Mir pod Mangartom

Dobra dva dneva je trajalo, da sem se popolnoma predala vsemu obilju časa, ki sem ga v zakup dobila za en teden, ko je Svarun z mojimi starši na morju. Prva dva dneva sem še podlegala ustroju svojega uma, ki mi je že pred Svarunovim odhodom navdušeno prigovarjal, kako bo super, da bom lahko cel teden posvetila izključno pisanju knjige. Toda ko je Svarun odrinil, je od navdušenja ostal samo občutek dolžnosti, ki je najbrž najslabši prijatelj vsakega kreativnega dela, saj le-ta k šanku pripelje še svoje stare prijatelje, občutke krivde.

»Kako lahko počivaš sedaj, ko imaš toliko časa, da se zares predaš urejanju knjige?« se kaj kmalu zasliši sikanje diktatorskih misli znotraj mene. Nekaj časa jim še dovolim, da razmetavajo z menoj po plesišču življenja, potem pa me pastirjev predrami, da vstanem, jih zgrabim in jaz prevzamem vodstvo temu sijajnemu ča-ča-ča-ju.

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Pastirjev glas?

Ja, pastirjev glas. Veste, prejšnjo noč sem namreč preživela na ovčji kmetiji na 1300 metrih nadmorske višine, kjer vsako poletje oče Štef in sin Mitja – in letos tudi moja draga prijateljica Tjaša – vodita svojo čredo ovac na visokogorske pašnike pod Mangartom.

Včeraj dopoldan sem se odpravila na obisk k omenjeni sestrici, ki je te dni praznovala rojstni dan. Zmenjeni sva bili, da v kaki dve uri pogovorov strneva zadnjih sedem mesecev življenja, ko se nisva videli, saj je Tjaša pravkar nazaj z obsežnega, polnega, pisanega potovanja po Srednji Ameriki. Ampak glede na to, da je moja draga sestrica glavna junakinja pustolovske komedije Tjaša: Življenje, vredno življenja, ki je živeta po resničnih dogodkih, in da je v meni včeraj špilala meni lastna pustolovska drama Tamara: Biti ali ne biti, se je najino dvourno druženje sprevrglo v štiriindvajseturno odisejado, polno smeha, skute in spoznanj.

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Ker mi je v trenutku, ko se je Tjaša pakirala v planine, v glavi še vedno vrelo veliko besed, sem začutila, da potrebujem še malce vetra med vožnjo, zato sem se prijateljici ponudila, da jo odpeljem do Tolmina. A namesto, da bi jo v Tolminu pustila, da z vso zelenjavo z maminega bujnega vrta odštopa dalje, sem jo zapeljala vse do kmetije pod Mangartom, čisto blizu prelaza Predel in zatorej meje z Italijo. Tisti občutek, ko je v glavi neprijetno veliko besed, ki kot dežne kaplje še vedno iščejo svoje struge, kamor bi se izlile in odpotovale dalje, v svet, me je včeraj za roko popeljal v mir, v edino, za čimer sem hrepenela. Kar pa me je obdržalo v miru, je bilo sprejemanje, v katerega se urim z vsakim novim dnem.

»Menda ja ne greš sedaj domov? Tukaj prespi in se na pot odpravi jutri zjutraj, spočita. Celemu svetu se tako mudi, vsi samo norijo in vsi bi samo delali.« se usuje iz Štefa plaz besed, ko okrog sedmih zvečer po prijetnem kramljanju o moji in njihovi primorščini naznanim svoj odhod. Ob besedah, ki sem jih za vas po spominu prevedla iz bovščine, zelo specifičnega primorskega dialekta, je Štef v ogorčenju naokrog mahal s svojo palico – ampak znotraj njegovega ogorčenja ni bilo niti trohice nemira, ampak zgolj veliko sadov globokega miru, ki je zaustavil moj korak. Postanem, ga pogledam in pokimam. Pogledam vase, kjer že ves dan brenči in pogledam potrebi po miru in zraku v oči. Pogledam naokrog in se zavem, da večjega miru, kot je tu, ga danes ne dobim, sploh pa ne v obliki dveipolurne večerne vožnje po zloglasnih ovinkih.

