Tag Archives: blog

// the writer’s room //

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I think the toughest part is accepting that you have to write all of it for any of it to be any good, just like you have to live all of it if you want to be alive. There is no good and bad there is only the sacred freedom to experience everything.

You have to be able – not even able, you just have to be willing, the muse / gods / universe / angels will take care of ‘able’ as long as you show up – to write the deep and the shallow, the real and the surreal, the pain and the joy, the light and the dark, infinitely. To keep moving your hand across the page is to get out past the fear, shame, and judgment that swipe at the throat of every artist all the time.

You don’t have to publish or share all of it, but you have to write all of it. Somehow. You have to find a way to do the work :: doing the work is the way.

It’s all part of the movement of the energy of creation. It’s all part of life as struggle, as play, as an act of worship, reverence, and humility. The degree to which you cut off the limbs of your feelings is the degree to which you will remain stuck. Art, spirituality, love, pain, it’s all about movement, that’s the Must.

Keep moving.

Whatever it is, open your veins wide, your mouth, ribs and eyes wide, your heart wide, and let it all move through you. The journey of the writer is the journey of the warrior. They are the same.

Butterfly wings, beloved, that’s all. Little tiny beats. The more you move your hand across the page the more you move the words that move the world.

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// feed the beast //

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Poetry is not dead but it’s not leather candy bodices laced with perfume either. This is what seems to be so hard for regular people to understand. That if left to our own devices, we crave the things we seek to destroy.

The way your fingers pressure the small of my back is the frothing of words I cannot find. Somewhere in the soft haze between sleeping and wake, I confuse the hum of your body in the dark with your desire to fill me, and we become a puzzle I can’t make fit. It’s the cruelest kind of poetry, the kind you mouth the words to in daydreams as you watch your own reflection splitting across train car windows but cannot force into existence.

Slow motion tears peel down your face, a fist comes through the bulletproof glass of my breaking heart.

Is it still poetry if I spell it out with paper straws in a language you didn’t study close enough? How can I help it. When love is the last word on the walls of a house that’s crumbling it sounds like renovation but out in the world no one seems to agree what it means. I’m only satisfied when the rain moves in and I wish you didn’t have to understand that when I tell my story I’m trying to give myself to you and spare you the weight of me at the same time.

The temptation is the trap; new lovers naked at the tip of a thousand knives.

You seduce strangers without losing sleep and still walk me home, chain-smoking cigarettes, talking about the way you used to make love to other women you thought would have been more tender at it. The ones you see in me when I curl up and threaten to leave. No one wants to believe that part of staying on the upswing of this pendulum life is to fall for the way it knocks the wind out of you when it slams you down. I avoid the fire the same way I walk into it, by shutting my eyelids over my feet. In the wake of the words I am the casual turning of corners, trust is a maze kept secret from me.

Words are to anguish as they are to ecstasy, a race without legs toward a freedom you’re never quite sure if you deserve. We are lions caught in butterfly nets, admiring our paws, licking our bloodstained teeth. All we want is to get close enough to abandon ourselves, to give everything away so we don’t have to eat what we’re worth.

I hand you my skin and ask with my bones if it is love. You hold tight, tell me it is warm whiskey charm, and don’t answer the rest.

In the vacancy of night, the moon washes over me a pale blue angelic light and I remember the way your beautiful jaw fits in my hands, the way the motionless bending flowers on the bookshelf mean someone’s in love in a vase, alone. When the soft creep of morning comes I’ll spend it sunk low in the hot soak of a pink salt bath, trying to be too many things. Cold cream: every face I try on feels closer to who I think I’m supposed to be, so I wear all of them at once.

No wonder it’s so hard to read me.

