0 comments on “It Might Surprise You to Know….”

It Might Surprise You to Know….

I write for me…now.

I write here for me…now.

Sometimes folks think I am in their head and wrote stuff just for them.

Sometimes folks love what I write and they send me the most amazing emails and notes. Of which I just love and appreciate. That they would take a moment to first read what I have written and then go so far as to send me a message.

Sometimes folks feel unloved or left out because of what I write here. Sometimes folks wish that they knew the stuff I write about, before I write about it.

Sometimes folks I am sure get super annoyed with what I have written.

Sometimes folks judge me for what I write.

It is a weird thing to not be able to control how your words fall on someone. Or where they fall within in them.

 

For a very long time, I stopped writing. For me or for anyone.

In my younger years, I kept a journal. Many journals. I wrote my heart into the pages of multiple books.

No one had ever told me that writing in a journal was a good idea. No one ever said, “buy a book to write in and it will make you feel a whole lot better”. I fact, I can’t actually recall the moment I thought it was a good idea. But somewhere around 14 when I my period started I think, I started writing.

For me.

That’s the thing with journals. You write for you, about you, and with you. And in the writing, there is a visibility of what it is that is happening. More often than not, the page reveals a truth that the mind can’t let you see. It is like the heart has a direct line to the pen.

At 16, my boyfriend at the time, told me he had read my journals because he was “curious”.

At that young age I couldn’t have articulated what it really felt like. But after the same thing happened at 25, I am pretty clear now.

Those of you who have read anything about me, or know me at all, you know that my upbringing, while filled with love from my mother, was a little unsettling.

I sought solace therapeutically in  music and in writing and dysfunctionally in an eating disorder and promiscuity.

I wrote all about it all. Especially the dysfunction.

After my second round of intrusion in to my inner world at 25, I stopped writing. Full stop. Quit. Stopped.

I had carried my journals with me, all 18 of them, when I went travelling across Australia at 24. I packed up all my belongings into my little Hyundai Excel and off I went. Gold Coast to Perth. It didn’t seem like a big deal given my few trips from Gold Coast to Townsville. Perth just seemed like the next destination when I returned home from overseas.

Packed tightly in with all my clothes, books and guitar (which I still can’t play), my heart spills travelled along.

And I wrote about my journeys. About the divine folks I met. The roads I took. The amazing scenery. How it felt on my journey. Well at least I am pretty sure that is what I wrote about.

On that trip, I met a boy who later became my boy friend and later my fiancé.

He packed his stuff up too and off we went travelling together.

Along came my writings.

Melbourne we settled.

We unpacked.

Found jobs.

Somewhere to live.

We planned our wedding.

And so you would think it would seem okay for that person to read my heart filled journals. All the words I had used from a wee young age all the way through to an adult.

All the pain of dysfunction. The first loves. The ‘not so great’ decisions. And those not so great decisions it seems he didn’t have a very good time with.

He never told me he read them. Well not until…

What does your intuition feel like to you? Where do you feel that ‘hmmmm’ feeling?

I’ve always felt my intuition sits in the spaces between. Space between what is being said. In the spaces. When there are no words. Or after the words are spoken and a full body conversation begins. A sweet hum. “Hmmmm”. A sense in my body. Sometimes it feels like a push in my gut. Other times it is fluttering in my chest.

I remember the day I returned home from work after his sick day.

And the gut push hit. In the silence.

“Hmmmm” feeling.

And on we went.

A week passed.

Something was so different.

Weekends we usually went out together. That following weekend, he went out. With the guys from work.

‘Hmmm’ feeling.

I talked myself out of the feeling though. “It’s good he’s made friends here”.

He didn’t come home that night.

I didn’t sleep that night.

It’s funny. As I write this in real time with the music playing, this song plays. Where were you when this was all going on when I was 25? Oh, not born probably!

Exhale.

So, he didn’t come home. I didn’t sleep.

This weird behaviour went on for a while.

The ‘hmmmm’ continued.

Finally in a confrontation of this weird and it all fell on the floor. Like thousands of small ball bearings threatening to undo my safe ground. Freezing me in my little space. Inhaled.

The truth.

And when the truth comes, it hurts sometimes. A lot sometimes. I’ve come to live this intimately.

I think this is why we don’t actually want to trust the ‘hmmmm’ because we know it is going to hurt if it is true. A lot. And we wish it away, praying and hoping it isn’t true. Denial is a deceptively safe place to hide…initially. A hot place to hide long term.

He took exception to some of my past ‘not so great’ decisions. Decisions I made as a very young and often troubled person, and at a time when he wasn’t a part of my life. Those words seemingly didn’t seem to matter.

It didn’t end then, but it was destined to.

I ripped up those books. 20 journals. Each and every page ripped up. I sat on the bed and cried years of heart pain. Years of truths. And tears of self judgement and self loathing. I was a bad person. I had evidence of it in these books. So they had to be destroyed.

And after they were destroyed, we would be fine…right?

And that is where the writing stopped.