Ostanem, se odločim, nakar poprosim za debelejša oblačila, saj sem se od doma zjutraj, saj veste, na kratek obisk, odpravila samo v kratkem topu, lanenem krilu in moji najljubši tanki srajčici iz šifona. Dobim: ene nogavice, pa druge nogavice, Crockse, pajkice, spodnjo majico, pulover in pleteno jakno, že dišečo po kmetiji. Za silo bo, čeprav me veter na pobočju pošteno prebiča. Med njihovo večerno molžo se odločim za obnovitven sprehod. V začetku se misli še opotekajo za menoj kot trop sestradanih divjih psov, a ob plezanju navzgor po strmem terenu jih kaj kmalu zamenjam za prisotnost, ki bo odločala, ali bom dosegla še tisto zadnjo živordečo gozdno jagodo pred menoj, ali pa se bom odkotalila v dolino kot plaz, po katerem si utiram pot. Med belim skalovjem iščem svojo pot in z neukročenim, pristnim smehom sproščam prejšnjo napetost v hvalnico sebi in življenju, ki sva me vnovič pripeljala točno tja, kamor sem prosila.

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Po mojem sprehodu in njihovi molži, ko se spet zberemo pred simpatično kmetijo, se nenadoma zavem, da mi bobni v glavi, nakar mi Tjaša na debele rezine nareže krompir in rezine z ruto pritrdi okrog mojih senc. Štef pravi, da si je njegova mati ob glavobolu vselej delala ali obkladke iz čomp, ali pa je pila kôfe z limono. Pri njej je menda delovalo oboje, obkladki pa so delovali tudi pri meni, saj že po kakih dvajsetih minutah počitka, občutka, da mi bo glavo vsak čas razneslo, ni več. Nadomesti ga hvaležnost za dobrote, s katerimi mi postrežejo. Domač, ročno izdelan ovčji sir in skuta sta še slajša zaradi zavedanja, da so ga omogočile srečne ovce, ki svoje dneve preživljajo tako, da nosu svobodno prepuščajo vodstvo do najslajše, najbolj zelene in najbolj dišeče trave na pašnikih izpod Mangarta. Kaj pa moja najljubša poslastica? Ta ostaja slana ovčja skuta, značilna za bovške konce, ki jo tradicionalno strežejo s kuhanim krompirjem. Tole pa je nekaj, vam povem.

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Po večerji se kaj kmalu odpravimo spat, ker se na kmetiji dnevi pričnejo in končajo s soncem. Zjutraj, me svari Mitja pred odhodom v posteljo, me bo najbrž zbudil generator, ko bodo ob pol šestih pričeli z jutranjo molžo. Zabubim se v spalno vrečo, ki poleti vedno v nizkem štartu v avtu čaka nove pustolovščine, in izdihnem dan. Ob čirikanju čričkov. In odmevu kozjih zvoncev naokrog. V miru. Srečna.

Zjutraj se zbudim, ponovno pripravljena na odhod, pa me mir spet premami. Začudeno me pogledajo, ko zopet sveto naznanim, da odhajam. Res ne boš kôfe? Res ne boš s Tjašo peljala ovc na pašo? Ah, seveda sem. Vse sem, že samo zato, ker se ne vsak dan zbudim na pristni gorski kmetiji: kôfe z najbolj svežim, še toplim, ovčjim mlekom in zavajonom iz Rositinih jajčk namesto smetane; s Tjašo peljala ovce na pašo in dovolila, da me magičnost ob prodiranju jutranjega sonca skozi špranje jutranjega gozda poboža; se najedla sveže sladke skute po prihodu nazaj domov; se še enkrat kot netopirček obesila v Tjašino ruto za aerial, jogo v zraku; objela gostoljubne gospodarje, pobožala ovčice, se stisnila k majhnim kozličkom in naposled le odpeljala iz gorskega raja. Mirna. Srečna. Z obljubo, da prihodnjič pripeljem še Svaruna … in veliko dodatnih oblačil, če bo slučajno tudi on hotel plesati po Tjašinem trenutnem plesišču – to se pravi hlevu in ograjenem dvorišču, kjer sta s Štefom kidala gnoj, ko sem jima mahala.

