***

“Are you happy?” they ask. The question comes from concern, a need for affirmation, desperation for a guarantee that they will one day reclaim that word for themselves.

Happy, I ponder? And try as I might, I can’t make the word fit. I let it roll around on tongue, slow and mellow. It feels foreign, belonging to another time and space. Perhaps I left happy sitting on that red couch with my two soul sisters, warmed by the afternoon desert sun, knowing nothing of the seismic shifts to come.

Happy is a sweet, pretty word. It is the domain, I think, of people that have not yet had shit happen. Life is layers upon layers of brilliance and pain and loss and gain and grief and guilt and celebration and rapture. Happy does not have enough substance or grit to encompass a life torn down and an existence built from the rubble.

***

The ache never leaves, you know. You just tuck it away tenderly and hold it close because sometimes the ache is the only thing left of something that was once beautiful.

Sometimes I want to tell them things – the women who write and ask if I am happy, or if it was worth it, or if I would do it again.

I want to tell them that someday you might see him in some random coffee shop, enjoying an Americano. And you will exchange meaningless small talk as if you couldn’t trace the map of his scars with your eyes closed.

I might say that it will be all that you can do to stop yourself from reaching up to touch his cheek;  your fingers aching for the memory of that eternal five o’clock shadow. You’ll want to tell him this, but instead you will fill up with unshed tears. They will build in your chest and explode – a million tiny pinpricks of painful light blooming outwards  and trailing like fireworks across your skin.  Because that touch will not be yours to have. Those tears not yours to cry. Those words not yours to speak. Not out loud. Not to him. Not in that random coffee shop over a steaming Americano.

And I would say that this ache is not the ache of mistake, or regret or quick-let-me-go-backwards-and-do-it-over-differently.  Not necessarily. Sometimes it is just the ache of an unexpected reminder of what was good, and the nostalgia brought on by a table that holds one cup of coffee, not two. And you welcome that ache because you have learned to welcome all that is real and true, even when it hurts. Because it is yours to have and know and hold. Because what is real is also solid, regardless of all the rest.

And when you walk across the room to sit at your own table, only a few steps separating this life from that one, you will finally understand. Happy is no longer enough to contain the totality of this life that you have claimed.

***

Will you have happy moments? Oh yes. Moments of such pure and simple happiness that you will be made still and humble and profoundly grateful. Moments so sweet and so good that you will bubble over with childish giggles.

But more often the moments will too vast to be contained. Moments so brilliantly beautiful that your heart will pound with their magnitude. So bittersweet that your heart will ache with their complexity. So life-altering that for a moment or two or ten, your heart will appear to stop entirely. Because this is life. The moments and the moments between moments and the moments after the moments when you see the world with clarity so brilliant it is blinding.

This life? Sweet baby jesus, it’s a wonder. It’s an intense, magical, steal the breath from your lungs, bring you to your knees roller coaster ride. It demands reverence and humility and penance and gratitude shouted loud from mountaintops. It will have you wailing at gods you don’t believe in, scratching for a hold in dirt too dry to plant yourself. It will bring you to the gift of your humanity and the core of your tenacity and the very center of your grief. It will leave you rejoicing in the kindness of strangers, in the devotion of friends, in the way your lover moves your body to rapture. It will teach you to stake fierce claim to what you know to be true and to be infinitely tender with your precious heart when your truth slips from your grasp.

And sometimes you will be blissed out. Or sad.  Or pissed.the.fuck.off. And you will grieve. And laugh. And love. And experience ecstasy. And come face to face with demons and fight the battle of your life. And at some point along this wild ride, someone may ask you if you are happy.

And you’ll smile and say simply “Yes.  I’m happy.”  And you’ll dive into the depths of your magnificent life, knowing that you are so much more. And so much less. Just so much.

So very, very much.

***

“The red couch is still in my shed”, she told me on my last visit to her home. “It’s totally trashed, probably ruined beyond repair.  I just can’t bring myself to get rid of it, you know?”

“Thank you”, I said “That makes me happy”.

The post Happy appeared first on Jeanette LeBlanc.

Yes it is. Right now. This day. This moment. This now.

All yours.

You don’t have to wait. It doesn’t have to be perfect. You don’t always have to finish what you started in order to begin something new. And there is no more room for playing small.

Small is so very last year.

You’ve been gathering momentum for a long time. This is a year of tipping-point greatness. Your year.

