Tonight is a night for a hard pour of whiskey in a mason jar. It’s the way the ice cracks and the heart says ‘ Oh yes, I know exactly how that feels’.

It’s for sitting cross-legged on the wooden floor and cupping both hands around your glass and closing your eyes and breathing deep and raising it to your lips.  It is soaking in the ritual this small act can be when when you allow yourself the gift of it.

It’s the way lips feel as they hit the cold mouth of the jar, and the perfect burn that remains after the glass is pulled away.

It’s blood red candles on salt-water stones and the burn down smell of matches and smoke.

It’s the amber oil carefully applied on touch points and then glided liberally on bare skin until you ground into the scent of yourself.

It’s hot pink knee socks and tangled hair and messy eyeliner.  It’s that perfect black beanie and that loose weave black sweater that just covers the tops of thighs and shows the shadowed outline of everything underneath.

It’s for music that hurts, but only the exact right kind of ache that has an edge that mingles with its sweetness in such a way that they could never be untangled. That should never be untangled. Because there are some things for which the ache is a part of the beauty.

It’s the night you stop avoiding the words that never stop chasing you. Where you sink into the solitude and finally breath out all that air trapped in lungs, waiting for space to fully exhale.

It’s the knowing that at some point tonight there will be dancing. That you’ll follow the movements of your body on the wall, silhouette painted by the shadows of candlelight. That you’ll spin your hoop on your hips until something rises in you that has not risen in a long, long time.

It’s a night for coming home and gathering in and calling in the powers of the witch and the howl of the wolf. For laying out the stones and speaking mantra and sitting still inside the space of the holy that remains when the reverberation of sound ceases.

It’s the way when you tilt the glass all the way up and the candle light glows through and you know your face is illuminated in the most holy of ways. And the song that holds an inexpressible ache plays with every last bit of memory it holds and you are thankful, even for that. Especially for that.

It’s for broken seashells and wood that looks like bone, for cigar boxes and rusted locks and for running your fingers along all the things collected. For feeling the memories that live in each one travel from fingertips to center and hearing the whispers of all the stories you have not yet told.

It’s for knowing that some stories must remain untold in order for others to be born.

It’s for remembering last night – lying in bed. Listening to her fingers plucking guitar strings – inexplicably remembering just where to place each one in this pattern that I can’t sort out but that lives inside of her muscle memory. And listening as she plays words born inside of her that tell the story of her life and all the ways she remembers herself. And to give thanks for the vulnerable gift of that. Because when someone gives you their art you can only ever be humbled in the face of its truth.

And that moment is also to know the hope and the struggle and the stay still and the run away and the come here and the push back. And also what it is to say yes, to be present exactly where you are.

It’s for the space where the empty of missing and the gratitude for solitude meet in perfect center. Where you know that one brings fullness to the other and so give thanks for both.

It is a night for contemplating grace. Grace that looks like the orange wool blanket curled around legs and tastes like chocolate and peanut butter for dinner and sounds like this song that plays. The one that just over a year ago found you broken on this very floor. And now it greets you whole and strong in the not entirely unwelcome melancholy that we sometimes carry around once we’ve lived a certain amount of life full of truth and glory and loss and love.

It’s the way the candle looks as it burns down. The mellow that the whiskey spreads like hot wax melting into tight held bones. It’s the expansion into space. It’s the amber rising from wrists and temple and collarbones and belly and all that is carried inside of that scent.

It’s a night for calling the ghosts and welcoming the muse and sitting back while they dance, all liquid heat and yearning skin of lovers long separated.

It is a night for remembering. The words. The whiskey. The music. The candles. The amber. The loves long gone and the life that is here, right now.

It is a night for coming home.

To myself.

Blessed be.

Music for the pathway home:

The post A night for remembering || the pathway home appeared first on Jeanette LeBlanc.

back to the mat, no exceptions. fall asleep in savasana. cry in pigeon. laugh out loud in happy baby.

mascara and groomed brows, always.  red lipstick when you need it most. save your highest heels for the days you feel the lowest. wear clothing as costume. match it to your mood. always wear perfume, it helps you remember yourself. 

chin up. best foot forward.

find comfort in words and wine and the women who love you. cuddle sleeping children. leave your comfort zone, at least once a week. dance alone in the living room, at least once a day.

guyatri by candlelight. inhale. exhale. inhale again. do the work. do the work. do the work.

spin your hoop, your hips, your dreams. mountain top church every wednesday – never you mind the unmet dreams, you still can kiss the sky.

feet to pavement, music blasting in ears. forget everything but the run.

remember why you are here. remember yourself. remember yourself. remember yourself.

cultivate presence. become fierce about your autonomy. take long drives with the windows down.

bless everything, even your regrets. accept your regrets and allow them to teach you. welcome admiration but decline the pedestal. make friends with your unmet hope and allow it to guide you. kiss your solitude and allow it to work through you.

be infinitely tender. show up for others. live out loud. live as the personification of wide-open-vulnerable-crazy-free. stick your landings.

live in kindness. keep a prayer candle burning for someone at all times. give thanks, every day. practice intentional, loving touch. om namo guru dev namo.

tidy your space before bed. know it as an act of love. make your bed tightly with the brand new sheets. when your naked skin slides inside them for the first time, know it as a gift to yourself.

let the sadness flatten you. stay in bed until it lifts. do not rush your grief. do not rush your grief. do not rush your grief.

honor the divinity that is everywhere. get down with your inner badass. turn off your phone, and your computer and your mind.  find your heart center and send it compassion. see the holiness in everyone you meet. honor it.

know your worth. know your worth. know your worth. accept no less. become familiar with the space where compromise is unkind. nuture your exquisite loneliness. let it teach you.

light candles at every opportunity. touch your inked ribs lightly when you forget who you are.

let yourself be moved. seek out art. surround yourself with artists, creative, deep thinkers, high divers and earth shakers of all kinds. accept gifts offered with whole heart. even when such acceptance is difficult.  

stop behaving.

eat food that nourishes body and soul. cook with those you love. seek perspective. do not chastise yourself for believing and dreaming and trying. open yourself always to love.

know your body as holy, your want as holy and your shattered heart as whole.

continue to believe in lucky pennies, shooting stars and signs from the universe.

get rid of what does not serve. let go of what no longer feels like you – clothing, decorations, people. holding on just fills up space that could be put to much better use. hold tight to that which brings you to your highest realization of self.

ground your feet to the earth, at least once a day. reach for the sky every night. sit in the quiet darkness and let your mind go wild. find quiet peace in the midst of chaos. drink as many lattes as you want.

own your losses, wear them clean. write the letter. speak the truth. unleash your voice.

let the music be your mourning and your memory. let the music be your celebration and your reclamation. let the music be. let it wind it’s way through you. let it all wind it’s way through you. it will anyway, so don’t try to fight.

it’s okay if you fight.

remember your inherently flawed humanity exists nestled side by side with your inborn divinity.

forgive yourself everything.

and make sure you don’t forget buy a lavender plant. fall asleep with sprigs of it on your chest.  breathe it deeply, all the way inside.

it makes all the difference in the world.

The post Buy A Lavender Plant: 115 Ways to Heal Your Own Broken Heart. appeared first on Jeanette LeBlanc.

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.