Dear Bigger Body,
It takes my breath away how you came in to me the very second I needed you. Through the most painful and alone part of me you filled me with love that somehow softened the pain. When the world felt too close you wrapped around me like a warm blanket. Stroking my broken and wounded body and soul. Loving me. Making love to me. Always there. Always reminding me that love is always worth the risk. You loved me silently without expecting or needing love in return. Even when I expressed hate and shame at your presence you loved me. And you loved me well. Always around me. Always protecting. Forever weighting. While I slept and hid you held me. You outrageously loved me. And then when I woke to my own beauty you rejoiced. And now as I’m fully moving into the deep fullness of the pain and profound pleasure I feel you slowly releasing with that same love. Every day another arm releases with the love that has always been there. Every day I feel my body releasing more. I love how you continue to outrageously love me in the pleasure and joy. And I especially love how you are loving me the in the joy and ecstasy of release. Thank you, dear Fat, for understanding as I surrender to the wisdom of the Elimination Code within me. Now as I release that which blocks the flow of my life force, that which no longer serves me living my life with ease and grace. Roars of Love, Jennifer
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Two years ago today I was waking up in Africa. I had 2 more days in Africa and then I would have completed one of the most profound experiences of my life. I met many lovers and teachers in the form of animals and land. And there were losses while I was there as well. My brother died while I was there and I was waking up today knowing I would not go home but I would travel to be with my family to honor his life. Thomas died on Dean's 52nd birthday. Another loss in my life but many years before. There was something oddly perfect that Thomas died on Dean's birthday. I envision that Dean was there to welcome him home. As I'm sure my parents were too. And many other beloveds as well. Death is just another gate into a different phase of our soul. As we say goodbye there are those on the other side of that gate welcoming them home. Africa was amazing and hard and in fact, there were moments that I wondered if I had gone there to die. One particular moment that was physically and emotionally hard comes to mind. I asked the Shaman that we were working with if I was in fact dying. His response was, "Perhaps you are dying in a way you hadn't considered before". I'll be honest my eyes rolled up and I thought "what the hell is he talking about". And now I understand more what he meant. Parts of me were dying there. The parts that were blocking growth. I realize now that I began the process of letting parts of myself and my story die long before going to Africa. Africa helped me realize that those dying parts that were no longer serving my living a full life. The year following my trip I felt as though I went into hibernation. It was as though the seeds that were planted in me in the deserts of Zimbabwe and South Africa could grow and flourish. This second year those seeds have grown in me and continue to change me in ways that are painful and so beautiful as well. And I'm discovering in the time since the most profound and important lover and teacher I met in Africa was me. The quote, "We are the ones we have been waiting for", has been said by many. Barach Obama was one of them. And many have said the Hopi leaders first said the quote. And more recently I read that the actual person that first said it was the poet June Jordan who wrote, ‘We are the ones we have been waiting for.’ in her "Poem for South African Women" which she wrote in 1978. And who knows if she heard it from someone else. Somehow for me, that feels the most perfect given that I rediscovered a part of myself with the elephants of Zimbabwe and the white lions of South Africa. Ultimately it doesn't matter who said it first it continues to ring as true every time it is said. Africa allowed me to feel the fullness and beauty of every life and death. But the most important life and death it allowed me to honor and feel fully was my own. "We are the ones we have been waiting for" Hopi Elders Prophecy, June 8, 2000 These are just a few of the lovers and teachers I met on that journey Today is 34 year to the day since you died. It was Labor Day that year as well. September 3, 1984. 34 years without a mother. Without you. 34 years since I looked into your eyes and felt you stroke my hair. Actually, the last time you stroked my hair was the day before you died. I only remembered that a few years ago. Funny how we seem to forget things that seem so important. On Saturday you came home from the hospital. I remember thinking how crazy that was given how ill you were. I remember sitting in the family room with your doctor that day. He said there wasn’t anything else he could do and that you wanted to go home. What was left unsaid was that you wanted to go home to die. I was so angry at him and you. I felt like you were giving up, giving in, ending the fight. But the truth was the fight ended long before that day. But I was a 20-year-old, angry girl that just wanted to be a normal girl that didn’t have to deal with this crap, didn’t have to face living the rest of my life without you. I didn’t want to face that my mother, my beautiful brown haired, ponytail wearing, basketball playing mother was dying and was just giving up. I wanted to run away. So I did. I ran to my girlfriend’s house for the day. But, I had to be back Sunday morning to be with you while dad went to work. I walked into your room and felt so angry. I’d like to say that when I saw you that my anger disappeared but it didn’t. It was still early in the morning so I laid down next to you on the bed. I wanted to be able to hear you in case I fell asleep. Which of course, I did. I woke up to you stroking my head, my hair. It felt like it was washing away all the anger, all the pain, the guilt. the grief. And I kept my eyes closed for a long time pretending to sleep. Pretending I was a little girl again when you would stroke my hair and everything would suddenly be alright. Pretending I had never been angry at you, that I had never run away, that you weren’t dying. At that moment we were just mother and daughter again. A mother, mothering her daughter. And then I opened my eyes and your big brown eyes were staring into mine as you stroked my hair. We smiled into each other’s eyes. It was as though we were the only people left on our own private island, and for a brief moment, everything was ok. And then the next day you slipped away. And I remember thinking that I wished that I had kept my eyes closed longer the day before. If I’d only known that was the last time you would stroke my hair I would have kept them closed so much longer. I’ve been thinking about you a lot lately. I feel you so close in the last few weeks. And as a more mature woman, I realize that lying there with you stroking my hair and looking into your big brown eyes was our goodbye as mother and daughter. I recognize it now for the gift that it was and still is. When I was in Africa with the Lions I felt you. I sat in a group of women with a white lioness and her daughter. As the lions purred and growled I closed my eyes and took a deep breath and remembered. As the sounds of their growls filled my body and soul I remembered who I came here to be. I remembered my inner lioness. I remembered my lineage. I remembered that we are all ONE. And I remembered you telling me I was special. Thank you for being brave enough to tell me I came from the Star People even though I know it scared you. Thank you for helping me find my way home. Faith Leads the Way Home
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