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Prihodnjič se bo zgodil kar kmalu. In ta novica bo morda všeč tudi vam, saj se v planine ponovno odpravljam v začetku avgusta – po dobrote Ovčje Kmetije Mangart. Pa ne samo zase, ah kje, tudi za vas jih lahko prinesem. Ovčji sir, slano in sladko skuto lahko izpod marljivih rok prisrčnega Mitje in njegovega očeta Štefa tako kupite tudi vi, preko mene, jaz pa jih pripeljem za vas v Ljubljano ali na Obalo. Ste za?

Vedite, da ob nakupu omenjenih dobrot izkažete svojo podporo prijetni družini, ki je svoje srce posvetila planini in tradiciji. Štefova družina namreč že stoletja vztraja v prikupni kmetiji sredi dolinice pod Mangartom – prvi pisni viri, v katerih je omenjana, namreč segajo kar v 16. stoletje.

Več podatkov o naročanju dobrot iz ovčjega mleka pričakujte na mojem fb profilu: Tamara Mihalic. Hvala vam!

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Femininity and Masculinity

All human beings posses both, the masculine and the feminine aspect – two contrasting forces that are drawn towards each other. The feminine aspect is charged with negative polarity, yin, that welcomes, draws towards herself all that she desires, whereas the masculine aspect is overflowing with positive polarity, yang, that righteously fuels a man to take action towards achieving his goals. The feminine aspect is bound to be more abundant in women, but present in men as well, while the masculine should prevail in men, but should also be found in women.

One look at the western societies tells us that the aforementioned structure has been shattered, since most people – both men and women – predominantly live in their masculine essence of action, action, action. This should not come as a surprise if you take into account our education, our upbringing and the values that were passed on from a few generations back. We have all been taught since very early on that striving, pushing it and making it happen is the way to get things done around here. Having no other model to look up to, us women took up the masculine dynamic, went out into the world, achieved … and got back home exhausted and needing to take care of the kids, home, and our partner.

While the masculine approach may well serve men in initiating and igniting their desires, it will only drain, wear out and bring women to their last legs. Funnily enough, as I was checking the synonyms for “exhausted” on the internet, the dictionary’s first example sentence for the word “tired” said: “She came home tired from work.” You don’t really believe it was a coincidence that she was tired, not him? If even dictionaries, written by men and women in our society, say that women are bound to come home tired from work, it must also be written in our collective consciousness that the feminine aspect was not designed to fit the masculine society’s tight schedule. Indeed, women are not meant to use up much energy and force in order to achieve, because we excel at attracting and accepting the energy that we have pulled towards us. And yes, we accept everything that comes our way, including the energies and outcomes we might not want. For instance, did you know that during a sexual intercourse the woman accepts into her literal body not only the man’s penis, but his emotional state with all the baggage as well? Everything we as women accept into our own energy field, into our own being keeps piling up in our wombs until our creative centre is brimming with feelings and beliefs that not necessarily serve us.

If we know that as women we will accept everything that comes our way, we can start now to be the judge of what’s coming. To be the judges of what’s coming, the magnificent creators of our own life experiences, we must learn how to live from the feminine.

But how?

By listening, not speaking. Now shhh; open your inner ear.

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On Being Real

If you have been following me at all up here, you know I’m taking this three-month course called Abundance Group, where we aim at developing our talents and gifts into abundance. It’s amazing. And it’s challenging to see that our acquired sense of self is often the jailer for all that we could be. That’s what I want to talk about today.

What I’ve come to notice is that I didn’t have any problems stating who I was. This is the question I’ve been dealing with fort he past decade:“Who am I, really?” And I’ve come to definitions and I’ve come to conclusions and I’ve come to internalize a set of beliefs about me that I hold dear to my heart and that make me feel right. For example, ever since I came to know the hippie movement from the late 1960’s in my early teens, I just knew: “Mom, I’m a hippie.” What got me about the hippies was their FREEDOM, but what made me stay was the prison that kept my mind believing: “It’s alright if I’m penniless, at least I’m free.” Excuse me, mind, but having a child and being penniless is no fun. Even the freedom, which was the reason that I signed up in the first place, turns to anxiety and rage when my son needs winter boots and I am in no way capable of buying a pair. I wasn’t, but luckily I always had family and friends who were. 

And then I started asking myself whether this was really who I was supposed to be? “Honestly, I’m here to be broke?”, I asked myself and paused.

