I am no Monk

Taking life a little less seriously & a little more joyfully

There are far too many pleasures gifted to us Earth-side to never indulge; I am no monk, born to a mountain top temple, swaddled in orange.

So I will enjoy.

In decadent tastes & rich colours

Heart thumping notes & belly laughs

Deep conversation & shallow nonsense

Shapeshifting as often as I please

I do not strive, for some lotus posed enlightenment elevating me above my fellow man.

But I do, instead, find peace in daily micro-dosed enlightenments, that elevates my growth & service to Brothers & Sisters

The balance of hedonism & responsibility is my Goddess given right.

So I shall indulge

And enjoy

And embrace

The sensual pleasures of this land below my feet

🍓✨

.

.

📸: Alexander James Slobodian

To My Motherless Sisters

To my motherless Sisters

Taken by the cycle of Life

Or the cycle of Trauma

With a broken connection

To the maternal lines in our families

To my Sisters

Trying to do the heavy work

One sided

Who will never have the chance

To unpack in material ceremony

To say I’m sorry & fuck you

To my motherless Sisters

Who had to walk down the path of Womanhood

Alone

Who have watched their Sisters

Grow & Blossom in their Matriarchal relationships

In silent agony, supportive curiosity & painful envy

In knowing we will never be able to ask the questions

Burning holes in our Hearts

In knowing we will never have the chance to offer answers from our matured Conscious

In that knowing, there is acceptance Acceptance that we will never know what could have been mended

In what could have been

To my motherless Sisters

Who must carry open wounds that will never be closed

I love you

And may we love each other

✨🌸✨

9 Years

I almost forgot what day it was. It wasn't on my mind at all this week in fact. No plans of alter making, or wine drinking. No heavy thoughts or saddened faces.

The last couple of weeks has felt overwhelming (more than usual) though not for bad reasons, entirely. Perhaps that is why I had "forgotten". Perhaps it's because as each year passes, the heaviness becomes lighter and easier to bare.

Perhaps it simply does not need to be analyzed.

I can speak to my physical presence this week however, and how my body may have been remembering of the time.

Fatigued, ungrounded, heavy, unmotivated. Muscle memory is something spectacular and magickal, isn't it? Our bodies are such a marvelous companion on this Earth plane.

At the ripe age of 18 (-2 weeks), my world was forever changed, deconstructed, and reinvented.

9 years ago, I sat at work, sipping on a coffee well past the end of my shift. I shouldn't have been there that long, and was confused as to why I hadn't been picked up by my parents yet.

There's a knowing that comes with sudden and premature passing of important soul connections in our lives. You need the words for confirmation, to bring it to reality, but you already know.

9 years ago my mother and step father crossed over. It was sudden and painless, and I am grateful for that. They were mountain freaks and were on their way out of town for their regular weekend hiking adventures, and I am grateful for that.

9 years ago, the chance to heal a mother-daughter relationship was taken from me. But the path to heal myself was given to me.

9 years ago, the chance to build a stronger and forgiving relationship with my step-father was taken from me. But the sight of reflection and independence was given to me.

These 9 years have been filled with wildly intense highs and dark and disturbing lows. There have been amazingly delicious moments of Nirvana and epiphany. There have been seemingly unending and spiraling moments of deep shadow work.

I realize that it can be triggering and not everyone can handle the idea that things happen for a reason; that things happen FOR us and not TO us. And I must admit that it has taken many, many years for myself to reach this philosophy in my story.

But it is my truth.

I can see how this intense, and tragic loss catapulted me through my spiritual awakening. I see and know, deep within me, that without this event I may never have gotten on the path of self-growth, self-love and inner reflection.

My identity may still be lost in the crowd, and I may never have found my true self again. For my idea of living at the time was unsustainable.

I can clearly see the Shamanic energies at play during those first few years of loss.

Like an arrow from the Shamans bow, I was thrust through tragedy, addiction, death and rebirth and an alarming, nearly deathly, speed. Like some kind of crash course, I was given no choice but to go through the spiritual journey at light speed, and any resistance on my part only delayed it for minimal amounts.

I needed to be lost in order to be found.

I needed to be blind in order to see.

I needed to be poor in order to receive the riches of life.

Today I reflect and celebrate. I remember and give thanks. I receive love openly and ask how else I can heal.

Today is not a sad day, but it can be somber. But it is often filled with laughter and companionship. Sometimes tears, but mostly joyous celebration of the wondrous cycle of life and nature.

