A Memoir of Mind, Body, Spirit:
From Heartbreak to Breakthrough & Shadow Life to Life as Art
An affluent, dependent wife and full time mother moves her family to the South of France where her marriage and ideals dissolve and she comes face to face with her shadow. The death of her former life leads to a rebirth and an awakened relationship to herself, creativity, and even reality.
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EXCERPTS
I can’t tell you anything about limelight, spotlight, or the highlights. What I know are lowlights, moonlight, how to walk without light. I know what lurks in the dark. I know my way around this cave.
I really don’t know how this whole life thing works. I don’t know if manifesting is real, or if fucking thoughts become fucking things.
Here’s what I do know: I know that I am here. I know Now. And I know Love. Those are three top shelf things right there. THE top three.
If I can’t bask in the light of this cosmic, phenomenal jackpot of those three truths, then nothing else will be worth a damn.
This was a one-way journey and the only way I saw forward was by completing the cycle through the underworld.
It was a dark period, a chrysalis phase during which I was liquefied.
The impulse to fly was already built into my cells, which only made the urge to unfurl even stronger.
I tried and tried to get free.
But while I could barely see a hand in front of my face, the shadows on these cave walls knew my name.
Of that much I was certain.
Keep your early birds, your perfect bodies, your popular and your coolness.
Give me your misfits, your artists, the kind nerds, menopausal airheads, and failures. The ones who can stare out the window and be considered productive if only we could monetise contemplation.
Keep your sensational, successful, the beautiful, up at 5am rich and famous winners. What about the night owls who sleep till noon? What about the lunchbox makers? What about the unknowns with no social media influence, what about the failures? Who will be their heroine?
Who do I elect as judge and jury of whether or not I can live with myself? A publisher? An agent? My bank account, jean size, my bathroom mirror?
If I should fail to accomplish my goals, must I curl up and die in shame? If I fail I’ll do it with style, with grace, gratitude, humility, awe, with laughs, beauty, love, inspiration, friends, family, candlelight, nature, and music.
Our spirit is such a self-generating, terminator badass that it keeps rising up, inner light shining bright in whatever dark places we find ourselves. Always wanting us to be happy.
There is a God for almost anything: the god of sun, the god of rain, goddess of love, war, even a patron saint of lost items.
Failure is the most powerful catalyst for growth and art. So, whether in robes or rags, even Failure deserves a seat at the table. And maybe even a throne.
It takes ferocity, my love. To see the fig trees which grow of their own accord. And the fishes in all the seas. The abundant Eden of your evergreen awareness that allows every single thing to be. It takes ferocity to see your cosmic beauty and keep it safe from the predator of blindness. See your wholeness. See that your awareness is not only enough. It’s everything.
As autumn deepens and the night creeps forward and forward I know I’ll feel that ache of longing at the end of each day. The darkness asking me if I siphoned enough love from the hours. The answer feeling like, No.
The Christmas songs in the distance will herald their approach. And I know they’ll parade their glittering fandango all over my fucking porch. Asking me if this year will be any better. The answer feeling like, Yes.
Because for once I’ll have chosen Myself. My hearth. My love. Over the lack of yours.
I won’t play cool with myself anymore That feels worse than the echo of any Christmas carol.
I’d rather fall in love with being sober than go on drinking your KoolAid.
My job is just to recognise beauty and make what I can of it, even if it’s just to sense it. To feel the spirit of the moss which grows through the cracks of a city wall, through the caverns of a broken heart, through the rubble of shattered dreams. The spirit which Dylan Thomas called “the force that through the green fuse drives the flower”.
There is no security in this life, except in the knowing that I am part of it and it is a part of me. It makes ninjas of us all and provides a last name of honour to belong to something that no academy award nobel prize winner can understand, claim, or take away from me. Even on my darkes day in my lowest hour, I am always this miracle of coolness.
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