The voice of the wise answered for me: “Well, if you’re buying this, I’m certainly not.” It was time to acquire a new sense of self. This sense of self made me describe myself as I did a few days ago.

I’m a woman and a mother who is aiming at balance of body, mind and soul. I am a researcher of life whose job is to find pleasure in every little step on the way. I am here to tell the truth about the way and I am here to be REAL.

Seeing the world that is fake and the people who fake in order to please or reach some sort of standards,  lights the fire on my way, because I’m here to question: “Whose standards?”. If you know the answer to this, right you are; if not, go deep inside and look for them for the answers always await until you come inside. We are our own standards and once we’ve caught a glimpse of ourselves, of our true light in being … that light is loyal enough to never let us go. Whatever we sense, or see, or feel, or hear, or touch inside – it’s all good. And if your mind can’t categorize that as good yet, know that that exact thing is a call for love; your love.

We are here to do pure magic, get it?

We are pure magic! From head to toe.

But in order to let the magic shine through, we must love and accept ourselves first. We have to come to terms with all of our pieces because none are better then others. None! Sure, we have come to accept the light and the dark, the up and the down, the left and the right, and yes, even the right and the wrong. But we have only come to know these because we live in a dualistic reality, where it’s easier to understand our different pieces as contrasts. There is no harm in that – as long as we also keep in mind that all of these contrasts can only apply to our particular viewpoints (that are unavoidably the products of our upbringing, education and experiences).

Try not to label your contrasts as right or wrong. If you do that, you will show the world only the pieces in you that you think are right and hide the rest. And that’s fake. And not only is it not REAL, but it will make the unloved, unappreciated pieces of you either sink in and hold a grudge – or (if you’re anything like me) rebel.

All of our pieces are right, because they are ours and because they are real and thus make us REAL. And if they’re showing you a part of yourself that you don’t like or try to ignore or deprive of love or starve to death … they are here because of that alone: to point the finger.

Today bathe the parts that you don’t accept in yourself with love. And let them be.

They make you REAL.

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Gotta Love Him, the Scorpio

Do you feel the Scorpio’s rule this year? It seems highly unlikely but this year, I felt immediately when the happy-go-lucky Libra set off and king of the shadow, Scorpio, took over. I know that because I started to feel more tension running through my veins than normally. That, and more visits to my shadows than usual.

My shadow emotion has got to be anger. It’s the first feeling I would get when something doesn’t go according to the plan. I’m not a particularly fearful human being, and I don’t get gloomy all that often – but I will get angry in no time. Anger is the one that’s using up the fire of my bright spirit – when I’m not tuned in. Into myself. Into my body and mind. When my head is calculating the earnings, the to-do list, the people I have to call, the articles I have to write … instead of noticing what’s here and now.

And what’s been here and now is my beautiful son, figuring out this world. This past week he didn’t go to kindergarten so we spent all of our days together all the time. For the first couple of days I didn’t even do my yoga or meditation, but when I saw where this has brought me (and consequently us) I quickly called a halt to the absence of inner-goddess-time. I need this time as I do my oxygen to stay alive – and I took that time as I do my oxygen … even if he regularly uses my downward dog for a bridge to climb under, and even if I use a non-harming cartoon with no commercials to relax into a meditation. Well, it’s called life!

So yeah, it’s been wackadoodle around here. But I chose it because I wanted to see how far along am I in managing my roles as a woman, mother, mompreneur, single parent and constant teacher and student thingy – at the same time. What?! I’m getting better, though. My technique?  Try to remember as often as I can that:

  1. Life is not as serious as I tend to think of it. So laugh a little. Or a lot. Actually … don’t ever stop.
  2. All is good because I’m exactly where I need to be … I just need to come out of my head and notice where I’m being.

So even though I have had to try much harder to accept life’s situations with laughter, rather then with anger, I’m still here, bolder and brighter. And you know what?

There is nowhere else I’d rather be because

there is no skin that would better fit me.

I walking the feminine journey a step at a time

never forgetting that whatever is here to chew –

it’s fine, because it’s mine.

I’m focused on not forgetting that I’m here to shine,

and to turn all of the worldly things into my shrine.