Today I am not abandoned or alone. I am not orphaned or isolated. Today I am embraced by my protectors, my guides, my angels.

Today I do not give anger for what was done TO me, but instead give thanks for what was done FOR me.

Sometimes The Fastest Message, Is The One Sent To The Past

“She held herself until the sobs of the child inside subsided entirely. I love you, she told herself. It will all be okay.” 
― H. Raven Rose, Shadow Selves: Double Happiness

Inner child work is one of the hardest, yet most important, forms of healing a person can do. Everyone has to work on this space. No one’s immune to it, so don’t even try to tell me you are.

Myself being no exception.

I have been working diligently on getting to know to my inner mini-me for a long time. And if I’m going to be honest, for the most part it was pretty fun!

Onesies, stuffed animals, cartoons, ice cream, and sleep overs were all my prescriptions. Through out my meditations and inner journeys, I would always find little Kya playing in her sacred space. Surrounded by everything she loved most: Beauty and the Beast, crystals and rocks, stuffed animals too many to count, and a large, inviting mud puddle center-piecing the open space amongst the gold lit trees.

She ran, played, and giggled, all while her white blond hair danced in it’s pony tail and cut across her brow like a perfect little china doll.

There were some tough moments though. Sometimes I would hold her and cry. I would tell her she was loved, she was safe. Our hearts would connect and she would take what she needed; strength, support, protection, and unconditional love. I could never hold her long before she would grow bored and release from my bosom to prance gleefully back to her treasures.

“Play! Remember to play!!”

The message was always the same for grown-up me. Remember to play. You’ve grown up so fast, remember to play. So, I did. At least, I try.

It didn’t take very long before I felt comfortable in that time line again. Child Kya was healed, at least mostly. I’m not so arrogant to say that more wounds may rear their ugly face’s in the future, but she was healed enough to let me go and allow me to move on to the next time line.

“Oh shit.”

Going from the small, bright eyed and innocent wild child to a tormented, undervalued and misunderstood adolescent, wasn’t something I had prepared myself nearly enough for. The hurt, pain, and trauma in that decade was more profound than I allowed myself to admit.

Now here I stood, looking unwavering into her eyes, her hurt. My vision tunnelled deep into her eyes, where behind the sparkling browns and greens I could see the darkness in full form. There lay a creature, that I can only describe as similar to Venom. Writhing, screaming, and bleeding, I could see nothing more but this torturous creature. It was pure darkness, pure pain, blocking out all and any light from entering or leaving. Its body dripped and bled like thick poisonous oil, splashing onto and overthrowing itself only to re-emerge, over and over again. Stuck in an endless loop, it wanted to escape. It could not bare to remain still in it’s prison but it had no means of escape. I looked upon this creature’s grotesque being and I cried. I cried for this creature who would never understand light. I cried for teenage Kya, for the memory of her pain was still held strength. But mostly, I cried for myself, for these were parts of my being and dwelled within my own self, not without.

I held her face in my hands and pulled her towards me. My lips caressed her eye as our two beings met. Through a gentle kiss, I found myself sucking that darkness out. That creature forever trapped, writhing in agony, came swiftly out and entered my lungs.

Kya’s vision needed to be cleared, needed to be cleaned. Healing light needed passage into her body, and I was only one who could clear that path. I breathed deeply in, removing all the darkness I could possibly hold. I breathed deep, until my lungs filled, until I couldn’t possibly fit anymore.

Our embrace broke, my lips left her eyes and my hands left her face. A dark, billowing cloud of dense smoke passed through my lips as my lungs exploded from the weight. The creature shrieked as it was finally gifted it’s release. As the smoke dissipated into the air, I looked back to Kya to find her with a hint of a smile. There was gratitude in her eyes, and love in her heart.

She was not healed. Her pain had not been eased, her trauma barely addressed.

But a path for the light had been constructed. A clearer path for love, vision, and message was ready and waiting.

Kya walked towards me, and our two timelines met. Our energy bodies met and became one once again.

And quietly, ever so softly, I sent the first message down her timeline:

“I forgive you. I love you. You did the best you could with the tools you had. You are loved. You are forgiven.”

And I heard a quiet sigh of relief from somewhere within.

Sifting Through The Gray Matter

Art Journal Entry #2

September 9th, 2016

When you hear “gray matter” what comes to mind? Is it some kind of unknown element floating through space waiting for it’s potential to be unlocked? Is it the soft goo that fills our brains allowing consciousness and thought to be possible? Or is it a dark mass of never ending shades of grey, like a thick fog impossible to navigate through?

