A few days go by where I find myself jumping out of bed directly into action. Productivity. Yang. Application. Leaning forward. Being a mom. An educator. Available. An activist. An artist. A writer. A wife. A hostess. In no particular order. The greater share of this orientation being toward service, giving, showing up.

This morning, however, I wake before everyone else, even our sweet pups. Rare, as we often rouse in unison. Or if I was writing until the wee hours of the night (I am nothing if not a nocturnal artist whose lifestyle and rhythms have had to adjust with becoming a momma), my husband granting me the greatest gift of an extra couple of hours. Add this to list of reasons I adore him.

I slip out of bed onto the balcony. Deep breath. My lower back hurts from having slept in an awkward position. My quads feel strong from soulcycle yesterday. It is quiet. I feel vulnerable. I yearn for what ritual provides me:

— a presence in my body
— intentionality
— gratitude
— discernment (so many yes’s and no’s to respond to the many requests for my participation, time, consideration. how can I know what my answer is without giving myself a moment to tune in?)

With my eyes closed, I can smell this California air. See the hummingbird. The dragonfly. I can fill my cup (although not with coffee for the time being, this is an experiment).

I am crying now. Grief that I tucked into my chest for how many other things have sprung to the higher regions of my list of priorities. Anyone who says putting yourself first above your young child(ren) must have a value system that diverges from mine. Or perhaps they meant after your child turns 18. My son ever’s well-being and my connection with my husband souleye, as well as my feeling that I am contributing to this planet, often trump the hours alone that my temperament and body crave. But not this morning.

This morning, with a lawn chair perfectly placed to avoid a sunburn, I avail myself of the magic of this southern California “fall” weather with the perfect book on my lap—this particular morning: Women’s Power to Heal by Maya Tiwari. Along with many other gems throughout this book, maya extols the virtues of ritual. And I am reminded of how anchored I feel when I have this kind of triumvirate moment: reading, contemplating, writing. cyclical. opening. reliable. bringing my thoughts, in all their erratic-ness and scariness and brilliance and silliness, into my awareness. dropping me into my heart, into my feelings: sad, excited, afraid, calm, happy, strong (if that’s a feeling, which I don’t think it is. There is rarely a time where there is only ONE feeling. I am a sensitive, after all).

This reading-reflecting-writing ritual kickstarts further rituals, each characterized by the tender and generous energy of allowing…

It allows for looking within for answers, clarity, mission-full-ness, kindness. It allows for the repressed tears, and for the boundaries-borne-from-frustration. It allows for appreciation. It allows for nurturance of a friendship in the form of an email. It allows for clarity around what charity to participate in, and what article to write.

These tears and this deep breathing—they make space for the channeling of art, messages, wisdoms, ideas. Which makes space for shifts and brave steps and visions and transformations and returns-home. This reflective time allows for a re-setting.

There is no candle required this morning, with how gleaming the sun is on my neck. I will save that for just before sleep. When the house is quiet. And it is time to turn within.

FROM RUPTURE TO RAPTURE…

Funny that our feelings of separateness are often the doorways we stumble through in our return to oneness with life.

I can think of countless times when I walked around my city thinking, “Ahhh, I am just a single little drop” and having no connection to this big juicy ocean just a block away. Painful moments. That fundamental kind of disconnection creates everything from loneliness to deep depression to a lack of appreciation for humanity. And I believe that it is because of a severing of our attachment connection, which is our earliest developmental stage—our rooting in this lifetime. Just like couples will go to therapy when they can’t find their connection with each other, perhaps we need much the same support to heal the spiritual abuse that led us to forget the deepest truths of our existence and connection with god.

For many of us, there have been varying degrees of spiritual abuse that have tainted the word “god.” So we scrambled to come up with tenable associations with what spirit means, what spirituality means, what religion means, and, of course, what god means. In some ways, we have thrown the baby out with the bath water. Some of us have settled for spiritual stand-ins that never really satisfy the longing for connection with something greater than ourselves.