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// lady in waiting //

weeds

I sit down to write but the only thing that comes to me is everything I’d rather not say. Writing is just like anything else, the hardest part is finding a way in. Shadowy advances, wet wide eyes, shattered hearts, lovers stalking alley ways, all come in jars they hope you can’t see, but writing is tougher to open even on a good day. A drink and a half later, I’m undressing in the doorway, watching you as you absorb the fading evening light that drapes itself around my body. I wish you thought of me as a temple, intricate tunnels adorned in golden dragons with emerald eyes, ferocious winged mystical things, but delusions like these are just a way of shadowboxing with the truth. Even in this heady haze I know what we want to be and what we are is split by glass of a thick and distorted kind. You ask me to spread myself over you and my skin is hot pricks head to toe, the way you barely touch me makes the beginning taste like spiced flecks of the afterglow, just the way I like it.

Under your command I am a dove, an alien, a robbery, a beast because I have learned to stay awake even in my sleep. Once you become aware of the ground beneath you in dreams, the rest is simply sleight of hand. We try to shift ourselves wide enough to take more than we ever thought possible but it’s hard when you’re certain there’s a message tucked behind the eyelids of everything, and you’d swear on your headstone that the rain smells of swollen lips and secrets you thought were buried inside someone else. Seven minutes in heaven, spin the bottle, the time you skinned your knees on ice, slammed back to life by the sting. Your first kiss stabs me in the back, spills blood across the time before all the times you can’t stop sifting through now.

Be patient with me, angel, even in expert hands like yours this doesn’t get any easier. Winter seems to follow winter, all the seasons of dying and frost take place at once like a crystalline nest of frozen trees that crush your tender throat. Time is a gift and a thief and a scream and I promise to collapse the minute you leave. You wrap my hair in braids tight around your strongest arm, the pain is just enough to catch my breath on a single hook. This bizarre strain of release, a decadent thorn. There will be rug burns and bathtubs but my mind is walking on the street counting black birds on a wire over the railroads tracks I was framing for photos; five, six, seven of them in a crooked row and one far off, alone. This doesn’t mean anything, of course, except that I am not in the world the way I’m supposed to be; I’m in the one I resurrected from cut-out dolls, cardboard panoramic scenes, living in the cream-colored curl of imaginary pages.

Pain comes to me daily but I trust it, I let it lead if it wants to, it teaches me not to hide as much. The way you slide into me is a forked tongue, one side torture, the other ecstasy; I have to take them both or deprivation. As night takes over the moon, the salt in my veins sparks and flashes all around us like colors from the dark side of rainbows. You need not cry for this strange love, I like to watch the pieces of me fall, it’s the only way they catch the light. I’m stronger now. And even though generations of misguided wars rupture themselves through me before you can even say my name, it’s beautiful madness to hear you try.

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// evidence of bodies //

tree

I don’t want your body, I want your secrets. I know the games you play and why you play them but you’re so lovely it makes my mind bleed. Even the dreams in me have dreams and yet I can’t manage to extract a single one. Of course, no one ever said love makes sense. I pour a glass of Merlot and my insides are a relentless penetrating bloom of thick red roses groping their thorny vines around the veins that push my blood toward a heart that knows no boundaries.

When the last sliver of daylight finally fades across the grass, I can feel the setting sun unbuttoning my inhibitions. The way you wait so patiently for me binds me with threaded ropes, framing erotic images that deepen my darkening mood. You want to touch me but I’m not where you thought I’d be; my mind is seductive but it’s always somewhere else.

Using only the memory of your hands, you wrap me in crimson ribbons of delicious heat. The swift movement of your body sets me free to water midnight gardens of savage desire in beautiful rings around the moon. I’m ugly in ways only you can make an aphrodisiac as the twisted things I long for hang suspended from the ceiling, purple faces tongue the agony of my ecstatic soul. Everyone seems to think they know how your life will end up if you’d just sit still and listen but most try very hard not to understand anything that could make a difference.