To me it’s all of these things, only it’s not impossible to navigate through. But trying to barrel your way through the smog simply isn’t going to work. Sure, you may get to the other side, but you have merely parted the fog and not cleared any of it away.

In the process of healing and self-excavating, it is far too easy and common to become overwhelmed. Trying to take on your biggest demon before fighting through the smaller, weaker ones is a sure way to defeat. You wouldn’t attempt Mt. Everest as your first hike, would you?

So how does one get through all this gray matter? How do detoxify the fog to reveal the sparkly, magickal mist that awaits beneath it?

You could shovel through, though back breaking work, it would prove quick. But how much left the cradling of the spade before it was truly polished?

What about a big, strong fan? Little effort will be required, and the fog will leave quickly. But no dissecting has occurred, and the grey will merely return on a passing wind.

I purpose a more delicate, conscious approach to dealing with the grey matter: sifting. It will be a long process, and your shoulders may begin to ache from the weight of it all, but it will be worth it.

Allow only small amounts of gray matter to pass through first, taking on only as much as you can handle at the start. As time goes on and you feel stronger, maybe you’ll want to upgrade to a larger mesh, allowing more to fall through at a quicker pace. Maybe slow and steady will fit you well.

Sift. Sift. Sift.

Allow what no longer serves you to fall through; it does not need to stay and requires none of your precious attention. Examine what’s left in your basket. Is there a shiny gold nugget waiting for you? Or maybe a dense chunk of charcoal waiting to be pressed into a diamond? Is there a crying child desperate for love? Or maybe a broken compass needing some mending?

Here’s the thing about gray matter: there’s a lot of it, oh boy is there! But most of it is fluff, camouflaging layers to distract and hide you from the core of the matter. Practicing mindfulness while sifting through your personal grey matter will make a world of difference. Look at your thoughts, anxieties, and insecurities and ask them, “Are you real? Is this really what I’m so upset about? Or are you just keeping my attention from authentic emotion?”.

But that doesn’t make all grey matter bad, on the contrary! Like the unknown element waiting to be discovered, grey matter has a great deal of potential just waiting for you to unlock it! It’s dirty, dark work, but sifting through your own grey matter will bring you to a place of happiness, peace, of full-being and living!! The more grey matter that gets worked through, the more escalated platforms you will hit, and wow will it feel good!!

Prescribed side effects of sifting through grey matter includes, but not exclusive to: self-love, fulfillment, stepping into your bigness, understanding yourself at a deeper level, happiness, and owning your authentic persona.

So if grey matter is out in the ethereal, than it stands to reason that it’s also in us. We are made of stars after all. You wouldn’t be the conscious life form you are now without it. Grey matter allows us to perceive deep thoughts and realizations. It fuels mindfulness, creativity, and growth. So though it may be dim and nasty place within us, don’t discredit it for the good it can do for us if we allow it.

Sift. Sift. Sift.

Take it slow. Take your time. Be easy on yourself, and always do it with love (to yourself especially!) We can’t all be Buddha, and our own personal enlightenment with trickle in at it’s own pace, like a waterfall made fr carved from a single consistent drip.

Trying to hurry our healing will only lead to deeper problems, more wounds, and exhaustion in all forms: physical, emotional, mental, and spiritual.

Sift, sift, sift. Churn, churn, churn. Love, love, love. Release, release, 

Healing, In All It's Dirty, Messy Glory

I knew what I was signing up for; at least I thought I did. I couldn’t imagine the difficulty and darkness to come when I decided to start healing my spirit. Like a wide eyed child seeing Disneyland for the first time, I eagerly stepped onto that path. It was enticing, sparkly, sexy even.

“I could be one of those people!”, I thought. “Someone with their shit together. Someone who has come to a deeper understanding of themselves, a deeper peace. Someone who has done their work and come out alive, and more whole than before. Someone with a profound connection to self and the higher.”

Not that I was entirely wrong. I knew that there would be work. Dirty, dark, gross work. What I wasn’t prepared for was how deep the journey would take me. How it would scrub the dusty layers of my soul till it was raw.

I hadn’t anticipated my emotional strength was about to be torn ligament by ligament, the muscle was being retrained for acceptance rather than endurance.

So many people still choose to walk blindly till their death, never getting acquainted with their higher self, their better being. And then there’s those of us who choose to walk that precarious edge between insanity and enlightenment. Diligently striving for the light that calls to each of us at the end of our path.