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Sadness

Two days ago I woke up feeling sad. I had had a very busy menstrual week that led to an exhausting weekend, and Monday when I didn’t take care of my spiritual needs but rather cleaned the after-party house. I got up, snuggled with Svarun, and went to the bathroom, where I found Her in the mirror.

»What are you doing here?« I asked Her. She didn’t say anything but I knew that she’s here for a reason. Sadness never came without one.

I tried to waltz her out: »Listen, I think you got it wrong. I’m having a great time, you see. And for the first time in history, I can feel that my life is going in the right direction. I can smell it and sense it and nearly touch it. And I can feel it’s good. It’s real good. So you can just leave because I’m doing alright. Besides,  I don’t have time to lay around and cry all day. I mean, why should I if I know everything is fine and I’m just a little tired, that’s all?«

»It’s not me who got it wrong. You did,« said She.

This made me uncomfortable. I didn’t want to hang out with Sadness, I had huge plans for myself that day. So I started again, a little less patient, a little less calm: »Please leave, I’m busy.«

Svarun crawled into the bathroom to pee. We were late, really late, so I told him to hurry up and dress himself: »Nona will be here any minute now and it’s not fair to leave her waiting.«

My mum picks Svarun up every morning and takes him to his daycare because she works a few hundred meters away.

»I won’t be bothering you. I’ll just sit down and wait until you’re not busy anymore, ok?« she said, swinging herself on my red sofa and making herself very comfortable.

My mom came, and because we weren’t ready, I told her – barely sucking it up – that I will take Svarun to kindergarten.

»Look, I’m not going to be not busy anytime soon, so maybe we can agree to meet some other time. I have to take Svarun to kindergarten now and then I have a bunch of things to do because I’m going to be late anyway, this ride is going to take me at least an hour and …«

»I’ll go with you,« she reasoned and sneaked into the car.

I cried. And cried. And cried. And as I escorted Svarun to his daycare, I cried some more.

I cried for the past few years, when I related more with DOING than with BEING. I cried for that. I cried for all of us who got caught up in this patriarchal wound. When did doing become more important than being? When did our achievements become more important than how loving we are towards each other?

The more I cried, the better I felt. Me and Sadness were both very quiet, and yet we knew exactly what the other meant.

She was saying: »You’ve been ignoring me.«

I was saying, »I don’t want to be Sad.«

She was saying: »You’re making me feel like I’m bad or something.«

I was saying: »Well, you make me feel bad.«

She was saying: »That’s yours to deal with, not mine.«

I was saying »What do you mean? I’m not supposed to feel sad if I’m conscious of my path.«

She said: »Whoever told you that, hasn’t got it all figured out.«

I stopped my thoughts. I stopped crying. She was right. Whoever told us Sadness was bad? Whoever told us to stop being sad, because we should have thought before about it, when our favourite toy broke? Whoever told us that we’re not supposed to think about sad things because then sad things will happen?

Well, only Everybody.

And now it’s enough.

Feel your Sadness, she’s here to guide you somewhere.

Accept your Sadness, because she’s a part of your equation.

Rethink your relationship to your Sadness, because she’s not the bad that you need to steer clear of. She part of the story, your story. And it’s a real story, where positive and the negative live together in harmony. She is not here to lure you down into depression; she’s here to remind you of all the reasons that you have to feel good. She’s here with you all the time, to help you be the best you you can be at this point in time. She is you and you are her.  

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I am Awake

I’m awake on the eve of 19th of October, just as I was awake exactly four years ago. Back then, I had just been awakened by labor contractions, fortelling my son was about to come earthside. I went to bed really late because I went on a late night walk to watch the starts, selected the music that would sway our forcoming birth, took a long hot bath and a cup of cocoa afterwards. I went to bed peaceful. After about half an hour of so-called sleep, I woke up in the midst of what I would only later realize was a full blown contraction. In a haze I recalled waking up with contractions many times that night, so I decided it was no use to pursue lying in bed. I sat on the ball and started circling with my hips, being as present as I could, every time I would sense the familiar rushes at the bottom of my henna-tattoo-ed belly.

I could swear I felt the exact same contraction in my womb just as I thought about those rushes four years ago. Sure, it’s the first day of my period, but now again I have found myself to be birthing something into this world yet again; I’m baking a cake for my son’s kindergarten birthday celebration. It’s the second one I’m making because the first one turned out watery enough to be called – a pudding.