What are you waiting for?

That’s right, ease into it now. Pulse with the life force that has been waiting just for you. Feel that rhythm vibrating through the universe and running through your soul? Undulate with it. Let it carry you away, ecstatic dance style. Spin a dervish whirl until you are dizzy on the wonder of life. Ditch the layers that are holding you down. Get naked. Come on now. Don’t be shy. Right now, in this exact moment, you are free.

Keep your eyes open wide to witness all the fierce moments of grace that surround you. Reject that not-enoughness that has been desperately grasping for a hold on your magnificent spirit. Choose authenticity over approval. Be done with trying to fit into someone else’s notion of who you are. Get comfortable with entitlement. We’re done with asking permission.  No more of that, missy.

You’ve got to claim your right to rapture.

So, love too much. Way too much. Live from the center your wide open heart. Know that you don’t have to push yourself to expand in order to fill the space you are in. You are already infinite – just as you are. Let your freak flag fly. Every last thing about you is perfect. Even the weird bits.  Especially the weird bits. Those, my dear, are exactly why I’m already head over heels in love with you.

To hell with self-acceptance. That’s way too small an order.  I want you practice radical self-celebration. Throw a party in your own honor. You don’t need a wedding or a baby or a new job. You are reason enough. You are ALWAYS reason enough. Make today the anniversary of your arrival.  Rent the ballroom. Open the bar. And whatever you do, don’t forget the piñata. Fill it with every last piece of magic inside you and around you.   Now. Knock. That. Fucker. Down. and invite the world to gather you up again. To hell with the blindfold––you don’t want to miss a second of this.

Know that every time you get beaten down and emptied out, you are also spreading the fragments of your divinity into a universe that desperately needs you. Let the kindness and the raw, aching beauty of the universe shatter you over and over again. Find peace in the knowledge that your whole is composed of the sum of all of your beautifully broken pieces. Because breaking is becoming. We never lose ourselves. We don’t break forever. We just find new configurations of wholeness. And every one is breathtakingly beautiful.  YOU are breathtakingly beautiful.

That thing you’re afraid of? That label you shy away from? That word that seems too bold? That audacious goal? The life you think you don’t deserve? Aren’t talented enough to have? Aren’t brave enough to claim? Fuck. That. Shit. None of that baggage you’ve been carrying around has a place this year. Kick to the the curb. Now. This year only has space for the bold and the audacious and the brave. Don’t try to convince me you are not those things. I know better and your excuses hold no weight here. You are brave and bold and audacious and one hell of a goddess. Always have been. Always will be. 

So fill every step you take with intention. Then remember that intention is worthless without action – so get a move on, sugar. You know that whole ‘there’s no time like the present’ cliché? Actually, the ONLY time IS the present. Stop holding back. Let yourself go. Right now. All the way. You’ll be soaring before you even realize you’ve taken the leap.

Deal resistance a death blow and make sweet love to your art all night long. Put on your fishnet thigh highs and your patent leather stilettos and your special occasion lingerie. Seduce the hell out of your own creative soul.  It’s time for an epic lap dance. Dance for your paint and canvas, for fingers tripping across keyboard, for the open arms of motherhood, for the layers of flavor in the meals you create. Wind your hips down for the click of the shutter, for the 3am bathroom poem, for the late night lesson planning. Spin around the pole like fingers stringing beads into necklaces, for bodies twisting into asana, for holding a mama as she brings life. This will not be a quickie, love. No wham-bam-thank you ma’am. No – tonight is for slow, deliberate kind of love-making that changes everything.

And when the morning light filters in and you slowly leave sleep behind, you’ll awake with the vague sensation that something has changed. Give yourself time to remember that something has. That EVERYTHING has. Revel in it. You are here now. Fully present. Fully alive. Fully claiming your rightful glory. A Radical goddess. An Audacious Artist. A Mystical Mama. Celebrating the beauty that can only come from you. Flying high. Owning It.

Nothing will ever be the same again.  

And damn girl, you throw one hell of a party.

{But for the love of all that is good and holy leave the discarded fishnets and the paint spills and all those dirty dishes from the party for someone else to clean up. Because you’ve got places to be and things to do. After all, this is your year. Get moving, chica. }

The post You’ve Got To Claim Your Right To Rapture appeared first on Jeanette LeBlanc.