Asking for Help

This is a radical experiment for me, but I have to try it and see.

I have a big, beautiful dream of creating a nature-based healing center.

The first part I will make is the children’s garden.

I see all the details in vibrant color, and have been growing this vision in my mind for over ten years.

I want to give physical form to my ideas to share them with the world and offer healing space for all, however I am in need of the finances to afford land, labor and all that is required to build and sustain it.

I need your help, and I am grateful for any generosity you demonstrate.

I thank you with all my heart and soul for your help.

My House

My mind is a spirit palace, vast enough to hold the universe, yet my favorite part is the cosy cottage at the core.

My reptile brain is the boiler room, keeping the basic functions running. It is easy to take that part for granted unless it stops working.

On the first floor, my mammalian brain is either chewing on the bone of what has been done and needs doing, or feeling experiences in a pool of emotions. This is where I make the most messes.

On the second floor, I dance between visions and logic. This is the floor where I get things done.

My house becomes a home when I make it welcoming with kind thoughts and mindful upkeep.

While I invite countless guests into my home, I am the only one who can ever really live here, and even I am just passing through.

May I feel comfortable and at ease in my home.

All it is.

To me, meditation is simply bringing my awareness back to the present moment.

I do it amidst my perpetual state of tension and panic, as I bite my tongue and hold my breath. Of course, mindfulness helps me remember to unclench my jaw and breathe.

I meditate while chopping vegetables, folding laundry, sweeping the floor, and washing the nearly ever-present dishes.

I practice while driving, working, and raising my child.

I do it alone, and with other people.

I meditate indoors, and in nature.

I especially appreciate returning to the present after getting all worked up, like after arguing with my partner.

Though my mind frequently zips between the past and the future, now is the time I like the best because I get to experience my senses and enjoy a reprieve from regret and worry, however fleeting.

To me, enlightenment is simply remembering that we are all fruit of the same tree.

Like meditation, enlightenment is more easily returned to with practice.

The way I see it, our spirits are like drops of water that seem temporarily separated from the ocean because they are encased in the oil of our bodies.

When I remember that I am the ocean and not just an isolated drop, I feel a deep sense of belonging, support, and peace.

That’s all it is.

Trophy Room

I take a hard look at my trophy room and realize that I no longer prize my collection of awful experiences.

At last I’ve caught on that there is no one waiting in the wings to hand me a bouquet of flowers after I unabashedly devour all that is placed in front of me at the shit-pie eating contest.

There are no judges to tally up the traumatic memories I’ve hoarded and guarded like coins I refuse to spend as I neglect my most basic needs.

There is no shiny statue to congratulate me on being the most sleep deprived, the most self-sacrificing.

There are no blue ribbons for a lifetime of forcing myself to do what I thought others wanted me to do, no matter how self-harmful.

I will receive no silver platter for washing the most dishes or cleaning up messes I didn’t make.

There is no certificate for achieving the deepest depression, no medallion for enduring the highest anxiety.

I will not be given a gold tooth for grinding my own teeth away.

May I stop trying so hard to amass awards for my masochistic actions.

There is no audience, and no applause.

May I enjoy the freedom afforded by this sacred silence instead.

Clearing the clutter from the shelves of my trophy room, I make space for my hopes, dreams, and infinite possibilities, for vibrant, nurturing treasures, for fresh, lush, and colorful growth, and abundant, joyful expression.


‘I don’t want to burden you’, he said, ‘with the stuff I’ve gone through and the thoughts in my head.’

The way I see it, there are 3 possible outcomes from sharing our struggles:

  1. I could feel better about my woeful situation if yours seems even less desirable in comparison. A reminder that someone has it worse than me could shine the light of gratitude on my dark and dusty corners. In turn, you might feel relieved by speaking your truth and being heard by me.
  2. I could relate to your current difficulties and find comfort in knowing that I am not the only one suffering a similar situation. We could lean on and learn from each other, bond through our pain, and thus help each other feel better through camaraderie.
  3. I could potentially provide invaluable insights to you if I’ve survived experiences akin to what you’re going through, which would help me feel better because I’d find new meaning in the shit life has dumped on me. I want to stop trying to perfectly arrange the flies on my manure pile and start fertilizing my garden instead. However difficult it is to talk about what we have endured, we will both likely benefit from sharing our shit, as we both love to garden.