“Let yourself heal! Let yourself love! Forgive! Let go! Let your best self be rebirthed!”, it screams. It’s a soft, quiet scream that can only be heard by those willing to listen.

Healing is messy. It’s dirty and hard and confronting. But it seems more and more souls are stepping out to the front lines ready to fight. More and more memes and articles are appearing on my feeds, as I’m sure they are on yours as well. It gives me hope for humanity, but more importantly myself.

We may be alone in our journeys, but we are together on the same path. The path to emotional well being, self acceptance, forgiveness, clarity, balance, and enlightenment.

But is it all just one big ugly mess? An unattractive mash up emotions and dirty little secrets? I believe there is a great deal of beauty in healing. The word itself exhumes power and strength.

Skin as it seals itself and regrows, showing the resilience of the human body.

A tree, overcoming it’s pasts wounds to merely become a stronger and more unique presence in the forest.

The plant prying itself off the ground after being trampled refusing to every stop reaching for the sun.

Imagery with so much power and beauty, with even stronger metaphorical messages.

But this path isn’t for the faint of heart, and I’ve certainly learned that from first hand experience. The path to healing is hard and long. So long in fact, it will simply never be done. There is no finish line, only stops along way where you might find a cup of tea to rest your soul or a bed to reenergize or a fork in the road. Through out our lives we will never stop having new experiences. We will never stop growing or evolving as souls, and there fore there will always be opportunity for healing.

Like an onion, I have slowly been peeling back the layer. Taking time to thoroughly inspect and digest each one. Some consciously and others unwillingly. Some layers are sweet and sugary. Some are sour and a tad bit gritty.  While others are so strong and pungent, they will no doubt make you cry.

And I seem to have come across the latter layer. It isn’t pretty. It isn’t fun. It isn’t even overly interesting.

But there is a certain beauty in the darkness. You can’t truly appreciate the majesty of the stars or the magick of the moon without the darkness. Like a candle in the blackness, the self awareness brings warmth and comfort. Being able to stand in the darkness and say, “I see you. I know where you come from, and I embrace you”, removes some of the cold staleness that space brings.

Being flung back into processing of grief ISN’T sexy. But it is prosperous. Through it all, I have gained the ability of introspection. I have seen the fruits of my labour which only pushes me onward. There will be scary days, lonely days; and that, simply, is something everyone can relate to. But I will not turn and go backwards. I for one, intend on staying strong and steady on this tightrope, for I know it’s only an exercise of balance.

Self Acceptance & A New Perspective

I'm gonna let you in on a little secret...
I struggle with body positivity and body love every single day. I have for as long as I can remember. This may not be obvious, as I still choose whatever looks I like regardless of what "body type" they're for. I say its a secret, only because the clothes that I wear, the pictures I post, and the confidence I hold my walk in say otherwise.
~
I was always the chunky kid, the thick girl. I never looked like the "pretty girls" with their dancers body, smooth skin, and petite stature. Though rare, the word "fat" was thrown my way a few times. 
But I was lucky in my raising. Raised by a strong and powerful lioness, I was able to disconnect from the bullying in my early years; I knew it was a reflection of them and not me. 
By the time I hit middle school, much of the bullying had ceased as they saw they couldn't break through my confidence and instead accepted who I was. 
But still, I never looked "attractive", or what we're programmed to believe what that word means. Though I remained confident in my identity and self acceptance, the confidence in my looks and body remained null. 
My twenties brought on a new health journey. I taught myself to cook, fell in love with crossfit and weight training, and realized the full potential my beautiful, strong, and thick body had. 
But as of late, that love of my body has waned, incredibly. My emotional eating and drained energy has come back full fold, and this once strong, and powerful body has become soft and insulated. 
However, this time around there is a twist. This time, I am no longer thinking of what others see; only what I feel. This time, I'm still confident in the clothes I choose, the swim suits I wear. This time, I realize I just want my body back to health, back to the feeling and not so much what the mirror reflects back at me. This time, I know I'm a beautiful being, a miraculous engine so complex in keeping here day after day. 
This time, I'm sad for my body, and not because I don't compare to those in magazines.; because it's a beautiful carrying case for my soul that deserves my adoration.
It's a big difference, an intense realization. But it's a healthy one 💖
Really what I'm saying is, don't hold worth to the mirror. Love your body for what it is, but take care of it the way it takes care of you. Beauty is inside and not out, and the more you radiate that inner light and shine brightly, the more the world will take notice 🌟

Shares welcome if you know someone in need 🙏

Healing Hands

"Healing Hands" 
•••Spray paint and acrylic on canvas. Infused with powdered selenite and Divine energies 💖🙏

~We all have the inherent ability of healing in our own hands. It's simply a question of if you choose to exercise these gifts ~

The studio was in need of an INTENSE cleansing. There was old, residual energy hanging around. It wasn't negative, but it wasn't mine. 