Sliding past everyone else’s better judgment, I light three rows of candles and drop into a darkness that is not sleep. It’s more like a strange way of awakening in order to hold hands with death and own him before he owns me. We all worry about being invisible; that’s why we hide. I devour volumes of ancient spiritual texts and Bukowski, they seem to break me apart and deliver me back to who I am in a package I almost recognize. Deciphering their codes is the plot of every gutting love story ever written. The Tree of Knowledge and the Tree of Life grow like inverted mirror images, side by side. To be human is to have a grasp on neither.

I drip hot lavender oil into a steaming bath and sink in as I envision you with cake in your hands. I’m kneeling at your feet licking icing from a dozen silver spoons between your fingers; the sweet life is not always what it seems, but we do try. At the center of something more encompassing and brilliant than we can possibly fathom, everything is submerged. Right here. Everything is different and the same. Every safe choice should make us more and more afraid.

It’s warm underwater and even though I drown my head in thoughts of self-defeat to keep from slipping into the vacant sky where I might finally be free, I trust being alone more than I trust anything else. I don’t know if God is alone but I know this world is mass murder on painted screens that cover up the truth.

In my makeshift blackout room, spinning pins and needles on the windowsill of the universe, all I ever wanted was to make a spark that would catch the hills on fire.

It’s not hard to breathe in the dark, it’s just that you see so little of who you really are.

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~ Allison Marie Conway ~

My book of poetry, Vein, is now available on Amazon here.

Signed copies are available in my Etsy shop AllisonMariePoetry here.

All my deepest love and mad affection. x

// of thy flesh //

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aren’t we only here for so long, angel,
aren’t we only a lonely nighttime street
stacked high with patterned silhouettes
of celestial bodies wearing blindfold eyes
no words left to speak.
do you taste me like traces of fire blood on lips
pressed against the looking glass
strung up above intimate scenes.
aren’t we only a mouth full of whispers
panting on the feathered tips of forbidden things
while other people
scream.
aren’t we only the siren curves of an hourglass
sifting through phases of the moon
from the grave to the skies
i wear you like an echo of time
when the soft in the skin
that drove you mad
was mine.

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~ Allison Marie Conway ~

My book of poetry, Vein, is now available on Amazon here.

Signed copies are available in my Etsy shop AllisonMariePoetry here.

All my deepest love and mad affection. x

// black holes //

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Lining my eyes with charcoal and the scorch of tears,  I can’t escape the immovable truth that whatever your twisted secrets, you are the one who makes me glow.

The human mask ruptures by its own flawed design and I am reminded that the flesh was created to crumble; for our own protection, we are not shatterproof.  I am as fragile as I am supple, I am the fading trace of whispered delusions, echoing through the dead of nights hanging from trees, their slender roots planted firmly in the sky. The cracks in the vessel of my soft skin are beginning to show. I do not cover them. I do not fill them in. I am coming apart; I am lost. I am without a single answer of any kind. I know not where I have been, how it is I have come to be here, where I will emerge again, or if.

I am muted and surrendered to the rising flood waters of my own weakness. My hesitant steps are taken in timid stumbles, but mostly not at all. I am still, motionless, patient, obedient, rebellious, as the windows of every castle we ever built come crashing in.

Becoming the sound of the explosion itself, I watch for the light, the way it catches, the way it reflects.

What right have I even to be here in this obscene manner, in the way my gray animal eyes flash in the headlights, grow angry, distressed, and combative in their hunger? Who am I in my shivering thoughtlessness, in my primal confusion, in my wide and defiant uselessness?

I search the halls of ancient cities buried under the ash of a thousand graves upon ten thousand years with a heavy heart and burdened mind for a thing I cannot grasp. My soul makes its truest offerings of itself in the shelter of this darkness. Shadowy figures are at play, the way my exotic spirit dances in the flames of the fires she feeds mercilessly within. My satin hands touch themselves to my throat and I am ecstatic for the mystery I am suspended within. Consumed to the core with liberation and unworthiness, I am a dewy web of prismatic shine at the center of your calculated chaos.