Now, I really don’t like late nights. They get me every time, honestly. It was late when I started, but when I realized the pudding thingy was not going to cut it, I almost felt the need to cry. Wait, I wholly truly did. And the need to feel sorry for myself kept creeping in: »Oh, man. It’s the first day of my period, the time when I should be resting, and I’m not even going to get a good night’s sleep and tomorrow I’m going to be out and about the whole day and why do I always do this to myself on my period, it’s always the same …«

But then I realized what I was doing. I stood up. I thought about my son. I thought about how much I wanted him to have a surprise cake for his birthday. So I looked up, and prayed. I prayed to the goddess to give me the strenght to pull this off. And I sat down in my car, started it and drove to my parent’s house a few miles away to pick up the eggs that I need to make the cake (try one was a vegan experiment that failed).

I came back, bursting with energy and commitment. And I noticed it. And I thanked it. And I meant it. And I trusted her when she said I had made the right decision. And I trust her when she says that this is only the start of the best day ever.

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Discipline

I have long decided to invite more discipline into my life. Correction: I have long decided to invite more discipline into my working life. Being a mother, that means those five to six hours in the morning and early afternoon while Svarun is in kindergarten. Being a mompreneur (a mother who is an entrepreneur), that has meant: all day every day.

It’s utopian to think that I’m going to be able to do all that I want/ should/ must/ desire in a mere few hours, especially because … well, I’m a woman. I don’t do things linear; I do a little bit of this here, and a little bit of that there, and then return to this, and then continue that bit over there. Just as I’m typing this, the granola is in the oven and washed clothes can’t wait to hang out in the balcony in this hot, orange, autumn sun. But being a woman, I also posses a lot of creativity that just wants to see the light of the day. However, being a woman alone does not make me highly chaotic; what makes me such is thinking that discipline would bore me to tears.

I’m willing to shift this now.

I’m willing to see things differently.

If we take a look at the word discipline, it shares the root with the word disciple. I’m not going to go into some religious lagacy, but just consider the meaning of the word disciple or bhakta, which is how the same person is called in Hare Krishna tradition. A disciple is someone who has surrendered his will to the coach.

For me, the coach is myself … or rather the part of myself I have yet not named, but it’s a she. She is the divine feminine that is waking up inside of me. She is my primal nature; she is Nature itself. Her gift is to find wisdom within her cycles; her gift is to descend and ascend, and give to the world all the love and beauty and softness she has gathered along the way. And what she needs in order to do all of that is … inspiration.

My idea of discipline? Surrendering to the inner guidance and feed it well with a lot of inspiration.

Again, my idea of discipline? Every day I take time for things that inspire me; I take time form y yoga and meditation, I take time form my barefoot walk, I take time to spend in Nature, and as of today … I take time for my kitchen playtime. That means I take time for the new app I’ve created, called Igralnica Kuhalnica in Slovene (but coming in English as well) and for sheer plain experimenting in the kitchen. When I’m throwing things together I fill like a kid again, wide eyed, barely managing to wait what’s going to … become.

That way, I’m becoming anew every second of every day. And that, my friends, is a gift.

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I am RICH

The past ten days were quite intense. I know, I am fully aware of the fact that I often say this. It’s because I often feel this, too. And I’m pretty sure it has something to do with the decision that I made many a year ago: I will never be bored in this life. And although I still agree with this, I reject the notion that if’m not bored, I have to feel the exact opposite of »bored«. I reject the notion that we live in a boring, linear, either-or reality, because the world that I want to experience is jucier, richer, vaster, deeper, more abundant than that.

I have felt the need to dig deeper for as long as I can remember. The »why’s« seemed to have no end. And although I looked for answers in many places, I was more often than not – dissasitsfied. I didn’t conceptually know the answers to my questions, but the answers I was getting didn’t seem right; they didn’t click. They were what was know nor accepted within this linear society, but they weren’t the answers to my questions. In this society we are taught to see things white or black, good or bad, light or dark, up or down, and we are taught to favour only one: the white, the good, the light, the up. We are taught, many would argue, right, while wrong would mean … seeing things for what they really are?

