Personal Magic

Personal Magic

Seasonal journeying

My new guided meditation is live!

This season, I introduce the wonderful magic of my soundtrack producer (she is sound engineer, composer and director rolled up into one fantastic person). She’s woven all the elements together beautifully, adding support and depth to your journey with me.

It’s free to sign up. Head over to Goddess Kindled to find out more, and join the Tribe!

Welcome to your personal magic.

Face to the sun

Face to the sun

When I’m in the middle of the devastation feeling like nothing I create is worth noticing, and I’m caught in the trance of crushing any pretentious notions of worthy endeavour I dared to dream into existence yesterday, I know it is a temporary state of being.

It has only taken me forty years to get here.

And, even though I know in my head that the cycle will continue — tomorrow, I will turn into the next phase of my particular creative flowstate; even though I have learnt the skill of pulling backwards just half a step in order to observe, to not be utterly consumed by the emotional vortex — I don’t entirely believe it.

My heart resists. My softest places whimper.

Yet, here I am, inside the tomorrow that yesterday, I was certain would be filled with the proof of my sly iniquity. The day that everyone would see through my clever disguise, which is absolute truth by the time I get to the other side of the circle.

The other side of the circle is where every awesome sparkle of my being sings with delight.

Mine is kind of a lop-sided circle, more of an oval, really. Most of the time, the awesome sauce is slathered all over my skin and I slide around inside the wonder of it all, marvelling at the magic of the universe.

Or, maybe, it is more of an infinity symbol, with the parts that make me cringe living inside the smaller loop. Yes, that feels a more apt description.

Today is one of the cusp days. The first day since mid-winter that the light and dark of the world shift in favour of the sun.


Being vulnerable

Being vulnerable

I’m sporting a lovely new cold sore on my top lip. It was shocked into existence this afternoon by a few happenings:

#1 – I realised I might have made a fool of myself.

#2 – Someone I admire requested me to dive deeper into myself and then write about it.

#3 – One day in the not too distant future, I will be talking to a possibly world-wide audience about what I wrote in item #2.

I’ve been tapping all afternoon to stop the cold sore going ballistic. It’s working, thankfully. The self inquiry woven into the tapping eventually brought me to one pattern in particular, which I have never before been able to vocalise.

Context: tapping – EFT – Emotional Freedom Techniques (one of the therapies I used with clients of my healing practise).

The reason I struggle with untangling this pattern is, it is a paradox. I worry I won’t get what I deserve; but, I worry I won’t deserve what I get. At least, I can see the circle, now. Time to tilt it on it’s axis and spin that sucker into a spiral, then jump on for the ride and trust there is no knobbly banister-type stopper at the end of the slide, waiting to goose me.

My life is a series of magical moments. I write magical realism, because it is the way I see the world. Connections and threads, and sometimes, a bannister too shiny and inviting not to straddle.

A charmed life

A charmed life

I have never claimed to be consistent, especially with regard to my emotional state. Goddess love me, it’s like four seasons in one afternoon, some days. And, generally, not in the order nature intended them to be.

My habit of changing habits often and without warning can be maddening to those who love me. But, it is also one of the reasons they love me.

It has taken what feels like eons to be okay with that (maybe, is has been eons). Lovely one, it is not my responsibility to make sure you are coping with the inconsistent, maddening and completely charming ways I move through my life.

When I am holding sacred space for someone else, the matter is different. My regard is entirely for you, then.

Learning how to do the same for myself is part of why I write these articles and share them with you.

It is wonderful to observe the way I react to your reactions, or lack thereof. I can tell how blocked I am around a certain subject, notion, or idea; by the amount of free-flowing grace I experience each time I release my innermost thoughts into the world.

It’s getting generally less terrifying. So, that’s good.

When I extol my visions and plans, I’m also learning how to give loved ones a smidgen of context to go with my randomness. This produces smiles of relief, which are a joy to behold! This tiny addition also goes a long way to eliminating that simmering tension which has, for as long as I can remember, existed just below the surface of my life.

No guessing. No demand for said loved one’s approval before I can roll around and get all sticky in my awesome dreams. Weird, slight nausea relief: achieved!

Shifts in thinking impact profoundly on all levels. There is the obvious physiological shift — relaxed musculature, deeper breathing, and so on. Then, as we shimmer into the less visible realms, our emotions and spirit feel the changes.

Thoughts are powerful medicine.