That thing that had carried me through all those years, not a moment of therapy except for that which I sought in the pages of a journal.

Stopped.

My power left. I felt like I gave it to him.

It took over 10 years to start writing again.

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4 years ago I started to write again because truly, I just couldn’t NOT anymore.

I felt like I needed to write for others. To help others.

So, instead of journaling I stared a blog on Facebook called Expanding the Heart Space. If you google it I don’t think you can find it…hang on…So, I am wrong. Turns out there is still a blog, not on Facebook, but an actual blog. Funny the things I forget.

Initially it was a scary as hell but I thought I was helping folks, so it was worth it.

A year or so later, I realised I was writing for me.

After I had written something, so often I couldn’t even remember what I had written. Like something had taken over me.

So I would read it again.

And more often than not, what I had written was exactly what I needed to read. In one way or another.

I was scared to admit the truth though. I was really writing for me.

Scared of judgment. Of oversharing. Of offending. Of pissing people off. Of getting it wrong.

It’s literally like having all that heart held in your hands and asking the world to stab it if they want.

In a weird twist of truth and grace, what I have come to see, is that I get far more support and “me too” moments than I do negative judgement. More often I am reminded I am not alone. I love SO much getting emails from folks who have read something about what I have written, about how it has fallen on them.

I do love it SO.

And still, ultimately I write for me.

If I inspire you to take a risk, or open up, or share, or feel brave enough to do something you didn’t think you could…oh how my heart sings!

And I write for me.

Even if you were in the room with me now, I would be writing this and not necessarily talking to you about the content. I can’t. The stuff that I write comes though me in a a way that I find difficult to articulate. All I know, is there is a level of trust I have that I have of myself now, that I didn’t before.

If my writing triggers folks, which I am sure it does, I trust that that is their business. Not mine. I wouldn’t disrespect anyone enough to not be honest.

And still, ultimately I write for me.

This is my love. My time. My space. My right. And my power.

I feel free when I write.

I feel light when I write.

I feel connected when I write.

I feel creative when I write.

I feel inspired when I write.

I learn more about myself when I write.

And if folks get offended, or triggered, or pissed, or annoyed or whatever they might get….

I write for me.

And if you are lucky enough for me to write about you, and you don’t like it….

I subscribe to the Anne Lammot position, if people don’t like what you write about them, then maybe they should have been kinder. 🙂

And in no surprise, this is the song is playing as I type this.

I write for me.

jen-14


Writing in a group interests me. So in July if you want to come and be with like hearted souls and get some juices flowing, we’d love you to come along. On the Gold Coast. If you want to be added to the list of folks who are already coming along, email me here for more information.

 

 

 

 

 

2 comments on “I Saw a “Soul Channeller”.”

I Saw a “Soul Channeller”.

I don’t make appointments to see psychics. Generally.

In the past, I have paid to see a numerologist once and also an astrologist once.

And if I summarised what they said, they both had threads of resonance. Some times like realllllly resonant. Other times, not so much.

Yesterday I had an appointment to see a “Soul Channeller” for a “Soul Session”. An appointment I made after a friend had had the experience on a couple of occasions and rated it. I trust her.

“I’ll have a Soul Session thank you”.

Why not?

It makes me smile that she even calls it a soul session. In the week leading up to my appointment, I was writing in my journal about developing content for a Sunday Soul Session Gathering..a little like church without the religion. So when she said, “Today we will do a soul session”, well, it didn’t come completely as a surprise.

On the way up the driveway, I feel a nervousness for the first time since making the appointment. In my gut. A check in revealed that I was feeling afraid. It was a feeling of fear around the possibility that I might be seen.

Like proper.

Stuff that I might not actually want her to see.

Judged even.

What if she plants a seed that I don’t want planted. She tells me something that I don’t want to do. And then I feel conflicted because that isn’t what I actually want to do but the channeller person said that is what my soul wants.

What if?

And as I acknowledged the fear, took a breath and said, “Trust yourself. You’ve got everything you need already. This is an experience. An adventure. Enjoy it”.

 I walked into her little cosy space and exhaled.

In the old days, psychics are painted as these older women with unattended hair and bony fingers. Dark make up and little eye contact. Dark. Mysterious. Witchy-poo-ish I guess.

The little soul speaker I met with yesterday was anything but.

The brightest most intense blue eyes I may have have looked in to. Caramel tanned skin and sunbleached blonde hair. Full lips. Kind face. Warm energy.

I exhaled again. Deeper. I knew I was safe by the way my body felt. Calm. Relaxed. Safe.

We sat.

I was asked to shuffle the biggest pack of cards I think I have seen in my life and invited to infuse them with my energy, my questions, my desires.

And when she handed me the deck, I went completely blank. I couldn’t think of a thing to infuse. I had so much stuff, but not one fucking thing came to mind. Not one. Blank. Crickets. And for me..that really never happens. I don’t have an easily quietened mind.

Ever!

I shuffled. And nothing came.