I brought home a large smudge stick, typically meant for outdoor use. A foot+ long, intended to smoke and smolder and last a great deal of time. 

I turned up the throat singing as loud as I could; it's my favourite soundtrack to just about ANYTHING. Sitting in the middle of the floor, I grounded myself and brought my conscious to the space it needed to be in. I slowly made my way around the studio, clockwise, paying special attention to corners, hidden spaces, and even MORE attention to the space behind the chimney. Something inside told me that that was where it was residing, this residual and strange energy. I placed black tourmaline in the four corners. I had infused powdered amethyst and selenite in the wall paint, and had forgotten about balancing with grounding energies. 

My body, mind, and spirit was in such a pure, grounded, and evolved state, painting only seemed natural. 

I set down a blank canvas, and closed my eyes. I promised my canvas that the first image to come to my head would be my gift. 

$175

Stepping Into Shamanism

I’m sitting creek side, out of service and deep down into Perry Creek. Stevie Nicks is playing behind me in the truck. Blankets, crystals, and a thoughtfully packed picnic basket sit beside me. The dogs roam freely, running, frolicking, and swimming with care free spirits of the wild.

My laptop feels heavy on my thighs as I try to find the words to write. There’s so much to process. Let alone the past few months, these past couple of weeks have been intense, thought provoking, eye opening, and facilitating. Moving out of my first shop space proved to be far more of a transition than I had anticipated. The universe took the “in” that it saw and promptly shoved me deep into the throws of self awareness and forced healing. I’ve never been extremely talented when it comes to listening to the universe, so it knew in order to make me stop and listen it had to be loud. It had to be such that I could no longer ignore it. It manifested in a prolonged license acquisition and my body giving up on me. Being forced to sit with myself and allow my body to heal made me face the questions I had been putting off exploring.

Where am I going? What do I need? What is it I need, want?

These questions had been going through my sub-conscience for a long time, but I was not allowing myself the time to process and search for the answers and possibilities. I had let my spiritual practice fall to the wayside, I had allowed the time for self care and inner healing to take a back seat. Not only was this detrimental to my mental and emotional health, but it had become an enemy of my physical health.

I was then offered an opportunity to play a part in the beginning of an extraordinary journey. My good friends, mentors, and soul family were taking their first steps to bring their healing to a wider audience and were needing bodies to help create some promotional footage. This was planned in the form of a shamanic ceremony at their favourite sacred space; a beautiful and isolated beach at one of the biggest lakes in our area.

I knew the ceremony wasn’t to be staged and would be full of heart and releasing. What I didn’t realise was how everything I have been going through was leading to this. Leading to the path that would start to bring me answers, that would resonate so deeply to know that if I follow the neon signs so blatantly set in front of me, peace would find me.

Angie and Morgan asked us to come close before we started our ceremony. In her gentle hands she held bits of cloth, rich in emerald green, and wound with twine. They thanked us for being present and allowing them to take us on their journey with them.

“This is you, fully stepping into your apprentice roles. And we are gifting you with your first Shamanic healing tool”

As we unwrapped our simply, but beautifully wrapped gifts, one large feather revealed itself in our hands. Coloured ribbon twisted around the stem. An Eagle feather. As if to say, “I see you. I got you”, a bald eagle soared above allowing us to soak in its medicine.

To say I was surprised, shocked even, would fall short of the words needed. We had been there for them, or so we thought. When really, whether they had realised it or not, they were there for us. But they always have been. Since meeting this power duo just short of a year ago, there was never an instance I felt they had their own intentions. Never once had I felt I could not tell them or trust them with anything. Never once have I spent a moment with them without learning something new, a new tool, or a broader perception.

I have been contemplating my role in this world for a long time. The tools I wish to bring in to it, the different directions I want to go in. The mediums in which I wish to express myself, and how to bring that into my daily work. There’s still so many questions and possibilities yet to explore, to answer. But now I feel I have the path to bring that enlightenment to my higher self.

