Dear Artists,
Dear visionaries, dear dreamers, dear Us. Dear creatives striving to foster connection and healing, stir emotion, and make trying times manageable for ourselves and others while working demanding jobs, caring for families, and (sometimes trying, sometimes failing to) nurture ourselves.
Your vision is valuable. Your art is worth having space held for it, being nurtured with practice and learning, being paid adequately for the knowledge of space, color, form, musical notes, words, and cadence.
You, as a vessel for this often overlooked magic, are valuable. You and your energy are worth nurturing, protecting, considering.
Some of us may have been trying to balance being a conventionally contributive member of society with building our talent, our bodies of work. Please be patient and understanding with yourself if it’s taking you longer to get your art and/or your artist Self where you want it to be.
At the same time, be sure that you are protecting your energy by allocating your energy fairly. We are mired in hustle culture, meaning that skipping meals, working nights and weekends all the time, making your job your main focus are all the only combo that equals working hard.
Don’t fall for it, especially not if you are an artist. Nothing makes us wither and fall back from our goals faster than putting ALL our energy toward a company’s “bottom line.”
Working hard and taking pride in your work can happen in a balanced way. There are supportive workplaces and environments that will see their employees as human beings full of potential in and out of their workspaces and yes, they’ll expect great things from you, but it won’t be at the cost of your physical, mental, and artistic health.
I have worked for some of those places. They exist, and they thrive as you thrive. They know this.
Look for those places. Look for those bosses. Ask the right questions, observe (we’re artists, this is one of our main talents!), and heed your gut before accepting. And always protect the time you require to create, it absolutely is sacred and essential to your well-being. Work to live, sure. So many of us have to, right? But live to create and be lit up from the inside.
Your vision is not collateral. It is cosmically important, and so are you.
From Cosmic Travel Logs #4: Of An Unseen and Ephemeral Coronation
We fell, she and all of I, bloodied and grappling and crashing through dimensions, genders, wars, and karma. It was reaching the salt flat that stopped our flight or fall. On impact we broke apart and rolled away in the shallow water, salty tears and echoing promises from authors and readers to never fall prey again.
Her poison coursed through me from the spider bite just over my heart, burning what little of me I had been able to recover. I lay close to drowning, wheezing just over the saltwater, cycling through ages: I flickered as I turned thirty-six, then twelve, eight, twenty-three, sixteen, four, versions of myself broken by video tracking lines and tachycardia. I couldn’t stand but I felt her eight legs carry her to me, lower her human torso toward me to pick me up and dissolve me into her.
But the light in the interminable expanse was so like the sky when the I that was twelve was violently driven from her home, and so like the bellflower blue in the heart of the I of thirty-nine years. And in a pained exhale the chakras of all versions of me were alight and shooting a familiar golden beam through the length of me and into the expanse, calling out for who all of I had always been but had long forgotten.
It was She who was I and I once was, answering my call, crowned and adorned in gold, swathed in Caribbean blue and rays of gold radiating from her back like wings. It was She also I who hovered above me, opened her arms, and shimmered with strength, hands iridescent fists at her sides. Her eyes of forgotten and reclaimed light glowed toward the spider-bodied shadows that had swallowed my mother, and she--who is also They--recoiled.
She who was I bid the air bring me before her, and hugged all of us who are me from behind, unperturbed by the multidimensional scroll of my existence. When the wheels of time stopped at twelve and thirty-nine, She who was I removed her golden crown and placed it on my preteen head.
“You who are I have always deserved love,” She who was I whispered in celestial bells that took on other voices echoing through aeons, affection glowing at me through other eyes and rays of light shooting through the full clouds.
And though all I could do was smile through pubescent tears falling down a middle-aged face, a hand on my heart and another on the arm of Her who was me began closing the hole through my chest, and opened a door I long thought was but a childhood delusion.
Ways to Reconcile With Your Inner Kid
I can safely say that the toughest, most confusing years of my life were those between the moment I buried my inner kid (I think I was eight?) and the moment I dragged her screaming out of the unmarked grave in which I’d long ago buried her (I believe I was thirty. Yeah. Yikes is right.) I’d started to work in-depth on myself at twenty-nine and had heard of the concept of “the inner child,” but I’d found it so hokey I easily resisted doing that kind of work. Its essential-ness made itself clear soon enough, though, and it was accepting and adopting my inner kid that changed my life in leaps and bounds.