In that moment I felt a little panicked. Like, “Quick Jen, don’t waste this session. What do you want to know?”

Then I wondered why I hadn’t spent any time considering what I wanted to ask her before I came to the appointment.

Maybe I didn’t have a deep burn for clarity over anything in particular.

Maybe I was skeptical and so didn’t bother taking it seriously.

Or maybe, I was just open to the experience and willing to have a play.

I shuffled some more, took some deep breaths and just said to myself, “Whatever I need to hear today. Lets do that”.

Exhale.

I place the deck down and she went to work.

She laid a shit load of them out on the table. Like a story book. A “ticket to a movie”, she said. “Tarot”, she said.

Meanwhile she gives me another deck and asked me to draw one card. I drew the “Patience” card. Ha! I thought. Funny! Me asked to be patient? Just cannot imagine why.

I am driven. I like to see things created. Come to life. I am not someone to sit around waiting to be asked. I like to make stuff happen that I am passionate about. I am a doer. A Show-er. A creator. An impactor. A human helper.

And when I come up with an idea or hear about someone else idea, I get excited and I want to see it happen like, NOW.

And yet ironically, because of the way my mind works, I am distracted so easily with other projects and creative ventures. Something that our little channeller recognised! The strength of being a creative soul and the distraction of what that brings. Making it difficult to get clear on the one thing that requires the energy.

Nodding and agreeing with her ‘feels’ I felt safer and safer. So far, nothing had been off the mark.

Skeptics say that psychics are scam artists. Read people and fish around for links until they get one and then they take off on that tangent. And perhaps there is some truth to that. I know when I am listening deeply to my intuitive voice I can hear things about other people and often when I ask them about it, it is spot on.

I wonder if we all have this ability in us. And it is similar to tuning into the right frequency. Like turning the dial on the radio. Some of us know how to tune in to make sense of the static. It sounds different. Some hear music while some of us hear white noise.

The little channeller came straight in with, “The first thing that is coming to me with you is…they are saying..it’s all about what your business is here to do..so, they are wanting to talk about your work venture more or less”.

I have her words in speech marks because I recorded the session, so have it word for word. Thats a good thing. You get a lot of information. You want it to be retrievable. Reviewable.

And so, we talked about the work venture.

And of ALL the gazillion, bazzilion things that she could have brought up about me and my work, the thing she brings up is the EXACT thing that I have be dreaming and scheming since I was in my 20’s. And it is only in the last week, that I have actually actioned it..like for real.

I couldn’t say anything. She detailed all the stuff.

“And that”, she said “is what they want you to put your energy into. It is going to be so successful, in ways you can’t even consider right now”.

And with that, I clapped my hands on the inside, like a little excited child when they were surprised with an unexpected and well received gift.

She gave me time frames, speed bumps, locations. The lot.

We talked relationship stuff that was SPOT.ON.

We talked kid stuff that was COMPLETELY ON THE MONEY.

She told me I was teacher. Ran workshops. And I will continue to do these. And my girls will help me.

And I have to say, nothing in there was actually new.

It was all validation.

Validation of what I already knew.

Sometimes we have old wounds around trusting ourselves.

Maybe there have been times when we made a decision and it didn’t go to plan.

Maybe we didn’t listen to our intuition that time and things went completely to shit.So now can’t trust ourselves with it.

I know I am still building the ability to fully trust myself. At my age.

I’m so excited to see where this life experience takes me. My family. Us.

I am open to abundance. Miracles. And some seriously magical shizzle.

In the meantime, I still will be humaning and human helping with my teachings and coaching and workshops. And this will grow too.

What a week.

Oh and if you want more details on the Soul Speaker I saw, shoot me an email and I’ll hook you up.

As always, I am curious…..

Have you seen a psychic,medium, soul speaker? Love to hear your stories.

Big, big love

Jen

x


Upcoming Events

*Mother and Daughter Creative Connection Day

*Envisioning – Vision/Love/Inspo Board Day

*The Gathering – Creative Women Unite to Heart Storm

Drop me a line if you want any more information about these events.

 

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0 comments on “The Beginning of the break: Part 2”

The Beginning of the break: Part 2

I don’t actually know how many parts there are to this break. And I guess I will only know when I continue to unfold them.

So, the break part 1 I wrote 21 days ago now. And in my last blog on this, I said I would be back the following week to finish it off [here if you missed it…].

So what has happened that has gotten in the way of that?

I don’t know if you believe in metaphysical stuff [If you don’t know what metaphysical is…] but after this little experience I am certainly curious enough about the real connections.

So. I wrote about the pain of worry and anxiety that first year of trying to conceive.

And I kid you not, the following day I got excruciating back pain and sciatic pain. Pain, that I can only describe as contractions. Like birthing contractions. Except, there was no reprieve from the contraction. It was just one long epic contraction. Fucking painful.

So painful, that it took me to the doctor. A place I don’t usually go much these days. But I went. I get x-rays. Scans. And it revealed that I have a bulging disc that presses right on my sciatic nerve. Like all day long.

