When I was a young child, I dreamed of becoming three things: An artist, an author, and a nun. But my dreams of being anything were stolen very early. It was only later in life when I found painting did I come to know any sort of success. While others earned high school diplomas and graduated from college, my biggest accreditation came from my survival and somehow raising a child as a child myself. People would hear my story and say, “It’s incredible you’re alive and functioning!” And I would soak in that glory because that praise was literally all I had. It felt like everyone else had become somebody. They had a purpose. Drive. All I had was my life, and truthfully, I was barely hanging on.

When I began to search for Spirit, I had long surpassed any goals I ever could have set for myself as an artist. Most were shocked by my latent talent but it was oddly familiar to me. It’s like a greeting a person you always knew you would meet. A friend; an artist. An author. A nun. Finding purpose in art wasn’t easy though and I only found it inside the praise of others. I screamed for mercy at the empty sky. “Artistry alone cannot be my purpose!” That moment gifted the experience of discovery. Of psychic phenomena. Of hope. I created a new life and in it a way to combine reverence with color. It has been a beautiful journey.

I no longer see the sky as empty. I still come to it asking for help. But my body is so tired. This work is so physically taxing. One organ has already failed me and others threaten the same. I am suffering. Toxic big pharma can keep me at pace but I sacrifice my life. I poison my blood. I lose my laughter and my curiosity. I have to remind myself that this space is just a stepping stone. Always, I am just balancing on stepping stones. I am not intended to be here forever, just long enough until I am ready to move ahead.

When I sit with the feeling of my future, I see a teabag in a teacup. The supportive hands of Spirit cradling my body. The warmth of truth and reverence seeping its medicine into my blood. REAL medicine. The soul healing kind. The kind of I imagine to be running in the veins and fueling the path of an artist, an author, and a nun.

Happy full moon in Leo weekend.

This year, I wanted Christmas to be different. I wanted to take charge of myself and my responses in the face of my usual holiday triggers, like feelings of separateness from a lack of strong social circles and family bonding. I didn’t want to mask these feelings of separateness with casual alcohol. I wanted to step beyond my self-worth issues centered around my financial contributions, or how much I could mentally, emotionally, and physically participate in. And of course, to move beyond the crippling holiday sensory overload I experience every year.

But I know that to live in change one must be willing to begin the change. So, I started where I could: my relationship with social drinking. The second I began getting uncomfortable around others was the second I removed alcohol from my equation. Even though I’m a casual drinker at best when I do drink it’s to cope in social situations, which essentially means I drink to protect myself from being uncomfortable. And if I’m not uncomfortable in the situations that challenge me, then I’m not giving myself the opportunity to meet those challenges in a good way.

I also told myself I loved me a lot. Today was particularly hard because I had unintentionally (and irresponsibly) hurt my eldest’s feelings. I reminded myself that being accountable for my mistake is an act of integrity I can be proud of. And that offering a genuine, heartfelt apology through words and action, coupled with an open will to do better next time is enough to earn my own forgiveness and trust back in me.

The New Moon Eclipse hits this hemisphere tomorrow. I’m using this time to not only conceptualize what I want for my life this next decade but also to honor all that I’ve learned along the way. I hope your dreams take good care of you too. ~ Jamie

Tree Rings

They are silent scars,
tree rings,
simple markers of time
that ignores
the story between the lines,
the seasons of starvation,
the winters that lingered,
the days of summer,
of wine and dance,
the wild mistakes and the wilder joys,
the droughts and soft nights of love,
all of them lost in the lines,
each so similar to the next,
markers of age, so easily seen by others,
who cannot know your story in all it’s richness
unless you have the courage to leave the lines behind,
tell your own tale like the bards of old, creating a truth more true than honesty,
more true than markers or memories
or the lies of time.

~Tom Akers

I had a dream where I was standing in the middle of a drumming circle observing the layout around me. Out of the twenty chairs present, all were empty except for two which were occupied by a pair of enormous Anglerfish. Both looked equally grotesque with the odd combination of translucent skin and opaque eyes, and even though their bite was closed, an impressive set of sharp, pointed teeth that seemed taller than the height of their body was on full display.

By their nature, Anglerfish attract their prey by a large, fleshy growth from their heads that acts as a lure. In my dream, on the end of each antenna were the smallest of lights that shone quite brightly in the darkness, but it was only when I viewed it from another angle did I see that the light was made of a jelly and acted as a mask to hide a little hook inside of it.

Both fish remained stationary, completely immobile except for their lighted lures which whipped wildly from side-to-side as though they were searching for something, anything, to feed off of.

Despite the fact that these two fish were absolutely ferocious-looking, I would walk around each undetected, passing through their gnashed jaws and marveling at how something could be so blind to the world and so transparent to others, but still, somehow manage to get exactly what they wanted. I was completely and utterly confused by them.

"But they are supposed to be guardians," I said out loud. "Why are they so fearsome?"

An elder appeared at that moment, a little old lady wrapped up in layers of clothing and a staff in her hand. She wore the hide of a spotted animal draped around her shoulders with two braids parted on either side. She took her staff and stilled the antenna of one, pointing to the little light that shone brightly at the end, saying,

"A light is still a light. Only the soul gets to decide how it's used." And with the thud of her staff connecting to the ground, I woke.