Am I to become a Shaman? Will I choose to use that label? Am I to become the healer I have been shown I can be, that I am?

I don’t know the answers to these questions, nor do I think I wish to know. What I do know, is that I want, NEED, to follow this path. To follow this journey that has been laid out for me time and time again. To head the call of the universe that has been crying out to me for decades.

This is me, stepping into the shoes that have been waiting for me, that have been molded for me. The shoes that have been patiently holding on for me for lifetimes. They may be uncomfortable at first, they may cause blistering. There will be a period of time that I will need to break them in. But once I do, I can climb mountains.

Stepping into Shamanism.  

***Please take a moment to watch the video this experience led to. This video will be going out to 4 different producers across North America next week. We want as many views, likes and comments as possible within that time.

Twin Flame Holistic Therapy: "Welcome to "Shamanic Journey: A quest for Spiritual Enlightenment"
We have been busy over the last 2 weeks collaborating and creating this video with the intention of healing the community on a bigger platform. Please Like, comment and share our video and help spread the word <3"

Find their Facebook page here: https://www.facebook.com/search/top/?q=twin%20flame%20holistic%20therapy

This Old Dresser

This old dresser. It’s seen a lot, man. It’s had a more exciting life than most dressers, I believe.

I’ve had this dresser for longer than I can remember. My first memory of it was when I lived on the first floor of an old house, in an old neighbourhood growing up in Calgary. We had a large enclosed porch at this house, with large windows viewing the tall hedge fence that bordered our house from the sidewalk, and that’s where this old dresser resided for many years.

My mother was highly involved with the theater at the time, and she was always bringing home left over costumes and props. Remember Mr. Dressup and his tickle trunk? Well this old dresser was our tickle trunk. Rather, it rested beside many others that created our tickle porch. Anyone who knew my mother knew she was somewhat of a hoarder. Never garbage, or newspapers, or cats, but she hoarded antiques, artifacts, jewelry, and all sorts of other useless but other wise intriguing items. I never realized how big this house we lived in actually was until a moved out many years later.

This tickle-porch was no exception. It was packed to brim with jeweled hats from the 1930’s, Munchkin costumes, foam swords and axes, retro jackets, and fairy wings. There was enough room to walk straight down the middle and the passage between the two front doors. It was heaven for any and all children who lived the play dress up. It would be impossible to even contemplate the amount of hours I spent in this porch, changing my identity as often as I wanted, venturing into new and unknown worlds, and tearing through the neighbourhood behind my masks.

Eventually this old dresser was moved into my room. Whether it was before or after we cleansed ourselves of this miraculous collection, I can’t recall. I have to admit, I take after my mother and am a hoarder in my own rights. And as a child, I hoarded stuffed animals. They were always my toy of choice, and I had more than kid I’ve ever known. My small room was overflowing. On my bed, in my closet, on the floor, any space before the walls, and this old dresser. The top, sides, and shelves were crammed as tight as it could go with all my small, fury friends.

Fast forward many years. We’ve moved to BC with my new step-father and into a much larger home. My parents moved into the basement, and this old dresser followed them. As far as hereditary hoarding goes, clothes was always something my mother and I had in common, and this old dresser was once again stuffed to its breaking point with my moms eccentric clothing that embarrassed me so as a hormonally imbalanced teenager.

After my parents left this world, it was put in storage for a few years as I attempted to find myself. Again, a few years later it comes back into my life. I’ve realized a passion in tattooing, and I utilized it in my home studio for the short time before I opened my own shop.

Now my fiancé and I have moved once again, hopefully into our forever home. On our beautiful, off-grid homestead that came with my very own art studio, this old dresser is once again being given new life. But through it’s whole ordeal under my possession, it’s never been retouched or manicured. It has been sturdy, and durable, and you can tell it came from a time when craftsmanship was done for the long haul. I started the brushstrokes of white, imagining the end result. It was going to look so different, match so well. I saw how it would be brought back to life and washed of the whole. And I felt a twinge or sadness mixed with nostalgia. I contemplated its journey with me, and how it’s been such a constant. I mourned my gone child hood, days of care free playfulness and the ability to change my skin as a chameleon. I grieved the relationship with my parents I would never have. I reveled in the fond memories, and knew this old dresser would always be my friendly yet subtle reminder of all the sparkle that soaked my past.