But what does this have to do with writing about something that happened 11 years ago?

Here is the thing with stored pain.

The body remembers trauma. Science tells us that. It ain’t no hokey pokey deal anymore. It remembers and holds emotional pain. In the cells. Trapped. Waiting for release.

And, seemingly, when the body speaks to us, in a way we cannot ignore, as in the way of excruciating pain, it seems we are offered an opportunity to heal the old wounds that have been just waiting. Waiting for love and attention.

So my back and nerves call. And I listen.

I was 7 days overdue with our first bub. It was the middle of January in Australia and I was huge and swollen and big and uncomfortable and nervous. The longer that bub was in there, I knew the bigger they were growing, making it all the more difficult to get out.

So we met with our Obstetrician and decided we would go for an induction. To get things moving.

In we went. All prepared to have this baby, effortlessly and quickly.

Effortlessly and quickly. I mean, is that true? What the fuck?

But we did. Naively we walked in. Laughing at the events to come.

The gel went in. Off we went for a walk. And within about 45 minutes, the contractions began.

Exciting. It’s happening. After all that time, something was happening. Pain was happening. And off we went back to the hospital.

Fitted with a contraction monitor, my husband would watch with great interest as the little drawing needle would begin to head north. “Oh, this is a big one” he would say. Not surprising to me of course given they were happening in my body.

And on this went for hours. Hours and hours of the up and down. 5 minutes a part. Like intense. And still, no dilation.

“What do you mean it isn’t working?”. I belted out 6 hours in.

“Your cervix isn’t dilating”.

Oh great. I am fucking broken. I can’t even get a baby out of this body.

“So what now?”.

“Well, I think we prep you for a caesarean section”.

“A fucking what? But, this isn’t in my plan. This isn’t what I have researched. I didn’t pay any attention to caesarean section blah blah in antenatal classes. Fuck. No. This can’t be happening”.

And then whomp. Another fucking contraction. Oh the pain. The tears. The snot. The pain.

It was happening. I asked for some more time. Just to see. Surely it would work.

I was given more time. And nothing more happened, except I ended up in more pain and more anxiety.

So, I surrendered to the wishes of the doctor and I before I knew it, I was being wheeled around to the operating room with not gas, not drugs, not pain relief, just a fuck load of pain.

The anaesthetist came in and calmly talked me through what would be happening. At that stage I I didn’t give a shit frankly. I just wanted the pain to stop.

And the wish I desperately made, came true as soon as I curled up into a ball, holding my contracting belly while the gentle doctor gave me the numbing syrup. And the pain, it just dissolved.

I cried with relief and soon, I was capable of speaking. And soon I felt calm. And soon I would hold my baby.

In less than half an hour, I was united with our baby. Big baby. Healthy baby. And the next chapter unfolded.

We became parents, and in the moment I made a decision that I would hand my life over to be of service to this baby and it would be my job in life to provide everything he needed. Always.

In that moment, I gave no thought to the unprocessed pain my body hadn’t expressed. The cutting off of the pain, that seemed to lock in. And lock down. Quite possibly waiting for a time when I might revisit it. To release it.

So it is not a surprise to me, when I visit my acupuncturist and I am asked to describe the pain I say, “Like an unending contraction”.

When I lay on the bed and the acupuncturist checks the meridians that the pain runs on, I am told, “Isn’t it interesting. The exact route of your pain is exactly where we treat women who are in labour”.

“Get out of town”. I say. “Huh, well of course it is. And what is interesting is that it all began to be painful when I started writing about my pregnancy”.

“Might be time to finish that story. To transform the energy?”

“I think you are right”, I say.

And here we are.

Who knows what will happen with my pain. But what I do know, is that;

“Owning our story and forgiving ourselves through the process is the bravest thing we can do.” Brene Brown.

 

So, my precious body. I am so sorry that I was mean to you and spoke harshly about you because you didn’t meet my expectations.

I am sorry for hating on you. I am sorry for not listening to you. I am sorry that you tried to talk to me and I didn’t listen.

I am sorry that you had to endure what you did and then were ignored. For all those times when you wanted a relationship with me and I never thought you deserved it. That you weren’t good enough. That you didn’t act like I wanted you to.

I am sorry. And I ask you to forgive me. And I invite you to pass this pain now. I hear you sweet one. I hear you.

I love you and I am sorry.

Forever yours. Jen. xxx

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My guess is that this wont be the last time I apologise to you.

In a culture that bread suck it up and get on with it, I know there are so many times I ignored you. Left you completely unloved and depleted. And for that I am sorry too. I promise that I will continue to do the best I can to take care of you. Nurture you. Love you unconditionally. It is of course a work in practice.

And I know that you are still learning to trust me, after I have neglected you so much along the way. I’m going to put in the effort to restore the trust. Gently. Ever so gently.

Not wanting to race head long into making changes. That is old way.

New way. To be with you. Not challenge you. But be kind to you.

Dearest body, I love you and I am sorry. How can I make it up to you?

