Mother Earth Writes in Her Pajamas

I long for the days when I wrote anonymous blogposts, before I “knew” things, before I became an “author.” I long for the mornings of sitting in my pjs, scribbling thoughts into my journal, typing snippets onto Blogspot. I long for slower times when people engaged with blogs, before thoughts were reduced to status posts, and comments were more than emojis. I long for the time when typos were not a sign of my value as a writer and thoughts didn’t have to be complete or reduced to “5 Easy Steps.” So today, I take back my sovereignty. I remain in my pjs, open my journal, and share… no point, no editors, just my cat and me scratching out our hopes and dreams.

The sacred dream … a story that brings meaning and direction to life. “This story is like a map with trails than can lead you on an epic journey to a worthwhile destination.” Alberto Villoldo, The Heart of the Shaman

Guiding Cards for 2019 Threads as trails … I wrestle with the idea of always needing, desiring to get somewhere. To make a decision. The results-driven yearning and stretching. What’s in it for me? What do I create? Who is it for? What does it mean?

I wonder where gratitude intersects with compassion. Cat in my lap. The purr. Why does he purr and press his paws down on my hand? I feel the weight of his existence, his need for my help—not help to purr, but to feed and water him and clean up his shit. Is that the earth mother? The one who feeds and nurtures? The tender? I call myself a tender, but am I really? What’s in it for me? That pesky voice persists.

This. Here. Now. This is what’s in it for me. A family raised and raising. Rising. A home—solid and comfortable, filled with beauty and, for the most part, contentment. A daughter willing to sink into my arms in tears and then have conversations about zero waste, sustaining the earth, allowing Mother Earth to sustain us. Is that enough? Is that my sacred dream? Maybe … but I see my story as bigger, broader—the deck and book pouring through me rather than out of me. A vessel. A container to be poured out and filled again.

And so I’m stuck with this thought, this place, this question of where I’m going. What is my sacred dream? My dream is to live the sacred moment by moment, to create for the love of creating—be it food or art or vacuuming the rug. To be present where I am. To be Earth Mother who holds all without expectations or consideration of time or age or income. She sustains and adapts. She weathers the wild fires. She writes in her pajamas and shares because she is called to share.