A Solstice Eve Love Note

because we could always use more love.

Happy Solstice Eve,

I have been a puddle as of late. A puddle of emotions and tears that have been brewing and flowing. Deep movement is happening inside me as we are inching towards the darkest night of the year, an accumulation of a year's worth of loving deeply and learning from an open heart. Never have I felt this more than today. Never have I sat in trust with the lessons of the underground in such a way that I feel as though it is a long-lost friend returning home. It's as if, this year, for the first time in a long time, I remember.

I remember.

This year, so many things have been laid to rest. Old stories that no longer fit have been shedding and met with love, grace, and permission to loosen their grip so I could find another way to breathe.

This year, I have really sunk into the knowing of what it feels like to not be alone. I have learned to show care and receive care from those I love while also marveling at the subtle and profound magic of saying, “I am thinking of you.” Learning that we do not have to carry this all alone has been one of this year's greatest seeds.

This is the year I learned to rest. In a psychedelic-assisted therapy session, a hard, honest truth came through as loud as could be. The truth was that if I didn’t learn to unravel and let go of that which is no longer mine, I would miss it all. I would miss out on my son’s life, on my marriage, on my life. For all of the winding, chaotic, frantic energy that has been stored in my body, would try and stay the leader. It would stay as the one in charge, the one that would keep the schedules and plans. It would be the one to move quickly from one to the next and hurry my son out of the house while overriding his needs for slowness, for presence.

Slowing down has looked like loving more.

Embodying that has looked light lying on the floor with my feet up the wall, hands on my heart, and listening.

This year, I found my heartbeat. Something that I realized I had been afraid of for so long. Now, when I notice it, I grab it with my hands and wait until my breath joins in to fill up the rest of my body with aliveness.

This year, I met grief. Which also really means I sat in the depths of love.

This year, I opened windows in my lineage that had been shut for decades. I introduced air to closed-up homes and closed-up hearts.

This year, I have learned to mother more honestly by listening to my son. For he is showing me the way, we are doing this together.

And lastly, for now, this year has been the year of beginning a journey of devotion to love. For myself, for my family, for my community, for the great mother, and for all of those who desperately need it.

I am sending that love out to all of you, and I thank you for being a part of my life this year.

I wrote a little poem as a send-off.

My Home.

I dress my home in lights.
Sitting on a string, they decorate my trees, soft and subtly.
They glow as the sun falls asleep
And twinkle as a welcoming.
I enter with a smile,
As they guide me home.

I dress my home with lights.
With candles all around.
Tall and round,
Wax shaped from past lives.
I dress my home with lights—
Old lamps passed down from my grandmother,
Shining their way through my home
To remind me of my bones.

I dress my home with lights.
I wear stones and jewels.
I sparkle.
My eyes awake, like a moth to a flame.
I will not look away.
I dress my home with lights—
With bright colors and hues of violet,
With fabrics that tell my body she is welcomed,
She is loved, she belongs.
She knows this by the light reflected in her son’s eyes.
She is light.

I dress my home with lights.
Stillness carries me to her.
One beat at a time, I arrive at my heart.
I dress my home with warmth,
With rest,
With ease,
For she has done all she needs.

Now, it is time to wait.
To trust in the dark of the night.
To trust in all of our light.
Our roots tell us so.
We must go.
I know.
To the underground.
More seeds will soon be ready to gather.
But for now, we learn to rest in the darkness,
In the stillness in between beats,
In the stillness in between contractions,
In the hold that follows after an inhale.
For we must never lose sight of the wisdom of that which lies beneath the ground,
For it is there where we learn how to carry and renew our light.