I am alone, defenseless, in this ruined room with trembling walls; stripped bare of arrogance, pretense, and facade. Here I am tested, made to look upon my own frustrating limits; I tug with my teeth at the threads of a thick cascade of drenching compassion for a woman on the precipice of life and death, staring out into the Great Abyss.

Here I am made ready. Here I am destroyed and rebuilt as I confess that I do not know the way, I do not have the answers, I would not know how to open my mouth if not for Love’s insatiable desire to burn me with Her beautiful, healing grace.

From the depths of this blind wilderness, I am grateful. I am richer for the shadows, for that which is hidden must have its way with me.

In my nakedness I am the ritual. In my emptiness I am the gift.

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// blood of the innocent //

chandy gb

The steel bars of the past are only shadows now, still I close my eyes, press myself against them and romanticize the sting. When I’m alone inside a mind that too often slips out of her black leather cuffs and escapes me, I fantasize about the way you were the first to bite my lips. How every bone in my new body loosened from its hinges and fell away, how I watched from screened in porches by the light of glass jars filled with fireflies and marveled at the ravenous creatures we were becoming. Awakening together an iron taste for worship of a similar strangeness. Pain forever threaded with pleasure, licks of orgasmic death cradled inside a private nebulous universe just ripening.

The world burns itself for entertainment but blessed are we the holy ones who are bred without lungs and breathe steady underwater until eternity collapses. Bodies marching to the sound of distant trains running off their wooden tracks offer themselves up in sacrifice that we may be born to wander an alien earth. I’m tired, beloved, tied to a tree and your stomach in knots over watching me, so close in dreams you become aroused as the ropes and my wrists struggle to break free. Lace nightgowns, black ink roses on fevered skin, instruments of blind release and trading your safe place for a stab at the ghost of the way we used to be.

You were a fetish I couldn’t put down until every bedtime story began folding us into the pages of eternal dust. You and I, we were born thirsty.

The relentless plunge of your expert fingers is just another hypnotic link in these chains that pull me back to who I was before cruelty ever touched me the way you never did. Who are you that owns the body in my mind? Where have you been leading me in darkness all this time?

As I walk through the days after, every empty street slides up and away under my bare feet. Beneath a concrete urban moon I hold still before you as ten thousand broken cups shatter against the wind. I sip like an abandoned animal the tears from the lines in your hands.

I remember the way we grew up seeking fire and it illuminates the ancient codes carved deep within my cells: skinning our naked knees, crossing my heart and hoping to fly, running, running, running through fields of falling stars across an endless sky.

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~ Allison Marie Conway ~

My book of poetry, Vein, is now available on Amazon here.

Signed copies are available in my Etsy shop AllisonMariePoetry here.

All my deepest love and mad affection. x

// pretty little deaths //

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There are secrets within me, secrets I keep alive but quiet like moth wings fluttering around my heart for protection as they eat away at my insides. The things I would die for, lay down my inhibitions for, the desires I beg for relief from even as I fiend for the struggle to fulfill them. When I grow brave – then again maybe I’m not even brave, maybe I’m just worn down by a world that abuses itself – I look at them.

Most people won’t become writers, not because they can’t find the words. There will always be words. But because they won’t look. They won’t look within themselves for fear of descending into a place where words dissolve the breath and feelings tear the curtains down from the ceiling of their heaviest sins, jet black bedroom eyes cringing in the daylight; where emotions run like hunted nymphs, naked through a thick forest of forbidden needs.

I look at other writers, too – the true artists, the ones who slide like elegant snakes beneath your chemical skin right before their poisonous spikes dig into your bones, the ones who wet you down with lust and inject you mad with a rage you never knew you carried all this time but find suddenly scorching up your limbs. I watch the words they use until I find the ones they didn’t, those are the words that matter most. The ones they hide from you to keep for themselves.