Everyone has an inner child. We become adults, but our essence remains, as do any needs not met in childhood or wounds suffered during all those formative years. An unhealed inner child is at times behind irrational, disproportionate responses to situations/stimuli, shame responses, judgments of self and others, anxiety, and depression. We’re often taught that growing up is denial of who we are, what we need, and most of all, how we feel, when almost the exact opposite is true. In order to grow up into a fulfilled, balanced adult that acts with integrity, addressing all our needs and emotions honestly and with compassion is what is necessary. Many of us have not been taught that, though. So! Even though I’m not a therapist (not even clllllooooooooose), I thought I’d share what’s worked for me and a bit on why! So to start getting back to good with your inner child:
0. Understand the reluctance to do this. Inner child work… I know, it sounds like something a lady with a long white braid, beaded necklaces, and long flowy clothes would suggest, complete tripe. But first of all, flowy skirts are wicked comfortable and feminine, don’t mess with my malas, and I don’t have that many gray hairs yet. But seriously, that side-eye you’re giving this post, that skepticism and reluctance to even try this that I can totally relate to because I sprained my eye muscles too? That’s probably fear. Fear it may work, fear of what you may see, fear of what it could mean for your view of your life, past, present and future. And it’s totally understandable, nothing wrong with feeling that resistance.
I do want to tempt you, however, to try, because usually strong fear is what keeps us from The Really Good Stuff. The I-Can’t-Believe-This-Is-Happening-For-Me! stuff. Asking that girl out, going for that dream job or career, having that first kid (for those who want children), starting that workout after years… it’s all stuff that your fear says you can take or leave, that it won’t work out anyway, that you’ll probably fuck it up… Don’t let fear keep you from peeling through social conditioning to get to who you are and all you can experience. Don’t let fear talk you out of love like the one you can learn to give yourself. There’s no fucking it up here; I don’t think it can happen. It’s just you getting to know you like you’ve always wanted to be known, and thus becoming a never-ending source of love and understanding for yourself when the world inevitably fails to. Just try. And once you’re willing to give it a go…
1. Sit with all your emotions. Before I started my work, my emotions were overwhelming and violent. I would be quiet and even avoid the source of distress, but inside I would be wailing and crying inconsolably, sometimes with sadness and others with unbridled fury. I would become physically ill and lose months trying to stifle it all and return to normal. I learned somewhere that closing my eyes, mentally picturing my inner kid crying and sniffling and trying to express herself, and asking her questions would yield vital information on what was going on and what needed to happen to stop hurting… And if I did that often enough, it would inevitably give me information on who I was. What I needed. Even why some seemingly harmless things affected me so much, for better or worse.
This is probably what took me the longest. It can feel nuts or silly, and if you’ve ever baby-sat you can imagine how long it can take to get all that information from the part of your brain/heart/soul that is still a toddler. But take the time. So much about the real you is in that inner tantrum, stuff to cherish and stuff to adjust. At the very core of all that angst are usually very simple, easy-to-address needs and desires. Really! And honestly, I find that it takes me a lot less time than it used to, now that I do it constantly. Stay curious always about what you’re feeling (and that will help you stay curious about others, too… You’d be amazed how much that can help smooth over any interaction.)
2. Cultivate compassion for yourself. Being hard on oneself has become the most accepted and secretly encouraged self-sabotage in today’s society. So many wonderful people have trusted me with disturbing memories of being punished severely for normal kid behavior and brushed off my dismay with variations of “I deserved it, I was a little shit back then.” Those people also turned out to have intense, crippling shame that kept them from accepting love, celebrating themselves as they deserved, or believing in themselves.
Let me tell you guys what I wish I could’ve had them really hear: correcting a child’s behavior should consist of sobering them enough to reconsider their actions and understand the consequences, not through pain or humiliation, but through breaking the chain of events or pattern and providing a forced pause. What those people’s families or classmates or teachers did was wrong, no matter their good intentions or lack thereof. Those kids did NOT deserve any of that, they deserved to be treated like people, taught the right way or dealt with using communication and patience… and they certainly did not deserve to carry the shame for decades after.