Shakespeare said: »Nothing is either good or bad but thinking makes it so.«

It is time to learn ourselves subjectivity. Things are what they are, it’s just that. Yes, they stir emotions inside of us. Yes, we are here to feel all of the feels … but we are not here to dwell in them. We are here to use them as guidelines. If something stirs a feeling within us, let it come, for it’s here for us to gain from it.

No, I will never be bored in this live, I’m a single mother after all. What I will be is RICH with all of the abundant feelings that a powerful, creative, passionate woman’s life can be.

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Taking Responsibility

The past week has been a roller-coaster.

Do you know the feeling when you know you’re doing the right thing, but everything you keep bumping into are obstacles upon obstacles upon obstacles? I sure do. I sure know how to feel sorry for myself. My mantra used to be: »I knew something was gonna go wrong.« I really liked that mantra. For a long time, it served me, because it saved me from responsibility. I hated responsibility and I never learned how to take responsibility … for my life. What does that even mean?

I liked my mantra, although the statement wasn’t actually true. I didn’t literally know what was going to happen, but I did always happily consider everything that could go wrong before everything that could go right. I was in the state of mind that Sara, my dear teacher, calls »God’s mercy«: when you think about the obstacle and you realize you really don’t want it to happen, but you feel like there’s nothing you can do to prevent it. You feel like somebody else is navigating your boat, while you sit silently under the deck; you’re small, yet you’re safe. And if the going gets rough, it’s not your fault.

I fell into that state a few times this week. I just stopped something and launched something new. I oh-so-know that what I started is the right thing. I can feel it in my body; I feel twinkles of excitement whenever I think about this project, and rushes of excitement when new ideas unfold and upgrade and reveal. It’s so right that it scares me.

So I go on … showing up late, not handling things, manifesting Svarun’s one-night-stand diseases, spilling chamomile tea all over the car, forgetting my laptop, forgetting the essentials, buying the wrong camera that the program doesn’t accept. There were approximately a million things why I could give up. But strangely my insistence seems to override my resistance. There have been a million instances when I could simply say: »The Universe is testing my persistence.« But I know that’s not the case. And another thing I know … I am responsible for my life. I take full responsibility for my life by always being in tune with what I feel. And I know that the obstacles I created are just my inability to accept … abundance. Abundance does not have one face alone. All that happened and nearly made me cry but in the end made me crack up open, is colorful and varied and very abundant. Oh, yeah.

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Renewal

This moon’s cycle is all about Renewal. Renewal of Trust.

Yesterday I spiralled down to the place where I felt hopeless. Is everything I used to believe a lie? Is this the kind of world where I want to raise my son? I went to bed with my mouth full of bitter ash and I had a hard time sleeping with all these pictures running through my mind. I didn’t want to feel what I felt but I knew I had to feel it. Once a month I allow myself to take the pains of the world as my own; I drown myself in the scars and sink deep … only to rise again stronger and lighter then before.

Today I rose again. I was blessed with time and space for me, as my boys were away. I was working on an inspiring project that I’m preparing for all of you, guys. Reminding myself of what I stand for, what I believe in, and what I praise and preach towards instilled in me a new sense of Trust. Trust into the World that I doubted yesterday. Trust into My World. This meant: no, I didn’t feel like cooking. I felt the way I feel every menstruation, and it is to spiral down, cuddle up and dig, dig. No, I didn’t feel like cooking, but instilled with the new sense of Trust into the world that wants to caress us … I knew we would be fed.

So I finished work, and went for a ten minute barefoot walk on my meadow before picking my boys. I followed the sun’s invitation and cuddled up with golden grass beneath the top of the hill, where the Bora couldn’t get me, and soaked in the last autumn rays … when my mother called. She seemed excited to invite us all for dinner because she was blessed with beginner’s luck to find three big mushrooms on a walk through the woods.

Mushroom pasta for dinner? Thank you, heavens, for guarding my descent to renew my Belief into the world.

I knew we would be fed. And I knew, even in the darkest hour, when I had trouble sleeping, that everything would be okay. Everything is always okay, if there’s Trust in the okay. It’s the same kind of Trust that the story will come; even if it is 8 p.m., when I slowly unplug myself from the World.

If I Trust that there is a story to come, the story will come.

If I Trust that everything will be okay, everything is always okay. The question is … are we okay with the okay, or are we aiming at something else?

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