A Holler From The Heart In 2016.
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Our hearts are exploding. Bombs are exploding. The geopolitics of our time are playing havoc with our souls.
We are bursting with outrage, sorrow, joy, shame, guilt, confidence… name your emotion game. We have a hangover from the holidays. We facilitated conversations for the higher good, and became target practice for those who were less open-minded. We are a surging force of consciousness.
An uprising towards peace. We apologize. We own our sh*t (more than last year).
We are green, or attempt to be, go on juice fasts, protest the patriarchy, are pro-gender revolution (yeah, yogi-dudes), buy local, volunteer, contribute, are disgusted with politics, feel the need to engage in politics, want radical change, for ourselves and the world.
Yet all the steps of soul-care seem insufficient in the face of towering interpersonal and global challenges. Yes, we want more down time. Yes, we desire more connection, real intimacy for real, honestly. But we avoid participation, regularly. We are doing and being and feeling.
We got the feels. We’re not bottling anything up. We express ourselves. Kind of. We are exhausted of expressing ourselves and getting the smack-down for our intensity and emotional vulnerability. The feels literally seem to be killing us.
How much massage, acupuncture, Yoga and meditation can one do? We are ready to throw in the towel, raise the white flag, surrender. We surrender to divine timing… now. We do it in meditation. It works, then the freak-out plunders through. But there are new blips of joy.
Bliss horizons previously unknown. Harmony.
We listen to our bodies. I follow my own damn health and diet regime, thank you very much. I am becoming. We are always becoming, right? I am my own guru. I listen to my higher self, except when I have an epic meltdown (frequently) and call my friends.
I’m conscious enough to spread it around, where’s my gold star for that one? I consult numbers and angels for guidance. I am a New Age spiritual hippie who is down-to-earth and has a real job. I’m informing the conversation, enlightening others…ha!
We are childlike in our mandala coloring books and painting classes. We are fierce in our friendships and our stance on almost everything. We have befriended and allowed our anger constructively, most times.
We are feeling this wholeness and integration thing, the Kumbaya musician in my soul greets yours with a hug and a kombucha-pour. I got this. I tell my friends, you got this.
But the reality is a big-ass F-you. What have you got? I see you lose your sanity regularly. I see you disgruntled in the post office line. Where are you trying to go anyhow? And it sinks in again like a new dawn rising. The dawn doesn’t give up.
It doesn’t feel the moon outshone it (except once a month, Rumi, get real). But Rumi is right, and we know it. The sun doesn’t compare. It just says Bam, here I am. Some days the sun says I’m in a good mood, check out my shine. Sometimes the sun is in a tussle and the clouds are #winning.
And it’s an ever present reminder that no matter what I do, be, try, incorporate, let go of, give, receive, etc. this coming year, it is all a sham, wizard-behind-the-curtain kind of hooey if it’s not infused, saturated, soaked-silly like rum cake with… l.o.v.e. Love to me.
Love to my damn ass for showing up and trying my best, because I’m not the sun just doing its thing with no care. I care. Sometimes I over-care and overshare. I hang on too long because hope is a blessing and a curse.
Because only when I’m not depleted, comparing, in my gerbil-on-a-treadmill-mind trance, self-doubting or high five-ing how I’m a divine being on a delicate path made for the intrepid few, am I able to truly be in me, be of me, and give from me, in a space that is an ever flowing cascade of abundance.
No more of how to do, become, or get happier in 2016. No more of let go of or incorporate this or that. I’m into the minimalist concept that is everything there ever was: self-love. I guess it is my list of one. May we indulge in it and saturate ourselves.
May we know when it takes the shape of fluidity or in boundaries that demark namastay-away. May we soak in our own love-tub. May we eat it with a spoon, and be spun into delirium with this newly flavored scoop. May we enjoy all the compliments offered to us, and mull them over again.
May that be our head-spin. Hell, may love be the overdose that kills us into another time-and-space reality towards the metamorphosis we seek. It is the only thing the sun, the moon, the stars, your family, friends, lovers (in their higher self), and your dog ever really wanted for you anyhow.
More Pow in the heart. More kitchaw and rawr. More Om in the room. The kaleidoscope of options to be more resolute in self. So that my Yes is a holler from my loved-up wellspring true heart, derived from the same source as my Hellz No delivery.
That’s my wish for a year of beginning again. Because if it’s not from me, who will provide it? And if it’s not now in 2016, when, oh when, will it ever be?
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Jolie Marie Carey is an East Coast native who has spent much of her life traveling, living and working outside of the U.S. Her favorite travel stories include hiking in Nepal, hiding from the law in Timbuktu, Mali, and living in a tent in South Sudan. She derives inspiration from magic in the everyday, words, conversations with random people and close friends. She believes laughter is the key to transcending all differences. She has been fortunate to teach Yoga in Haiti. As a Gemini, she is pulled between living simply, dancing under the stars, and trying to impact the world through bureaucratic means where she benefits from high-end parties.
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