So another difficult step is to acknowledge the fallacies of those who hurt you back then, (at some point forgive and move forward, but that’s a whole other post!) and acknowledge that your inner kid may still be feeling that pain. What that inner child deserves now, what YOU deserve now, is to sit in the knowledge that the pain and shame you STILL feel is misplaced, and you can put that shit down now. That you’re doing your best with what you have, and if that meant you messed up, you have the knowledge to do better next time, and there’s nothing wrong with “next time.”
3. Look at pictures of yourself as a child. Seeing pictures of yourself as a joyful kid with no defense mechanisms, with no hangups, just being your bright, stardust self helps you understand how innocent your emotions were and can again be. It can also remind you of certain feelings felt cleanly: pure joy, pure curiosity, pure amusement. Something I read somewhere that stuck with me is that shame is the opinion of others imposed on to you, and what separates us from the brilliance of our essential being is usually what we’ve been informed we are by others in pain. Disabuse your inner kid and yourself of their notions.
4. Play and retro-play. How is your relationship with “play”? If it’s anything like mine or any adult I’ve had the pleasure of asking, it’s pretty rusty, I wager. But it’s very helpful to set aside time to engage in fun activities without any agenda. Adult lives are full of schedules and activities that seem fun but must result in some result to satisfy or be a valid expense of time. Run to keep in shape, not to just feel the wind in your hair. Draw to post on Insta and gain more followers. Work to earn money, be promoted… so on. Doing something fun for the sake of fun itself can help get you in touch with that pure joy for its own sake I talked up in the last item.
The next step, I feel, is retro-play… a made-up word, heh. It’s taking part in play you remember as soothing, fulfilling, fun, even if it’s considered infantile AF. Adult coloring books have embraced this idea. I’ve embraced it by buying my own Play-Doh and getting lost in making stuff or messing around with a Fun Factory. I do have my baby niece to thank for asking me to join her and thus unknowingly reminding me, but yeah. It’s helped me accept that I’m just a kid hiding in an adult body that only looks like she knows what she’s doing more often than not.
5. Ground and clear slates often. Take time to hit the reset button, every moment you need to. Recognize that every moment is a clean slate, and whatever is stressing you out and freaking out your inner kid can be made better. Deep breaths, time in nature, etc., can be ways to do this. Try to do it at least once a week. Letting pressure build for days on end can convince you life is less forgiving than it really is, and that’s terrifying to any inner kid. Give him/her room to breathe.
Unpopular opinion: A lot of very busy people stay really busy because they don’t want to feel stuff. Keep their inner kid overwhelmed and they can’t feel pain, right? Like jangling a buttload of keys in front of a kid who just skinned their knee, or is getting a vaccination, or anything else unpleasant. I’m going to be blunt: if you are doing that, stop. You are hurting yourself by ignoring your needs. You are telling yourself your feelings don’t matter and denying yourself of growth and relief, even if it hurts more when you first face whatever you’re running from. Stop suffocating that kid. See item 7 below, and don’t give me any guff about there is no time. Make the fucking time, for you.
6. Write letters to your inner kid. Oof. This is a tall order, but again, I think it’s highly effective. Once you’re more comfortable acknowledging and staying in touch with your inner child, write him or her a letter, expressing all the love and compassion you can muster. Write about your hopes for them, apologize if you feel the need, validate pain and neglect you’ve felt… anything. Just be open. No one else will read this letter unless you want them to, so there’s no need for that shame to kick in. I wrote mine a few years back and I’ve shown no one, hid the envelope where no one would find it… but once in a while, I stumble upon it, read, and cry grateful tears.
7. Let self-care be your only goal some days. I don’t care what anyone else says, basic self-care is ridiculously hard to do, day in and day out. A lot of us are used to doing what must be done and then some, but I’m of the strong opinion that, at least once every week or so, grooming oneself, cleaning one’s abode, entertaining oneself, and feeding oneself meals provided with love while one rests is essential. Some people may need that to include an outing of some sort, and that’s great, but if it doesn’t, that’s great too! Letting oneself not be concerned with time, schedules, to-dos helps us reset and be refreshed for the next days, and I feel like, as we became adults, many of us stopped feeling the right to just BE is a valid thing. Plus, when the noise stops, the silence can hold sage guidance and healing you didn’t know you needed.