Beginning in early childhood, I dove into the concept of ‘love thy neighbor’ without pausing to consider the ‘as thyself’ part.

Oh man, have I been cruel to myself.

The aftershocks of my self-inflicted Earthquakes are off the Richter scale, as illustrated by my harried nervous system and visibly exhausted body.

For most of my life, I’ve treated others the way I wanted to be treated without stopping to see how I was treating myself, or letting myself be treated by others.

Embodying a doormat, I didn’t realize that I had anything to do with the avalanche of abuses I endured.

Who ordered this truckload of dung, indeed.

Now I understand that I am worthy of healthy love, and I am my sole source of self-love.

Being both self-taught and a late bloomer, this will require careful cultivation and consistent effort.

At least effort and I are old friends.

Though it feels unnatural and shameful to allot resources to myself, I must begin, and begin again.

I feel remorseful when I think of the kindness I denied myself while simultaneously over-giving to others, lighting myself on fire so that they might be warm.

I feel hopeful now that I am starting to practice self-kindness. Simply thinking about loving myself is a huge step on my healing path.

I know that the treasure I seek lies in the cave I fear to enter.

Removing toxic relationships might lighten my load, and would likely be worth the temporary albeit intense discomfort incurred by uprooting.

Yet I remain like a stubborn ox, cursing my burden as I remain willingly yoked, feeling hopelessly bound by the pressure to live up to social expectations.

The cave I fear to enter echoes with judgmental whispers.

‘Through this action, I practice self-love’ is mantra. May I hear it above the voices of those who might object. May I repeat it even as my voice trembles and cracks. May I remember that those who matter don’t mind, and those who mind don’t matter.

May I keep moving forward even when left in the dust by the turtle and the snail.

May I hold myself tenderly in lovingkindness, no matter what I have done or will do.

May I rest in peace in this lifetime, in moments such as this one.

Both Worlds

The Titanic and I both suffered physical damages, yet I am still afloat.

We humans live in both worlds, the material and the ethereal.

This affords us the privilege of feeling it all: the marvelous and the mundane.

I like to hang out in the field beyond words with the bodhisattvas I admire most.

But if I’m not careful I’ll miss the present, to my own detriment.

May I always return from my celestial travels to again feel the breath in my lungs and the grass between my toes.

The Big Thing

I used to think that he was the Big Thing, the key to my happiness.

I fell for my teenage crush like he was the sole source of ecstatic love in the world.

When my feelings were not reciprocated, my thirst for the Big Thing all but destroyed me.

Now I know that no one can give me the Big Thing.

Nor is the Big Thing to be found in any book or food or herbal supplement, not in any class or retreat, and not in any one place or experience if it is not in equal distribution throughout everything, everywhere, all at once.

I am the Big Thing, and so are you.


I loved you because I loathe myself.

I blindly pushed through the red flags you were covered with, armed with an explanation for every asinine decision.

‘You did what?’ you asked me, eager to pile on the shame men reserve for the women they dishonor with their advances.

I accepted that I made a mistake but I was mistaken that I owed you anything, let alone my life.

By eating apples, I realized that I am the universe experiencing itself.

I am the fruit of the tree of life.


I dreamt my husband left me and didn’t say why, like when we fight because I fail to read his mind.

I felt unlovable, alone, afraid, sad, and defeated.

I told him that when he drilled the ceiling above our heads it created so much dust, noise, and falling debris that I feared for our lives.

He implied that I should understand his master plan.

Though we may disagree, I woke up with the feeling that my marriage is worth more to me than I thought.

There’s the devil that you know versus the angel that you don’t…at least he keeps me out of the horrors of the dating pool, though gentlemanly bachelors seemed to abound after we got married.

I just need to keep the sky from falling, and the sky is my mind.