“Just be kind…that is all”, says my body.

“Ok”.

And the journey continues….

 

2 comments on “The Begining of the Break: Part 1.”

The Begining of the Break: Part 1.

Adele’s touching speech at the Grammys yesterday, hit my heart. My life space.

She spoke of losing herself after she had children. Of how tough it was to go through that. And that her most recent album was a way to recover herself. To transform.

So me. I was touched. And I wanted to share my break.

She going to get all out there with this one.

She going to hit the topic that, when felt deeply, well, it can sting. In a lot of ways.

The whole reason that this website exists is because I had children.

The whole reason I do what I do now is because I had children.

The reason I have some of the most soul connected friends I have, is because I had children.

But having children was so suck arse for me in the early days!

Having children absolutely sucked arse for me in the beginning. It bit so hard. So hard  that I was sure I was breaking.

And on reflection, I think I did.

I did break.

Those of you who know my story, know that I was dropped into the new would of parenting at like full speed. A

In Feb 2005 I was pregnant. In March 2005, I was not.

In April 2005 I was pregnant again.

Within 3 months I rode the upward journey on the rollercoaster of elation to be pregnant with a baby. A little baby that my partner and I had created all by ourselves, somehow.

We rode the fast decent on the rollercoaster when we learned that our little baby didn’t actually have a heart beat.

“It’s totally common” they said. “1 in 4 pregnancies end like this”. “At least you can fall pregnant”, I was told.

Well fuck. Yes, but I lost our little baby!

6 weeks later, those same symptoms I had experienced the first time came back. Could I be pregnant already?

Yes.

And up goes the rollercoaster.

I decide that I would leave my job that I had to travel over 2 and half hours each day in the car to get to and from. A tough decision. But I wanted a healthy baby, and I could start again after the baby.

6 weeks later, a visit to the loo left me in fragments again. Blood. So much blood. Blood you just do not want to see when you are pregnant.

Fuck.

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And the rollercoaster heads south again and I just wanted the fuck off it. This is not fun.

I call the doctor and say I am not coming in for my scan, “I’ve lost another baby, I sob”!

Gently, the receptionist reassures me and we venture in.

Rollercoaster off the rails.

I don’t want to look at that fucking screen again and see no heart beat. I’d rather not thank you very much.

Again, gently lead, I lay down. Not breathing. Not looking. Not really there.

The gel. The scan.The wooshy sounds.

I still can’t breathe.

And then I hear it.

Whoosh. Whoosh. Whoosh. A whoosh that I knew was a little heart.

In inhale deeply and turned my head to see a little thing on the screen and a little flicker happening inside it.

“It’s alive?” I say through the tears?

“Yes, you have a baby in there for sure”.

And the tears fell. The relief. The rollercoaster back on the rails and slowly moving forward, ever so slowly.

Dr B keeps exploring the space where the baby lives.

Silent.

Intrigued.

I could feel something else was there.

I looked intently with him.

“There is something else I can see in your uterus with the baby. I’ll need to send you off for a more accurate scan”.

What do you mean something else? What the fuck do you mean?

Not another baby?

Then what the fuck?

And off we go for the next scan.

At this point, I am so out of the rollercoaster. Off it. No more play thanks! Fuck it. I am not feeling any more of this shit.

And numb.

The scan revealed that I had this thing called a sub-chorionic-heamatoma. This is what it looks like.

Basically, I had a bruise in my uterus.

A bruise that would grow as the uterus stretched and could in fact rupture and if it did, would take the baby with it.

Are you fucking kidding me?

Right.

Ok.

So, I did what I always had done. I just got on with life…all the while stressing so big that I was going to lose  my baby.

Every time I went to the toilet there was blood. Lots of blood. A thing that as a pregnant women just doesn’t make sense to the brain. It sees danger. It sees bad shit. It sees, something is going to go wrong here.

And I pushed the fear, the terror, the sadness aside and I got on with it.

My partner and I were planning a wedding, building a house. I had to get on with it.

And get on with it I did…and it isn’t until later, the truth of the experience bubbled up…and when it did….I was sure I was breaking…..

[see you next week for part 2]

2 comments on “It is official and I just don’t know how much time I have left!!”

It is official and I just don’t know how much time I have left!!

So my friends. It is official. I AM DYING.

It has been confirmed. And I am not sure how much time I have left, all I know is I am dying.

It is a sad and yet very real truth.

So before I say good bye, I have to say this.

2 comments on “Life Gave Me What I Needed..And Not What I Expected!”

Life Gave Me What I Needed..And Not What I Expected!

I turned 40 this year, and for my birthday, my hubby gifted me 5 nights at this completely exclusive retreat nestled away in the hills of Tallebudgera, Gwinganna.

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2016 didn’t go as I had planned. In fact, the last few years haven’t gone as I had planned. I’ve had some stormy seas to navigate for sure. And the older I get I see that the wisdom of life is far greater than any wisdom that I have accumulated. If it is even wisdom.

