Is there any reason you need to see her?  She is emerging and wants you to know.

She is beautiful and stirs something in me.  Tell me what you know of her.

She wears feathers in her hair and is covered in bone.  She belongs by the sea and speaks to the whales.  She has three mermaid tails but can survive on land. 

Chills.  All over me.

She’s also yours, goddammit.

Do you know why?  I cannot stop looking.

Only that she wants to be with you and the painting isn’t even done yet.

I have been feeling helpless in anger and ache and sad this weekend.  She feels strong.  A wise and quiet kind of strong.

Ah yes.  She’s a rock made of water.

I keep reading the words ‘covered in bone’.   Like they are significant.

Her armor. 

I think I seldom feel as if I have any.

Maybe you can borrow hers.

Jesus.  Thank you.  I needed her today.  I don’t even know why.

Just doing what the universe tells me to do.

I can already feel her bringing me words.  I want to know everything you sense of her.  Everything she whispers.  Rock made of  water.  Fuck.

Our lady of deep dives. Part warrior.  Part mermaid.  Shaman.  Feminine.  Wearer of bone; utterly soft beneath.  Receiver of gusts of the divine, divine.  Blowsly, deep winds shake her as she surfaces and she calls to her pod.  ‘Come, let us go deeper. There is much to learn.  Much to love.  Much to know’.

Image Credit: Our Lady Of Deep Dives by Kristen Kalp

~~~~~~~~~

And it is true.  Our Lady Of Deep Dives has brought me words.  And she has brought me wisdom.  And peace and solace and some deep steady strength that was greatly needed.  Her bone armor, my own.  But those words?  I’m not going to share them here now.  Because Our Lady, she wants to speak to you by herself.

If this is your day, as it was mine, to feel sad and mired in ache and anger.  If you feel without armor and bare to the world.  If you are feeling raw and undone.  If you need to heed your call to the wise and wild sea.  If there are things you are knowing you need without even knowing you need them.   Let her speak to you and move through you and deliver you to where you need to be.  She will, if you let her.

All that I will say is that I am humbled and grateful for the way this world reminds me of what I need to know.  For the souls who have crossed my path and who have joined me on this journey.  For the art and music and poetry and magic that winds and twists its way to me.  For the ache that cracks me wide open to it all.

