I've been feeling it for a while now, that subtle yet undeniable urge to move just a little bit faster than my journey naturally wants to go. I am standing on a threshold at the moment, a full body-being shedding of skin. Having walked the last year or so being called to practice the art of space, of rest, of ease, of saying yes to "not doing," has called me to the table of a new conversation within myself. New questions around balance, time and need all coaxing me to uncover a holy part of myself that has gotten very little attention all these years. At first, I soared in the sweetness of a long awaited exhale, one that I didn't even know I needed. And then the real work began. My inner fire goddess, my muse, my wild woman all being thrust into this new and albeit awkward art of softness. The fierce work became taking the fierce out of the work. A request for a deeper commitment, a soulheart promise to trust the current to carry me while I let go of the doing. And so I floated, and walked and stumbled and fell and went too far and humbly went back wandering in wonder these vulnerable paths of space and rest and ease and newness until I arrived. Arrived at the moment where what was once new, was no longer new anymore. The shifting had begun. The ground of space had been layed, the rituals of rest had been summoned, the conversation of ease etched in the promise of lifelong commitment to continual unfolding. And so it was time. Time to begin the shedding of what just a year ago needed to be in the forefront, and now integrated enough to lift my gaze to see more of the horizon I am being asked to journey towards.
So here's the unabashed truth. This molting layer of hard work and becoming hanging on now by just a few threads, like some of those last vibrant leaves clinging to branches. I can feel the pangs of old ways of being calling me to hurry it along. It would take very little to push along the process, just a wee bit of gentle force to shed the old skin entirely. And yet the wise woman deep within my belly is singing her moon songs and asking for patience. Patience and trust in the waning, to wait for the soft wind needed, nothing more than a whisper, to come along and carry the process through organically. To hold on and stay just a little bit longer in the uncomfortable nature of being neither here nor there. For it is in that space between that we are the closest to everywhere. Surrounded by infinite possibility of everything that we are about to step into, of everything that we are about to become as we unfold deeper into who we are. "You are not out of time," she keeps singing. The gentle reminder that those magick sparks illuminating more of the horizon ahead will not fade and disappear if I remain here. Rather they will continue to brighten and expand and reveal where I am being called to go, all that I am being asked to unfold into in this moment of the journey, and perhaps even the path that will lead me there.
And so I stay, exactly here, in the uncomfortable, awkward moments of nowhere and everywhere. Looking out and around to the leaves still embracing branches as they teach me patience in times of shedding and letting go. Looking up to the moon each night as she teaches me (once again) to trust in the process of time in all its glorious waxing and waning. And looking inwards, to who I was, who I am now, and the mystery of who I am just about to become as I celebrate the sacred gift of truly being here.