2016 gave me the gift of physical ailments.

More than I had had before and pretty brutal ones.

So when the opportunity came for me to go and ‘heal’ and at the same time celebrate the next chapter of my life, at Gwinganna, um, I mean….blessed life right??

But truth be known, I went into Gwinganna wanting desperately to heal. To be better. To get rid of the illness completely and restore my body to it’s natural and happy space. I had high expectations. I had paid a lot of money. I had work to do in the world that was being inhibited by the lethargy. The pain. The heaviness.

I went to Gwinganna with the intention to rest. Recover. Restore. And I had the EXPECTATION that when I did that, for 5 days, all my symptoms would just go. Be gone. You know where this is headed hey?

While I was there, I forwent all the usual things that I would participate in.. All the mystical stuff like The Journey Work and Equine Therapy…mostly because I have done so much of this kind of thing in my life and instead replaced it with loads of massages, Ayurvedic treatments, Rockupuncture and nurturing. I chose all the gentle activities, where as the previous version of me would have chosen the high intensity stuff. I chose the softer more yin activities. I chose a different way.

“Yes. I’ll do all of those things because they will heal me. This place will heal me. Good. Lets get on with that”.

Some of you might know I have struggled to fall in love with yoga again after transitioning from something I love to something that became work when I began my yoga teacher training. It went from ‘ahhhh’ to ‘agggggrrrrrr’. And lots of things contributed to this, but mostly my EXPECTATION of how it would be. How it would go. How I would feel. And what it would GIVE me.

So when yoga was the yin option for one of the morning activities I thought, “good, I’ll give it a go, I know how much it helps heal. Maybe I will fall back in love with it”.

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The teacher was awaiting us. Poised. Still. Ready. All the mats were laid out. Bolsters by the side and blankets to snuggle under during Shavasana. All I had to do was be present with my body.

I stepped on to my mat and we began. I exhaled. Ahhhhh. Yes. Here we are. This is home. Bend. Breathe. Stretch. Inhale. Exhale. Ahhh. Oh yoga, I do love you and my body loves you. I am so pleased to be home. Mmmm. Yummy.

And then it happened. True to form, true to my old ways what did I do? My mind went wandering off to how I was looking forward to resuming my teaching training again. My mind ran off to all the things I had not been doing, how I had wasted all this time and how I needed to get moving on it again. And just as I exhaled, what did I do?

In a simple lunge, I did what a lot of flexible folk do. I did what I often do in my life and in that moment I saw a direct reflection of how I can do life when I am not fully aware and present. I completely over-stretched. Completely. And instead of re-adjusting, I pushed. Instead of listening I ignored. And, in that moment, I created a pain that was to haunt me for the next 5 months. Ha. A direct refection of how I can do life sometimes.

Shit.

Shit.

Bugger.

Great.

Dick!

So after the class, I did what everyone does at Gwinganna, I booked in another massage. But not a relaxation massage. No. Not a gentle massage. A remedial massage. And a deep one. Oh, the pain!

But I deserved it…right?

The other thing at Gwinganna that is challenging for some is the quiet time. Lots of quiet time. And often when us busy folk get quiet time…well, that is when our minds find the perfect opportunity to fill you in on EVERYTHING you haven’t been really paying attention to in the busy and the numb.

My crazy flat mate mind was on fire. “Jen, you came here to get fixed. To get better and now you are more broken than when you came in. All that money. All that time you could have been doing other stuff. If only you came when you were fucking healthy it would have been more worth while. Jeezus. What a waste”.

 

They kept on. Louder.

“Right”, I thought. “I have been doing this life thing long enough….you know what to do”.

So, I did what I have learnt to do and did it with reluctance and resistance. But I did it.

I retreated to my glorious room. I sat on the meditation cushion provided to all the guests and I did the thing I knew would help….but before I did, I got up off my cushion, I had to make my bed, straighten up my clothes, write a list of stuff I wanted to do when I left Gwinganna…and if we had mobile reception I would have text someone or checked Facebook or some other numbing-esk behaviour…I did all the procrastination things I could….

And then.

I sat.

Heart racing.

Breath shallow.

And I took a deep breath. And another. Reassured myself and it began.

I let my mind chatter and chatter AND chatter some more. Loud chatter. Some unintelligible. Mean. Horrible. Judgemental and harsh. I invited all of the chatter to be presented in one big foul go. I sat. Body so tight. Tears streaming down my face. The monkey mind went for it. Screeching. Yelling. Laughing. Mocking. I noticed the pain in my hip. And more mean. More bitter.

And isn’t it true, that actually, it isn’t the mean things that people say about us that hurts…really? Because isn’t it true in our silent moments we are far meaner to ourselves than anyone else could be to us?

We wouldn’t speak out loud those mean things to anyone we loved, would we? Would we? Would you spit venom at your best friend calling them all the worst things in the world? Would you?

But we do it so effortlessly to ourselves.

So I sat and I listened.

AND I ALLOWED MYSELF TO FEEL THE FULL FORCE OF IT.

