Right about now, I get to thinking.
It’s about to be the 4th of July here in the States.
The holiday where we celebrate our freedom.
And I am just about to chain myself to my desk for the next 8 weeks and bang out the final draft of my new book.
I want it to be brilliant and perfect. I want it to weave a web of magnificent seduction into an unimaginable new world that impacts women all over the world.
I want it to express every drop of the woman I have become. I want it to awaken women to the potential of living the legends that they were born to be, and connect with their radiance in a new and powerful way.
I want it to be a sexy, fun, deep, soulful, penetrating page-turner.
I want the pages to drip woman, in her rich, ripe, irresistible fullness.
And I have to do all of this while being chained to my desk.
For 8 weeks.
Everyone will be drinking chardonnay, partying and staying up too late and I will be carefully conserving my energy in order to pour it all on to the page.
Which could frustrate me.
And frustration is not a healthy environment for poetry to flow.
And then, I remember my truth: I actually love being enslaved to something greater than myself.
I have chosen this.
I wanted this.
It is my deep, hot, and holy conviction that the body of every woman is a living, breathing altar.
Yes, I mean you.
Overworked, underloved, insubstantially paid you.
Yes, even underworked, overloved, exaltedly paid you.
The question is-
Do you treat yours as such?
Think about it. There is no human alive today who was not created and held inside the living altar of a woman. We are the place where the human and the divine collaborate in creation.
Just as an altar in a sanctuary requires upkeep and maintenance to feel sacred, so does the body, woman.
It is our sacred responsibility to look and feel as beautiful as possible, in order to connect to the sacred within ourselves, and shine our radiance on the world.
Yet, exquisite self-care is the easiest thing to toss aside when the mundane aspects of daily life take over. Compared to everything we have to do and everywhere we have to be, attending to ourselves occurs as frivolous, indulgent, and irresponsible.
And, Sisters, there are consequences.
I am writing from a small café on the Champs-Elyseés, soaking in the final moments of my time in Paris (pics below!). After four days together in this breathtaking city, we just completed the graduation session for the Creation Course, and I’m overflowing.
Overflowing with pride, with joy, and with volumes of gratitude.
These women have courageously generated a whole new vocabulary of emotional truth, range, and depth inside their magnificent sisterhood, exploding with the perfection of every kind of tears.
It’s not just the vanilla happy or vanilla sad women have been programed and permitted to feel.
It’s full depth and breadth and range, introducing us to flavors and colors that our souls have been longing for.
I have always been a pig-headed girl.
Sometimes overtly, sometimes subversively.
I secretly thought my way was always the best way.
I had no tolerance for a certain kind of conformity.
I got severely reprimanded for using orange typing paper by my closeted high school English teacher, since the white-out I used was, well — white.
Actually, I never ever even learned to type properly because I never ever ever wanted to work in an office.
When I was doing a chore I hated – like setting the dinner table – I would spit in the glasses of the family member I was loathing that day.
Pig-headed, that’s me.
I am writing to you from my dressing room. It’s 5:12pm on Sunday afternoon, and we have just wrapped the first weekend of Mastery 2015.
Moments ago, I left a stage filled with dancing, hugging women, turned on and ecstatic, at a level I have never ever experienced on a first Mastery weekend.
This work is not for the faint of heart. It requires a new form of courage – a courage to overcome centuries of woman-hating with a deliciously defiant leap into self-love and celebration.
I witnessed the most glorious pas de 300+ women these past two days – reclaiming their power and unwrapping their radiance – not with fear and trepidation, but with the enthusiasm of a gang of preschoolers let loose on Christmas morning.
Towards the end of the weekend, one woman framed that this work gives her Permission. Permission to love her rage, her tears, her snotty nose, her turn on, her beauty, her passion.
Permission to find every side of herself to be perfect and magnificent. continue reading…