Now this new dresser will house my paints. This new dresser will withstand jars stuffed with hoarded brushes, sponges, and scrapers. This new dresser will safe-keep spray stencils, spray painted lids, and aerosol cans.

This new dresser isn’t finished its story yet. 

The Blurred Photograph

A blurred and unfocused photograph, caught off guard and off-center. Often found in your camera reel, unsure of where or when it happened. 
Like these common photos, my mind has been in a fog. There has been far too much going on and also not enough. 
It's been almost a month since I've been at work, and I have never been so busy. Those first few weeks, I'm not sure how I even did it. 
Early mornings, late nights, and multiple projects. Shop move, name change, renos. 
Then it all stopped. Well, it didn't really, but I did. My mind, body, and soul had reached its breaking point, and it sure as hell was going to tell me. My body cried out in pain anguish, screaming at me, "Rest!Rest! It's time for rest.".
Self care has been more than absent in my life for months now, and I don't believe this has all been a result of only recent events. 
Sitting around the fire last night, I was blessed with good company. We contemplated the stars, the Solstice, and our lives as one does when sitting at a fire. I was asked, "What's it like not working?". I knew the answer they were wanting to hear was, "Amazing! Relaxing, I do whatever I please, whenever I please!"
But the only word that came to mind was exhausting. 
I'm exhausted, plain and simple. And like the blurry photograph, I'm trying to put the pieces together, and figure out the story. 
Right now, I KNOW I will be exhausted for a great deal of time to come. My body needs to be. 
Right now, I KNOW I will need an absurd amount of time to rest. My spirit needs it. 
Right now, I KNOW that I need to get reacquainted with myself. My mind needs it. 
But right now, I know I do not live in a society that allows this. Right now I know that we are told we MUST work. We must put the majority of our waking hours to go to jobs we'd rather not, to pay bills we shouldn't have to. 
To live in a society un-awakened to what human nature is really about, is crushing. 
To know what your mind, body, and spirit NEEDS to survive, to see the fellow beings around you silently crying out for the same things, but to know we won't be allowed these freedoms. 
We adorn our homes, our vehicles, our phones with sayings of, "Live! Laugh! Love", in ironic stances against realty. 
I love my job. I am one of the few lucky ones to be able to do something I'm passionate about for a living. But that's just it, I HAVE to do it for a living. And right now, I don't have the stamina, the energy, or the mindfulness to go back. 
But I will have to. I will give myself some more time, give my body time to heal.
And I can hope that in that short time I will find what it is that I need. What it is my spirit needs to become alive once again.

To remember how it feels to LIVE 💖💖💖

I Am A Warrior

Today, I am a warrior.

Unapologetically and unabashedly.

I choose to emulate the fire that resides in us all; for myself, for you.

I choose to walk through life authentically, to allow what I quiet within myself to yell freely and loudly.

Today, I am a warrior.

To absurdly and outwardly scream, "Look at me and all that I am"

I choose to put aside insecurities and shame.

To face life and opposing turbulence as my equal.

Today, I am a warrior.

I choose to balance my energies, allowing the Masculine Divine to step forth and roar with all its power and might.

Today, I am a warrior.

I choose to acknowledge all that I am, have been, and will be.

I choose to acknowledge all that I have learned, am learning, and will learn, in all my lives.

Today, I will not apologize for my wild heart.

When fate whispers, "You can not withstand the storm" I will stand up and say, "I am the storm".

Sky above me.

Earth below me.

Fire within me.

If only for today, I am a warrior.

Blessed Is The Artist

Blessed is the artist.

For those who choose creative living,

Shall forever display for the world the scars of their passions.

To live life,

Bearing your soul on your sleeve,

Your hands, and in your hair,

Is to live a blessed life.

Blessed is the creator.

For those who choose to create,

Shall forever bring forth beauty to the world.

To give birth to new ideas,

To creativity, vitality;

To work collaboratively with inspiration,

Is to birth a gift.

Blessed is the writer.

For those who to choose to write,

Shall forever evolve the art of language.

To write of life,

Raising vibration through information,

Challenging old thought forms, and indulging,

Is to write your truth.

Blessed is the musician.

For those to choose to make music,

Shall forever strum the heart strings of the masses.

To translate sound,

To signal our vitals through frequency,

To evoke emotions, conversation, and distraction,

Is to speak for the mute.

Sacred are the art forms.

For those who choose to

Allow art to encapsulate their heart,

To swallow their being, and drown their mind;

For those who choose to

Put their vulnerability on public display,

Who dare to create, if only for their private pleasure;

For those who choose to

Challenge belief systems,

And bring to life private thoughts,

Will change the world.