I’ve always wanted more. So often I can sense when people are holding their most useful, gutting stuff back. It’s the way watching a heavy storm rolling in makes me want to undress. It’s in my nature, something primordial lives in me and reaches out to find itself in others but there’s nothing there to clutch. People are gone. There’s a pressure rising in the air between their two faces and I just want to be there when the heavens finally break.

Feeling the mounting crush of the hoards of people who have nothing to say, a comforting sadness walks alongside me like a shadow, rising in the snow on the moon orbiting my cosmic thoughts. Wherever it is we come from, whatever it is we think we’re made of, part of us will always be lost.

Even after all this time I still think of you and the way we never understood each other. I didn’t want to tell you that I didn’t want to understand you. I wanted to maul you to pieces and take only your most infuriating bits with me. We fall in love like savages and paint our nails like a strip tease. We fall on our knees for the beautiful pain and the thrill of a few fingers in a gaping mouth, blood pulsing against blood. I could reach inside your chest even now, lace my fingers and pull my own heart out from your body.

I’ve done it before and you’d always thank me with those kisses at the end of your most punishing, adoring letters. I can do it again just as sure as I’m doing it now. Everything we’ve ever done, dust to cradle to grave to resurrection, is written down and hanging in the gaps between every moment you occupy with the things you know don’t matter as much as love once did.

I wish I didn’t still crave your cigarettes. But I guess in places beyond the years we spend hiding, we all still crave what we’re told we shouldn’t. Smoke and mirrors, flesh of my flesh, bone of thy bone, reflections of the same side of silence.

On the street, every person is a distant galaxy hurling itself backwards and dead bird feathers continue dripping in the rain. In daydreams, I touch you with everything I have as broken wings fall around us everywhere.

And no one writes anything anymore.

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~ Allison Marie Conway ~

My book of poetry, Vein, is now available on Amazon here.

Signed copies are available in my Etsy shop AllisonMariePoetry here.

All my deepest love and mad affection. x

// shatter //

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There is tremendous power in surrendering to the difficult process of who you are becoming. Honor yourself for being imperfect, jagged, conflicted. There is greater wisdom in your deepest burning question than in a thousand hollow, easy answers.

Worship at the tired, bloody feet of your own awakening. Be humble, be grateful for the crushing beauty that has buried her secret treasure in your struggle.

Not one of us here is spared the pain of humanity. Respect it, stand with it, fall on your knees for it, let it break you and teach you and spill its naked truth before you. Open into your dark places like flower petals thirsty only for the healing pricks of rain. There is power in darkness, without it there can be no transformation.

Remember that you are majesty, you are magic, you are not yet done. We are a continuum, a birthing and re-birthing of universes within universes.

Life, death, sex, union, explosion, creation, destruction, connection, heart break, tear drops.

We are but shattered shards of The Infinite Light collecting ourselves in the dark.

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// exposure //

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I want to violate you
spend lifetimes invading the sharp blades of the lightning
mind of you,
feel the snowy nights rising in the quiet undressed
shadow
of
you,
consume the last discarded scraps of the hopes
of
you,
reach for you in your pale moon skin
as you float away in a midnight ocean,
rupture the veins in the madness of your
beautiful crooked thought patterns as they
throb at your fingertips,
feed you word after word after word on every
page of my foolish
poetry
as the wolves lie in wait all around the
muscle, bone, and blood
of
you.
I want to
collect you, spread you wild the way storm clouds curl and rage
and divide themselves again and again
overtaking a desperate
desolate landscape, the thirst
for
you
reflected in my blue almond
desert eyes.
I want to capture you
captivate you;
make you feel
at home
inside this tiny
little rib
cage
that hangs in the creature of my
body
at the center of the
endless falling sky
of
you.

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~ Allison Marie Conway ~

My book of poetry, Vein, is now available on Amazon here.

Signed copies are available in my Etsy shop AllisonMariePoetry here.