~~~~~~~~~

{the chill inducing Our Lady Of Deep Dives painting and the words in bold belong to the inimitable Kristen Kalp.  She of balloons and glitter and viking hats and TED talks and record breaking games of twister and a camp for grownups that will be a level of epic that goes beyond all previously experienced levels of epic.  She’s a doer AND a dreamer.  Pragmatic and magical.  I am so honored and blessed to call her friend, beyond lucky to work with her, and over the moon to be asked to teach at camp this spring.  Blessed Be, indeed}

~~~~~~~~~

PSST: Did you know…There’s a sale.  All prints.  Till Dec 8th.  Check it.

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you get picked last for the team
left out of the plans
excluded from the circle.
the rejection letter arrives in the mail
she picks the other girl
the door you were about to walk through
gets slammed hard in your face
and you are left outside in the cold
stunned and alone.

yes
sometimes this is how it is.

you will stand in the harsh glare of the spotlight
looking out into a sea of faces and know
this performance will not be greeted by applause
you will want more than you get
and loved less than you deserve.

at the end of the day you will sit wearily
having done your best
your very best
and realize that nobody has noticed
or worse, everybody noticed all the wrong things.

and you will know what they are saying about you
because you have heard it before
from those voices that live in the very back corner of your brain.
the ones that say
that you are too much
or not enough
or far more difficult
not near as easy as expected
bigger or smaller or louder or more silent than what
they
wanted-needed-expected you to be

and exiled from your desire
and chastised for your wanting
and ridiculed for your being
you ache
your shoulders droop
and you feel vulnerably visible
or maybe as a ghostly apparition,
ignored by those whose witness you most crave
naked before impossible judgment

this is when demons that stalk
roar out of shadows
perch on your right shoulder
breath fire into your ear
flamed whispers searing a brand into
the sacred flesh covering your collarbone

-inadequate
not good enough
stupid
worthless un-liked
less-than
too much
slut
boring
attention whore
waste of space-

and you will hear them loud and clear
every fiber of every muscle absorbing
every last word
drowning out quiet voices that speak other, highly suspect, truths
– you are loved, you are beautiful, you are enough-
because those words make bile rise in throat
skepticism entrenched deep fighting against
flowery words that yearn for a home
that cannot be found.

but right now?
this is not the giving up time
no matter how many times you’ve given up before
that would be a predictable end to a predictable story
and you are anything but a predictable woman
with a predictable life

this time the searing breath wakes you up
this time the numbing is excluded from the party
and your head lifts
and your shoulders square
and you breathe deep into the exact
center
of your goddess power.

this time
you do not apologize
or sulk into shadows
or back off the stage in shame.
you do not accept their rejection
conform to their definition
you do not dim your colors
or fade into oblivion

No.

this time
you will start your own team
widen your circle
cast your net
change all the plans
rip up that letter filled with no
and paint the word
acceptance in rainbow colors across your skin
under the glow of the welcoming moon.

you will do what you damn well please
refuse to define yourself as
part of any half-conceived partnership
decline the invitation to stay
when your soul only whispers, go.
and choose to exchange vows with
your own wild divinity instead
you will take steps to get what you want
give yourself every last ounce of love you have always deserved
discovering along the way the multitudes within you
so that alone is never lonely

you will buy enough paint
to create your own marquee
emblazoned with every last bit of your glory
you will step back into the spotlight
and magnify the beat of your heart
until it fills the room
and the sound of your own electric heart
becomes a standing ovation loud enough to power
twenty more women toward their destiny.

and you will take notice
off all the right things
and all things they took pleasure in labeling wrong
until your too-much-not-enough becomes just exactly right
and you wrap it all up in bliss
celebrate it as front page news
bold headline blazed right across the top of the wise night sky

and you will hear what they say about you
they will always say things about women like you
but the truth of your song
is now playing so loud
that their words will be drowned out by
the sound of your own singing
and by the festival of spirit that has been gathering in
celebration.

when the demons come
and they will come
you will usher them close
coax them near
seducing with piercing eyes and parted lips
you will perch on their right shoulder
and whisper
with quiet insistence
go. now is my time.
filling up your chest and your lungs and your mighty spirit
with visible proof of your inherent divinity.
your roaring sensuality
your selfless selfishness
and you will sear their skin with your brazen reclamation
of self.

and you will throw your arms wide
and lift your head back
and feel love radiating at you from all directions
especially from your white-hot core
fierce with reality
righteous with conviction
certain of self

and you will breathe
it in deep and think

YES.
So THIS is how it is.

_____

Photo by Fabrice Villard on Unsplash

The post So This Is How It Is (A Poem To Remind You Of Your Divinity) appeared first on Jeanette LeBlanc.

a running list of ordinary blessings {6.24.12}
a new book of poetry. black dress with pink flowers. farmer’s market heirloom tomatoes. a solo trip to the library. Terry Tempest Williams, Anne Lamott AND a deliciously mindless mass market novel. shoes with ties that lace around my ankles. the smell of sandalwood and sweet orange. the heavy weight of desert heat. pinot gris in the fridge waiting to be opened. a movie date with my two girlies to see Brave. dark chocolate almonds to smuggle in to the theater in my purse. a slow day of very little work. a little girl who asks if she can learn to make her own flower essences. a friend who reminds me I was not made for mediocrity. photos of a wild haired beauty from across the sea. discovering new music from old friends. a neighborhood full of friends for my children to play with the way kids are meant to play. words. always words. wonderful night with my wee girls, who were sweet and well behaved and so very grateful. a female heroine who is NOT saved by a handsome prince. belly full of buttered popcorn.  movie soundtrack of gaelic and bagpipes, the music of my heart. 10pm ice cream sundaes, just because. bedtime cuddle in my bed, sandwiched between the two not-so-little girls that have my heart. the wine still waiting for after they nod off. photos delivered to a goddess, with humility and gratitude for what she gave me. words viewed through wine and glass.  getting lost in poetry and quotes and philosophy into the wee hours of the morning.  dark chocolate melting on my fingers and cool mint on my tongue. lucky penny in the parking lot that reminded me, once again, that in spite of it all – this life is a most holy collection of wonders.

The post blessed be my day. appeared first on Jeanette LeBlanc.

Blessed be the long, slow slide into desire. The swift plunging wound to the heart. The bleeding out onto the kitchen floor.

Blessed be the fierce of want and the howl of despair and the swan dive of surrender.

Blessed be the indignation of right and the never more naked of wrong.

Blessed be your strong smooth body and your roadmap of scars and brittle bones that give way under the weight of lives unlived.

Blessed be the unmet passion, the ruthless boredom, the absolute certainty of regret.

Blessed be the sweet laughter. The hard fuck. The bitter fight. The soft impossible forgiveness.

Blessed be the restless seeker. The relentless urgency. The unanswered call.

Blessed be the giving up. The hope unraveled. The void at the end. The clenched fists and the desperate grasping and the way it all slides away when the time comes.

Blessed be your trembling breath and your strong knees. Blessed be your siren song and your briny tears and your frantic prayer.

Blessed be your violin body, your electric hipbone, your staircase ribs.

Blessed be your slaughtered dreams and your cynical projection. Blessed be your fire of initiation. Your ritual of comfort. Your secret shame.  Your whispered confession. Blessed be your primal roar.

Blessed be the rejection. The hollowed out, disregarded heart. Blessed be the end of the rope, the absence of expectation, the way it all gives way eventually.

Blessed be the blood and guts and gore of it all.

Blessed be the wanton emptiness of greed and the brutal havoc of love and the way peace grows in between cracks in cement.

Blessed be the dirty street corner hustle and the pretty surface of things and where they meet in the most sacred center.

Blessed be the harsh divinity. The winged flight. The salt skin. The symphony of lust.

Blessed be the holy and the worship. Blessed be the sacred mother. Blessed be the faithless edges. Blessed be the ritual of liturgy and agnostic devotion. Blessed be the profane and the provocation.

Blessed be the brazen orgy, the unabashed revelry, the stained glass cathedral of your hungry flesh.

Blessed be the solitary pilgrimage and the long journey home.

Blessed be the one who contains herself. Blessed be the one who contains us all.

Blessed be the truth that demands reckoning and the goodbye that wrenches secrets from behind closed lips. Blessed be the sucker punch bruises.

Blessed be smooth slide of sun behind the mountains. Blessed be the wise desert and the pounding sea.

Blessed be the sweet swell of words. The luxury of punctuation. The silent spaces between bodies. The ragged sigh of breath on bone.

Blessed be the poet and the poem and the one between them who has no words of her own.

Blessed be the plagiarism, the thievery, the rash disregard for origin, the gratitude for the beginning of things.

Blessed be our free fall into destiny. Our slow burn. Our consuming fire. Blessed be the breaking and the becoming.

Blessed be the ugly. Blessed be the sweet sin. Blessed be the rage. Blessed be the grace.

Blessed be. Blessed be.  Blessed be.

In the end, all words are just another way to say amen.

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