To feel the disappointment. To feel the miss in expectations. To feel the judgement. To feel the hurt. The pain. To feel it. To allow it. To be with it. To hold it.

I brought in my internal nurturer to hold me as I took the hits. And I listened. And listened. And soon it sounded really sad. Not mean. Just sad. And soon, I saw the thoughts as really pained children. Sad. Neglected. Unheard. And soon, I softened. My body loosened and I let go. And I cried. Big cry. Snot flying self soothing sob.

And I felt it release.

And I could see myself as an imperfect human who had had seen that she was broken and needed fixing. But what she needed was to be heard, not judged and to be loved.

Just like we all want.

I am a recovering fixer. And when people come to me, my instinct is to fix.

And what I have come to see, is that I have been relentlessly trying to fix myself. But actually, all I needed to do was to listen to myself and to love all the dark and light aspects of myself.

And the more I do that, the less I want to fix others. Instead, I can hear them, offer some love and maybe an alternative perspective and then allow them to have their own life experience and find their own way back to themselves.

I am a recovering fixer and today, once again, I put down my tools.

I don’t need fixing. I just need to be loved. And that is my one job! Because when I do that, the love of others is effortless.

Turns out, life has a funny way of giving us what we need, not what we EXPECT we need!

Speak kindly to yourself

Big, big love

Jen

xxx

jen-18

 

 

0 comments on “It is official and I just don’t know how much time I have left!!”

It is official and I just don’t know how much time I have left!!

So my friends. It is official. I AM DYING.

It has been confirmed. And I am not sure how much time I have left, all I know is I am dying.

It is a sad and yet very real truth.

So before I say good bye, I have to say this.

My friend, YOU ARE DYING TOO!

Now before you get all, ‘dar, of course we are deush bag, you scared me there I thought you were ACTUALLY dying!!!” I just want to consider this TRUTH that we all KNOW but kinda don’t actually want to consider.

Deeply consider.

Immediately the brain will go into survival mode and us in a state of alert.

“Holy shit, I am dying. Shit. What do I do? What have I done with my life? Shit. How do I stop this from happening?”

So, lets just take a breath…no, I am serious, you and me, take a breath now! Inhale deeply into your belly and exhale all the old air out. And, if you are feeling really scared that you are dying, maybe you take another one!

I’m not minimising the absolute pain it causes when we lose someone we love deeply. I am not minimising the distress real painful death causes.

But beauty, here is the truth.

If you are not living a vibrant and expansive and growth-kind-of-life, you may as well have a terminal illness.

In my 20’s I learnt the biggest learning about life…and death. I had taken a job doing 12 hour night shifts in an oncology unit. These people were proper dying. Chemotherapy kind of dying. Bone cancer kind of dying. Brain tumour kind of dying.

I was blessed to work nights in that unit, because it was at night I could hear the sobbing. It was at night I had the time to sit with these folks. It was at night the regrets surfaced. It was at night I got schooled on life.

3 patients have stayed with me since that time on the oncology unit. I want share one of those life teachers lessons and pay homage to a woman who would never have known how much she would influence my life.

Mary. A woman in her late 60’s who had spent her entire life committed to running a corporate business. She was a passionate woman and made the decision in her 30’s to commit to her job and forgo the family life. The mainstream life. She told me of all her  glorious travels. She told me of the money she had made. The safety of her role in the company she ran for over 25 years. The friends she had met.

I was captivated and loved listening to her.

We both looked forward to our chats and the reminiscing.

Mary spoke so positively about her decision to not have a family and to commit her energy to her job. I admired that. At that time I wan’t sure how I felt about having a family. I thought I’d just have dogs really. Not kids (side not, I have no dog and 3 kids).

Then one night, when I was doing my rounds, I found Mary sobbing. Proper ugly cry, snot flinging sobbing. My heart. Oh my heart. I can still remember.

When she finally caught her breath, we talked. And she shared honestly. Deeply honestly with me. And I can still remember like it was last night I was with her. I still have th journal entry about it!

She said, “I married my job. I chose that. And it is not that makes me sad. What makes me sad is that I didn’t LOVE my life. I never questioned if that is what my heart really wanted. Truth be known I was too afraid. And now, as I lay in this bed dying, I see that I have no family, no friends and the folks that I used to work with, well they are still working. Jenny, I am dying and I don’t think I mattered to anyone. Don’t ever follow anything other than your heart and create a life you love”.

Ugh……still gets me!!

You and I came here, this one time, in this unique form in this unique experience. Not ten years ago, not 120 years ago (welllll, maybe you are the oldest person alive reading this..if you are “hi”, how honoured am I?”

You came here, in this unique form, with all your unique gifts, this time around.

Consider that.

Don’t you think that is fucking miraculous? FUCKING miraculous.

And my beauty, how is it that you are spending your life right now?

Watching cat video’s and being pissed off in your job and bitching and moaning about grumpy people you heard talking about how many grumpy they are in the world?