All my deepest love and mad affection. x

// tongues //

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the sun hides itself behind the candles on the walls
as i wait within my ritual silence
and close my starlit alien
eyes.
i am electric with the systems you
spin within me like
webs of silken skin, glistening
wet with the thoughts that
work at my
twisted mind.
i am still
as you touch me
in places i was taught
were beautiful,
soft
and
forbidden.
out the window sliding with rain over my head,
chained to the monster
i might have been
i can taste the metal clouds
rushing in.
the air is amber honey in a primitive
version of heaven
pouring down everywhere
and yet
redemption escapes
me.
i know the heat in your eyes
i know the hollow in the words like black birds falling from the
crumbling skies
curtains torn up from the floor become
a circle of white dresses dancing headless
out on the lawn, laughing.
something in the way you move reminds me
that we can no longer afford to live
the way it was
before the storm.

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~ Allison Marie Conway ~

My book of poetry, Vein, is now available on Amazon here.

Signed copies are available in my Etsy shop AllisonMariePoetry here.

All my deepest love and mad affection. x

3 Ways to Start Doing the Work You REALLY Want To Do

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Allison Marie for glorybegin.com

A weird thing happens to otherwise normal people when we attempt to level with each other about work.

People seem to act like if they were to start doing the work they truly loved, other people will think they are colossally selfish / stupid / immature and begin throwing themselves out of seven story buildings or lighting themselves on fire in protest.

We act like if we want to be artists we’ll need to prove we’re “allowed” by only doing what we long to do as a “nice hobby” or in a damp cellar by dank (dank?) candlelight where no one has to see us in all our crazy.

We seem to think that if we were to work on something that we totally dig, this may simultaneously cause our families to implode, our lovers to walk out, our children to disown us, our very physical security to be threatened by some invisible bully.

We think we don’t deserve it. We think they can’t handle it. We think it has to be a big fucking deal and we’ll need to ceremonially trade in everything we’ve earned in our entire lives up to this point in exchange for the right to pursue our creative passions.

But you know what actually happens to us and to other people when we finally dare to start working on our dream?

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How to Find Your Authentic Voice

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Hello, gorgeous – would you come closer for a sec?  Sssshhh come come come closer closer closer . . . I have a secret to tell you.

Oh. Yes. ;)

Actually, I have 43 secrets. (*politely checks wrist where watch would be if anyone wore watches anymore now that Fitbits are apparently every sick thing in an ever-expanding arsenal of sick digital things all diligently calculating a million new ways to remind me that I haven’t done enough today*)

Don’t sweat it though, babe, these secrets are fast and they are powerful if you listen tight.

You see, secret friend, I have been secretly working up to this secret blog post, secretly, over the past secret six weeks.

In secret.

As in: drenched and soaked and sealed and locked in secret. Total sexy punk wizardry; total ninja stealth warrior hidden in plain sight.

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Just Don’t Call Me Tribe

dont tribe gb

I believe in people.

I believe in the power of the individual and I believe in the power of the community.

Deeply, I do.

I believe in the power of ideas and the sheer penetrating force of a collective movement toward a higher consciousness. I believe people come together when they are meant to come together by the energy of values and ideals that matter sincerely to them.

This is sacred; this is work; this is precious.

I want to connect and I want to converse. I want to elevate and listen and understand and offer what I have.

And then I want to be left alone to my thoughts and my soul and my creative process so that I can come back again when I’m ready to engage from a centered place of authenticity, strength, clarity, balance and truth.

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How to Write Like Sex and Dance on a Pinhead

lady glory

You think you know a person, right. And then she pulls some random shit like this on you.

What is happening right now. You’d like to know. I bet.

You think you know yourself.

You think you know all there is to know inside what you already know and then you got comfortable there.

I’d like to disrupt you for a second, babe, if that’s cool. Because while you are warm and snuggled there in the chaise lounge corner of your punchy Ikea Nockeby sectional, your mind is getting dull and your face is pulling sunken and your beautiful, beautiful wild spirit is growing stupid-restless.