Some of us have a religion that we identify with, perhaps one we were born into. And some of us have started from scratch, sewing together a patchwork spiritual life based on what we salvaged from our upbringing, as well as what we have found anew in our journey of “bringing god back into our daily lives.” Whatever the case may be, I think worthwhile questions to ask when carving out a new ritual or spiritual practice—or even when we are looking to deepen one we already have—are these:

— Does this practice foster connection with myself?
— Does spiritual scripture or information support my connection with others?
— Does it support my personal consciousness-raising?
— Does this approach support my and others’ healing?
— Does it cultivate gentleness? Kindness?
— Does this ritual conjure empathy—toward myself and others?
— Does it foster my capacity to understand and be gentle toward my own humanness?
— Does this prayer honor the light in all of us?

If yes…Then thumbs up in nurturing this way of touching the divine.

Or rather….

— Does what I am immersing myself in spiritually incite separatism and divisiveness?
— Does it promote the idea of better than/worse than? (which is the biggest, most painful lie!)
— Are these teachings fueled by a sense of scarcity—scarcity of resources, money, attention, love?
— Is there any exclusivity, where some are deemed worthy of god’s love and others are not?
— Does this spiritual path ask us to stay divided, in pain, depressed or disconnected?

Yes? Then somehow this form of attempting to sense god may just be setting us up for a lifetime of unresolved conflict and war on both micro and macro levels alike.

If there is a rupture, how can we tend to that rupture? Life doesn’t seem to be about the impossibility of not stepping on each other’s toes…for we are all too diverse not to piss each other off at some points along the way. But rather, HOW QUICKLY WE CAN REPAIR OR CORRECT the effects of this rupture? So it is less about stepford interactions, and more about quick course corrects. When and if the rupture heals—how do we feel in our bodies? How do we feel about life? How do we feel about being alive on this planet?

Discovering answers to these questions—answers that are nourishing and uplifting for YOU—is what this section of my site is all about. It is a sanctuary for contemplation and inspiration, for accessing tools and insights for profound reconnection.

How can each one of us foster the knowing that we are irreplaceable drops in the ocean of consciousness? For me, it’s blessed time at the beach, feeling the warmth of sand beneath me as I gaze outward, into the vastness. It’s meditating at my altar. It’s being of service. It’s puttering around my home, clearing space like a wizened, old feng shui master. See my Top 16 Ways to Connect with God-presence for more inspiration on addressing both the rupture and the reconnection.

Spiritual life is an inner and outer dance. From sacred silence to more obvious forms of letting life and god course through us. From shavasana to ecstatic dance. From channeling music to holding a loved on. From showing up to taking a nap. From loving to being loved. Somewhere within all these delicate and colorful human acts, I find my connection to spirit. For all of us, perhaps our greatest spiritual practice is built right in—the in-breath and the out-breath that inextricably links us to that which breathes life into all.

I sit here giddy as I welcome YOU to this site. A place where I, all of me, finally, can land. ALL PARTS. In the 90’s I was made fun of for having many passions, wanting to express in many forms (comedy, design, acting, music, prose, public speaking, dance, science, academia, etc.)—as though we could only be ONE THING. I don’t know anyone who is ONE THING. I have rarely ever felt ONE EMOTION. Or entertained ONE PERSPECTIVE. The only time ONE came into account was when I felt how inextricably linked we all are, how life envelops all. When my drop re-blended with THE OCEAN.

But here, on this site, I get to explore all that I am most passionate about:

Feminism. How the feminine, in both men and women alike, lives and breathes. And how it just might lead us all to SALVATION. A salvation that might be the ONLY thing we globally agree on. How it shows up in politics and business and the economy and relationships and sexuality and schools and parenting, etc.

Art. The millions of epic forms of art. Mine. Others, people whom I respect and bow down to. Design and architecture. Food. Music. Prose. Articles. Commentary. Essential oils. Photographs. Paintings. Jewelry. Clothing. Fashion. Accessories. Smells. Sights. Sounds. Taste. Touch. Sense. Yum.

Travel. Sharing the particular ways that many places around the world have touched me.

Health and Wellness. Body, bones, muscles, endocrine system, food, nutrients, workouts, yoga, sleep, anxiety, depression, hormones, vitamins, herbs, acupuncture, skin, beauty products, DEEP CARE.

Spirituality. Teachers, writings, quotes from me, quotes from others, guided meditations, religions, traditions, lineages, honoring, prayer, ritual, aging, tools of divination, the earth, GOD.