Being real

Being real

There is an old pattern circling the drain of my psyche. It is the gross wad of hair we will affectionately call, Knotty. Knotty reminds me that I am shy and insecure. And, certainly not good enough to do the thing I want to do.

Danger! Danger!

Problem is, by the time I notice Knotty these days, I am already in the middle of doing the thing I am supposedly incapable of doing. Last night, I was actually finished doing the creative business thing (and being completely awesome and magical in the process) and had moved on to spooning a large helping of pumpkin curry into a bowl, before I noticed Knotty. I guess that is the definition of an ingrained pattern. Every time I look away, I forget it’s there.

Even so, the pattern tries with all its might to remind me what I am.

The thing is, I’m not shy and insecure. I seem to have been something else for quite some time, now. I am talking out loud to people I admire about my work and not feeling the need to pretend to be anything more (or less) than exactly what I am. I’m not vigilant for moments when I can casually allude to a mystery about myself that might lead the admired listener to believe I am interesting and capable.

I am using direct language, and finding it exhilarating.

Being real all the time is not a decision. It is my natural state of being. I am relaxed without that irritating grain of nausea in the back of my stomach, because at any moment someone is going to realise I am not good enough.

Holy crap!

I’ve passed through the magical green door that waits patiently in the most secret corners of the universe for unsuspecting voyagers. I didn’t even have to paint it black. (I’m pretty sure I’ve just mangled the meaning of that snippet of lyric and managed to either offend someone, or make them laugh.)



My instinct for self-protection is deep. It’s rooted in my childhood, maybe in past lives, or dream lives that recur. It is a dark entity disguised as safety.

I’ve been in a holding pattern. I almost gave up. Remember that, a few weeks ago? That was before I ran away from all the words that might give freedom to the scary feelings. Conveniently, I accidentally ingested gluten and was consequently out of action for a few days.

Then, a few more.

It didn’t seem possible that I had slipped so badly and eaten an amount to warrant this kind of physical distress. Then, I caught a cold. How extraordinarily convenient. Success coupled with someone questioning my process is all it takes for me to dissolve. Especially when that success is gaining momentum and I open up to the excitement and energy of the ride, only to slam into self-doubt in the form of a loved one who challenges my why.

If I were truly centred, and trusted my direction and motivation, this would not be an issue at all, would it? This pattern is old and worn, like a comfortable and stretched out knitted jumper. It has holes and a few patches, and it stretches right up over my head when I need to disappear.

The prospect of failure is terrifying.

Failure itself is not a huge deal. I’ve failed before and learned my most exciting lessons. If I try and fail all by myself, without anyone else knowing about it, I find it exhilarating and kind of trippy. Anticipating judgement should I fail, though, that is the corrosive agent.

Understand what I am saying. It is not the act of failure, nor the actual judgement of someone other than myself that is the instigating horror. Once those things have been enacted, they simply are. I can deal with that.

The thing that rots, that worms its way into my psyche, is already there inside the apple of my mind.

It is only ever me.

Half Strung Bow

Half Strung Bow

There were already strings in my bow when I became an indie author.

I’m not talking about having a bow, half strung. However, one with loose strings, frayed and flying from previous symphonic madness … probably, I was waving that like a flag as I staked my claim on this authoring path.

Regardless, I always have had and always will have a bow that is strung completely and perfectly. It must be so. I tend to get edgy when things don’t line up. Things like the edges of a book that I surreptitiously tap with gentle fingers until it is square with the corner of the table.

Like any accomplished reader of the score of life, I must restring my bow at the appropriate moments, and slather on the rosin at others.

I didn’t come to this career without foreknowledge. I bring with me a wealth of understanding and depth of self-knowing that serves my stories and characters more thoroughly than being able to spell complicated words.

Although, I generally manage to do that without hiccough (because I think it’s cool).

Point is, everyone has a path littered with shredded bits of bow trailing off behind them. There are even chips of wood and some completely shattered frames on mine.

That’s okay, find a likely looking tree beside the path, and get whittling! I only cut my fingers on very special occasions, and rarely on purpose, these days.

My release of limiting beliefs has unleashed an awesome fearlessness. It’s simultaneously bizarre and hilarious. I sit on my own shoulder, observing the wonderful madness of me, going ahead, and doing the work I feel drawn to create. And, I don’t care if nobody except me falls in love with the result.

Such daring. {My latest bit of daring.}

I read that last line and have to laugh with an unrestrained blatt of vocal eruption — it’s just so damn funny. Because, now, the daring doesn’t leave the cloying aftertaste of fear behind.