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It’s Already Happening

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You think you’re waiting.

But it’s already happening.

All in your favor.

All of it. All of the energy that never lets up, every prick of the slicing rain and scorch of the driving winds.

The accidents. The encounters. The signs.

Everything that’s happening is unfolding inside a perfect pattern of deliberate chaos.

Even as you hang your steely head upon its crooked neck.

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Meditation: The Biggest Lie of All

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photo by Allison Marie for glorybegin.com

If we really care about each other, and I know we deeply, deeply do, this needs to be said.

As much as we may groove with an enchanting romantic spell now and again, the ones that conceal our view of the absolute truth must in good faith be broken.

So as unromantic as that sounds . . . let’s just get about it, shall we?

Okay, here goes:

If you (or your friend / lover / yoga instructor with the sexy solar plexus chakra) think meditation is in any way supposed to be easily peaceful, that you will somehow be miraculously absorbed by an orgasmic explosion of light or mysteriously levitated above your living room ottoman. you have been fed a grave and serious amount of bullshit, my gorgeous love.

Quite possibly on multiple occasions.

Also quite possibly, incense or magic carpets or chickens or late night credit card payments or yoke-less eggs were involved.

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Why Artists & Seekers (& Meditators & Monsters) Need Frustration

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Maybe you haven’t noticed it (so I’m being punk a little bit – you’ve totally noticed it) but in spirituality speak there’s a good lot of the word ‘peace’ getting tossed around.

Learning the peace, teaching the peace, practicing the peace, seeking the peace, sharing the peace, welcoming the p—- okay, right, you got me.

And I’m the first one to champion the peace, for sure. You know this about me. It’s my thing and it’s important. Heaven knows we do need the peace.

But peace is only half the story – the half we tend to idolize, glamorize.  As gorgeous as peace may be, it’s foolish (and boring and unrealistic and deceiving) to talk about it as though peace stands alone as some sort of trophy / goal / badge in a spiritual practice.

It doesn’t.

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{Podcast} The Single Most Killer Creative Skill I Mastered by Blogging

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I recorded this podcast with the deepest reverence for all of us who dare to engage fully with our creativity in this life. Hands down, there is nothing else like it.

I believe our creativity, our art, is the truest expression of our soul’s desire to offer love and light to the world. That who we are at our most raw and true comes out in our art and that kind of brave honesty is the greatest spiritual gift we have to give (and receive) during our time here on this planet.

As it happens, Glory Begin is one year old today. This warms my heart. If you have been here for the full journey or part of it, I am beyond grateful to have your energy and light in this space. Your light is my light is our light.

Of all the things I have learned along this creative journey (and, sweet mother lover, there have been a LOT of lessons) , there is one thing that has surfaced for me over this past year that stands out as unequivocally most important.

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How to Conquer Your Greatest Fear

angel now

(Hey there, gorgeous, Listen, before this gets any more compromising, I should probably warn you: This post is a bit longer than permissible by socially acceptable blogging standards. We all know the ‘proper’ length of a blog post has already been decided for us and nailed to the cross of 1000 words max, so have decreed the blogging gods. But here’s what: I’m not interested in appeasing them today. Not today. Today I need this – this whole ravenous thing – and I need every sexy, lengthy, stubborn inch of it. If you come with all the way, I will love you forever in a place warm and intimate and eternal. It will be glorious. So. You wanna?)

The writer in me wanted to scratch apart what I’m about to share and then patch it back together; make it – you know – “better.”

Maybe twist it inward then unravel it again; thread a few more thoughts through it and slide a few others out.

But then I realized that this thing wasn’t really mine to begin with so who was I to monkey around with it?

Below is a post that fell out of me onto social media in one of those “Ah Ha!” moments where the clouds ceremoniously part and the dazzling light warmly aligns your vision and you finally see Everything clearly and exactly as it always was, but with the clouds and the fog and everything before, well, you were just kind of screwed.

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