again, controlling the dimension of the push to my preference.
When you have preferences around your dharma, the stars laugh.
My preference says give me all the sparkles without the odyssey to them- give me the one-way ticket without losing my bags and forgetting that I will go home at one point in time.
I’m coming home.
Are you coming with me?
If I see you there, I won’t mention a word of any of this.
I won’t dare pity you or tell you how strong you are for arriving.
I will simply give you all the acknowledgment in silence.
Those are the sutras to your spirit anyhow.
Words don’t do this human plunge justice.
I’ll give you my hand and smile because this type of push to who you are becoming and what circumstances are unfolding to support that is one that requires no talking.
Maybe this is a conversation for our subtle bodies.
Maybe this is a time in your life when you have zero clarity but the calls keep ringing.
You don’t need answers or typed-out explanations when you pick up the phone.
I promise.
You just need to pick up.
Don’t send your mucky expansion to voicemail.
You deserve to hear it speak to you even when you talk in different tongues.
The language barrier is your resistance.
Again, words are just words.
Energy is the only vocabulary that will give you that ticket home.
That ticket that says, give me flight.
I deserve both the sky and the turbulence.
〰️
Sierra
Things that are helping me navigate a brutal push, one that I’m allowing to not be easy //
ꕀ herbs from Superfeast (use my code “subliminalshift” for 10% off) (I’m leaning into I am Gaia because quite frankly, I have fallen to the earth more times than I can count recently )
ꕀ this book
ꕀ this regeneration mist to spritz on my face
ꕀ vlogs from Leah’s Fieldnotes
ꕀ getting back into my creative passions- entering a new relationship with writing, filing, and video editing
ꕀ letting you in
until next time, may you keep getting pushed because it has a force that will end up loving you more than you ever thought possible //
(( a place in my heart, credited to some genius unknown from pinterest))
No words. It feels like your words are heaven-sent
How funny of us to forget we only experience the great push into the world only once. I am sitting here shaking my head, 4 months pregnant knowing this is epic practice. <3