Psychology. Authors, leaders, teachers, science, neurobiology, attachment, development, education, trauma, recovery, temperament, different models, the human condition, HOME.

Relationships. Marriage, dating, break ups, colleagueship, friendship, parenting, community.

All of these I live, eat, breathe, research, write about, ruminate over, process, learn—as student, teacher, and friend. And I have for as long as I can remember. And now—here on this site—I get to let my freak flag fly (knowing it is not even a freak flag) and be myself … in all my complexities and shallowness, my power and fragility, my pain and exaltation.

Welcome to my site.

I am so happy to share this. And I am excited to get to know you, support you, and remind you (and me) that we are super connected in millions of ways while simultaneously remaining utterly unique. With different styles and paces and faces and takes. I share mine. And welcome yours. May you find a landing pad here. A soft place where you can explore and contribute and define yourSELF. And learn and laugh and rest and have a major out-breath. Bless you each. Here we go. Helmets on. 

I vividly remember driving down the Autobahn in Germany, hurtling toward the Black Forest. I was 5 years old, sitting in the back seat of our Volkswagen with my brothers as my parents played Bob Dylan for the first time 

We were living in Germany at the time and would travel by car as we explored many parts of Europe.

After playing Fat Albert games through the back window at several cars passing by and growing tired of the game, my dad thought it was time to illuminate us about one of his favorite artists.

“Sit back and listen to this one, guys. It’ll blow your mind,” he said as he looked at me in the rear-view mirror and squeezed my mother’s hand. It’s as though he had been waiting for this moment for some time.

He played “The Times They Are A-Changin’ ” and “Highway 61 Revisited.” I listened with rapt attention.

I had been exposed to Carole King and Leonard Cohen through listening to my parents’ big record collection. But this Bob Dylan man was new to me, haunting, powerful and storytelling-drenched.

He was someone I might just follow into a towering inferno, if I had only known what those were at that age.

The song stopped, and my dad waited for feedback.

“A real poet, dad.”
“Yes, honey.”
“It’s like he’s pulling the words down from the sky.”
“Yes, they do course through him, sweetheart.”
“I like him. And I like his eyes.”
“I hope you listen to all his songs, Alanis. There is no one else in the world like him.” 
“Yes, he is very special, dad.”

Years later when I was admonished in my teens for writing lyrics that were deemed “a little too stream-of-consciousness” or were “sacrilege for their lack of rhyming,” I remembered that car ride and my dad’s giddiness – and Bob Dylan’s voice and his face on the cover, whom I imagined, in the face of these attempts to shut down my style of writing, saying, “Sounds good to me, Alanis.”

Here I am hiking in Big Sur with Ever in his early days.

Two months ago we were walking down this same road and i told him he had been on this road 4 times already (altho this was the first time he consciously remembered it). He asked me “mommy, why do you love big sur so much?”
I said “well, sweet, this place is close to mommy’s heart because of how breathtaking it is, beautiful. Many writers have written here and there are frogs. and a big big ocean. and rain. and mist.”

“Mommy what is mist?”
“Mist is water, heated up, rising from the ocean, or descending. clouds. water in different shape.”
“ahh..” he said. his brow is furrowed in presence and inquiry.
“and in big sur, there are many many beautiful trees. and sun dappling through the trees….” I say, looking down at his bright gold bed head salt infused wisps of hair flicking up on the ends of his toddler mane.

“mommy, what are dapples?”
“little spots of light, shadows, that make marks on the ground as the sun goes through the trees.”

a sweet silence. His little warm hand grips mine ever more tightly, subtly. heart-crackingly.
“I feel god here ever. i feel love here. like how i love you.”
“Let’s not use the word god mommy.”
“Okay. there are many words we could use to describe it. Wanna use “life”? “energy”? “source”?” i ask him…leaving long spaces between the words for him to contemplate.

he doesn’t respond.

“You think about it ever.”

More space. Breeze sounds. I clock the pfeiffer gravesite path to my right and remember when Ever, himself, found it the last time we walked here. He had pointed in that direction. I followed his finger and found the gravesite.

“ok.” Ever says. I look into his hazel angel eyes. “We can call it god”.

“Okay, Ever. god it is.”

And we walk. I love my boy and i love this place. I really really really love being a mom, to this boy, in this place.