I mean, really? Is this how we want to treat our one precious life.

Are you spending it all up in other peoples business, telling them what they ‘should’ be doing and you aren’t actually doing what you know you ‘should’ be doing in your own life?

Are you gossiping and poo poo-ing folks behind their backs?

Steven Pressfield in his book, “The War of Art” talks about this really, real thing called ‘resistance’ which in simplest terms is about us feeling this internal push back when we want to follow this ‘inner calling’ thing.

It’ll be the parent who suddenly says they desperately need your help (when they have been refusing it for years), just when you are about to step into a new creative direction.

It’ll be the school fees at the private school you are busting to pay for for your child so they might have a ‘better life than yours’..poor kid is going to carry that burden (don’t worry…they need something to go to therapy for”.

Then the story we make up is, “oh, see I am not meant to do that, the universe obviously doesn’t want that to happen”. Is it the universe or is it YOU?

Sweet beauty.

You want to quit just like that?

Well of course you do. You are terrified of what will happen if you actually follow that calling thing.

You are afraid that you will look like a dick if it doesn’t ‘quite work out’.

You are afraid that there will be folks saying, “I told you so, you should have just stayed in that suck-arse-life-taking-piece-of-shit-job where you feel like your life is being completely vampired”!

You are afraid that all that thinking, dreaming and plotting may not turn out just like you wanted it too.

You are afraid that you will lose a shit load of money and then feel like a funk-arse failure.

You are afraid that people will be like, “oh but all of that is already done. I mean, do we really need another book/candle/pen/dance/talk/piece of food in the world (insert your thing)?

You are afraid that no one will vibe with your stuff and be like, “Oh well that was a waste of time and money wasn’t it?”

You are afraid that you will be criticised.

You are afraid folks will think you are ‘too good for yourself’ and turn their nose up at you and keep their distance like you are losing your skin and bleeding everywhere.

You are…AFRAID.

And I get it. I SO get it. I get is beyond getting it. I do.

I am afraid too.

No, really I am.

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I am afraid that I am not going to have time in my life to create everything I want to create.

I am afraid that I will be on my own on this creative adventure.

I am afraid that people will think I know all the fucking answers to all the pain and problems in the world.

I am afraid that I am not enough. That I haven’t done enough. That I am not good enough.

I am afraid that all the money I have invested in training, and development and learning and everything is not going to produce what I want and will be a waste of money.

Yes, I am afraid.

I am.

I am afraid AND I am doing it anyway. It isn’t completely clear, it isn’t really defined. But I follow the calls. The next call. And the next.

Not because it is perfect (um, not even close to it). Not because I know exactly what I am doing but because the risk of NOT doing it FAR too great for me NOT to!

I don’t want to spend this one precious life waiting. Waiting until I feel enough. Waiting for the ‘right’ time. Waiting until someone gives me permission to follow the calling that just wont stop.

The calling is not a ‘thing’ or a job title or a particular event.

It is a calling to show up in my life.

It is a calling to do more of that stuff that just makes time pass effortlessly.

It is a calling to notice the things that feel constrictive in my body and notice the things that feel expansive.

It is a calling to create a life instead of complain about a life.

It is a calling to be curious and open and to never really ‘know’ all the answers.

It is a calling to serve.

It is calling to be fucking kind to myself, to honour myself and try stuff. And fail. And learn. And grow. And try.

It is a calling that will not quit.

AND IT IS A CALLING TO SHARE WHAT I LEARN ALONG THE WAY!

This, where I sit right now, typing to the one person (that is you) that is reading this is my calling!

To share my life adventure so that you might be reminded that you are not alone. That I too am afraid. AND that we can still do it anyway!!

To remind you of your strength in your uniqueness. And your strength in your sameness. You are strong. You ‘know’ you can do this thing, you are just afraid.

To remind you that each house in the world has a table in it, but it ins’t the SAME table, made by the SAME person. NO, there are tables made all over the place for all kinds of settings, tastes, colours, shapes. I mean…come on!

SO if you are afraid that it has already been done, it hasn’t been done your way.

If you afraid that it is going to cost you too much, start by sussing it with your friends. Talk to a trusted friend. Not a blow smoke up your arse friend, and not a friend that is a scared as you, but a friend that will give it to you straight. AND love you deeply.

Beauty, I am dying. And, when I get to the end and look back, I want to know that I have loved. I want to know that I gave it a red hot crack at creating a life that I am proud of. That I showed my kids what it is to not just talk about my dreams, but let my gifts unfold into reality. That I was SUPER kind to myself through the process.

So, can we hold each other accountable, right now? Can we commit to quit the bitching about our spouses, our friends, our bosses, and other bitch-worthy shit?

AND instead, turn our attention in and ask, “what kind of person do I want to be in this world and what do I want to create?”.

Life is precious. Life is oh so short. You just don’t know how much time you have left!

Oh and Mary, if you can hear me on the other side, know that you mattered to me more than we will ever really know!

Sending you big, big love

Jen

xxx