Faeries Are Calling

I’ve felt a stir. A pulse, a feeling. Starting in my stomach, it radiated outwards, consuming everything I saw and the world around me. Changing the trees, the snow on the ground, the wood in the yard, the smoke from the chimney. I was in a different place now, a different world. It looked the same, my home, but it wasn’t at all the same. And as quickly as it came, that new magical filter left, leaving me back on my acreage, with roads, and people, and cars. Grounded.

It was a normal Sunday, nothing special about it. Gray and chilled, but warmer for a dull January day. We were running out of fire wood at the house, so the day’s chore was hauling wood from the shed. We’d fill the bed of the truck as full as it could go, drive it the whole 20 feet to the house and unload and stack. Nothing too exciting going on. Our mugs of coffee keeping our belly’s warm and our energy moving, we’d talk of our plans and dreams for our home while roughly throwing log by log into the back of his truck.

He lit the fire pit, never really sure when someone might show up and want to warm their bones. I continued on with the wood as I was eager to get it over with and on with my day, onto more “exciting” chores. The music had been playing in the truck, but had shut itself off to save its battery. He wandered into the house for something, I can’t remember, and left me outside in the quiet. There was no sound. I stopped for a moment, taking in the stillness. There were no passing cars, no music, no generator with it’s relentless humming. Just the sound of the breeze as it gently nudged and caressed the tall pines surrounding me.

That’s when I felt it. I can’t honestly tell you if I felt, or saw it first. A change. Everything was suddenly different. And yet it wasn’t. Deep down in my stomach a feeling best described of wonder and overwhelming awe grew and grew. Grew till it filled every fiber of my body. Till it filled my eyes with a new way to observe this place. I was home, that was for certain. But it was different. I’ve searched the phrases and words engrained in my mind to best describe what I saw, only to come up short. It was as if I was suddenly transported to another dimension, one that looks exactly like this one, but with a feeling of magic in the air, dripping from every surface. It was as if I had watched the world in front of me take on a new filter, where anything was possible, where there was so much to discover and observe; where the things of fairy tales weren’t restricted to the pages between the bindings. Another dimension. The physical and observable pure feeling of a child’s awe and wonder. These are the only words that seem to come close to the experience.

It was only a matter of a few seconds, this whole experience. As quickly as it had happened, everything around me and in me went back to normal. I felt confused at first. What was that? What had happened? What’s wrong with me?

Soon after, he came back outside and we went back to fire wood duty. Keeping my body busy allowed my mind to work and the gears to turn. I realized it wasn’t the first time I had felt this. In fact, I was sure I had felt this only a couple times in the past few months since moving out to the woods. But there was more to it, it went deeper. My mind started backwards. Going further, and further back in my story to recall when I had experienced this before. Finally, it came to rest at a very young Kya. A young girl, walking in the forest with her mother. Walking through provincial parks, large forests, and any nature they could find. Far enough away from roads to hush the sounds of civilization. We loved to walk. We would walk for hours, looping the trails in parks, making our own trails in the forests. It was our favourite weekend activity. And as a child, it was magical. I would find large, beautifully old trees, gnarled stumps, and natural arch ways. And I played with my faeries.

I played with the faeries and gnomes, the trolls and elves. I found the hidden entrances to their worlds and homes. I found this stick and that rock, and they were important! I would build altars for them, offering acorns, twigs, rocks, and branches. Faeries were so important to me back then. They had a tangible and indisputable existence. There was proof all around me: the beauty in that moss covered tree, the stillness of his pond, the sound of their wings. It was all the proof I needed at that time

The feeling consumed me back then. Not for seconds, or even minutes. As soon as I found myself in the stillness of nature, it would take over and wouldn’t leave me until we left it. Hours. I could easily come and go from this dimension at will, it wasn’t work. Somewhere along the way I lost my connection to that world. I forgot about my nature spirit friends and didn’t give them one thought. That is, until recently.

It’s not going to come to me easily now. I’m going to have to work at it, I know this. I’ve been disconnected for so long. But they’re calling to me. They’re calling me back, telling me I’m ready to see this world once again. To feel the magic and wonder, the pure and unsullied acceptance and understanding of a child. A friend of mine, a more awakened soul than I, told me that this is spirit reconnecting with me. I do not know that for certain, but there is something I do know. I know what I must do.

I’m going to play with my faeries.