This year so far has probably been the most soul-changing year I've ever had.
I am happy to be sitting here in September, the month I met my fiance three years ago.
I am happy to be wide-eyed, conscious and to be on this journey of nurturing the relationship between the internal mother in me and my inner child.
I am learning to hold the reigns of my own life. I am learning that I do deserve love, and that there is no need to be afraid of my sadness, my grief.
I love this month. I can start to feel the energy shift in the earth at night, the hint of fall in the breeze, the refreshing hollowness of winter air is just starting to trickle into the saturated summer air. Things will soon get so bare (as bare as they get in Los Angeles) until there is nothing left but stark, quiet space. Space for the joy of the holidays, space for shedding of limiting fears and false beliefs, space for stretching, space for growth, space for connection, space for hibernation. Space for hope. At the beginning of each season there is a certain hope that I love so much. The possibilities. The fresh eyes meeting old traditions.
We picked the perfect place to get married. A place that is under water right now, at the mercy of rushing floods. Destruction and rebirth, chaos and cleansing - however you choose to look at it. But the place we chose is just as sturdy as it is vulnerable; just as grounded as it is fluid; just as ancient and sacred as it is young, new, and vibrant - like the marriage it will give birth to in nine months.
I can't wait for daylight to get shorter this fall. I can't wait for the quiet peace of winter.
I was told by a dear friend that when a strand of a spiderweb is broken, it actually strengthens the structure of the web instead of weakening it. Life is fragile, floods are scary, loss is heartbreaking, but the web only gets stronger. Many thoughts and prayers for Colorado, and for anyone suffering for that matter.