8. Become the parent to yourself your inner kid always wanted. One of the toughest things I was told in therapy was, “You will never get your childhood back. Those years are gone forever, and the fact of the matter is, you won’t have a time again in which that space and acceptance will be given to you as it should’ve been when you were a kid.” It’s one of the most scarring things I’d ever heard in my life, and for a long time, I thought it meant I would walk around with a hole in my soul until I was given the mercy of dropping dead (I was even more dramatic than I am today, can you imagine?) But nowadays, though I agree that my childhood years are long past me, I disagree that space and acceptance is lost to me forever. NOT because someone else will give me it someday (that expansiveness and allowing that kids need IS something I can’t have now, as I am not a child learning the ways of the world and, in order to be a responsible adult, I need to maintain empathy and regard for others as I move through life), but because I have learned to nurture myself, through communicating with my inner child. It seems odd, but my inner child has served as my moral compass and north star for my best years now, via the kneeling before her, gazing into her baby eyes, and asking, “who do I want to be in this situation?” and “where do I want to end up next?”
Depression has been kept at bay for years now, because in my toughest hours, I feel I am a single mother with a very emotional child to take care of. Those moms can’t afford to lay in bed and not shower or cook meals for weeks on end (I mean, unless they have family rallying around them and are OK letting them close, but those moms are really lucky to have that consistently, from what I’ve seen.) If they want to do right by their children, they have to get up all on their own and care for the inconsolable kid freaking out because “es difícil!!!” They have to care, to talk, to hug, to feed, to love, even when all they want is to sleep their life away. And at some point…. It sounds impossible, but at some point, it stops being an “I have to” matter and becomes an “I really want to” thing. A labor of love, because you can see you are stardust, and you are so worth consistent devotion and love, even in your adult shell.
Anywho. I hope that helps someone who’s heard of the whole “inner child” thing but is skeptical. It has changed my life, and as my Mom would say, I “didn’t even believe in electricity.” Stay gold, and I’m sure I love you! :D
Gratitude, Humbled/Gratitud, vuelta humilde
[Author’s note: Spanish version follows the English one. Thanks for reading! ]
The doubts I have held about myself have never touch the gratitude I’ve held for life in general. I don’t know if it’s been my life-long anxiety, but I tend to be dismally aware of how fleeting everything good can be. In the past, that meant I’d cling to the good, try to keep it alive and in my arms even when it fought me, and sharply mourn it once it inevitably faded, and now it means near-constant efforts to stay present and tilt up my head to the sky when faced with any blessing or good news and utter a hidden but fervent “thank you” to the Universe when no one is looking (or sometimes when they are, I’m losing the ability to be embarrassed as I live longer. Sorry, everyone that hangs out with me, but also, you’re welcome.) It means curling up in bed at the end of every day and thanking the Universe out loud for at least five things, even if I’m having a tough day. Especially if I’m having a tough day. With all these years of working on myself, honing mindfulness, and learning to trust that the Universe wishes well for me, gratitude lists have been my sharpest (and inconsistently wielded) tool.
But over the last few weeks, so much has changed in the world. And so much is being lost. The Coronavirus has killed many and infected even more in the world, and those of us surviving are asked to isolate and take great care if out in the world.
My mother urged my older sister to go to stock up on groceries during a phone call yesterday, and she, in turn and alarmed at the growing lack she saw on her own trip, told me to do that as well. When she suggested my asthmatic booty order via Amazon Prime to reduce risk of being exposed, I unthinkingly said, “Oh, maybe that would be better, that way I can get the tea I like. The tea selection at [grocery chain redacted] SUCKS.”
I swear it felt like earthworms had tumbled out of my mouth instead of words, but didn’t fully understand why I felt this way. My sister continued talking, unaware of what had started growing in the corners of me, a back-of-my-consciousness mold. I went to sleep with it, I woke up with it, and as any negative feeling does with me, it tried to keep me in bed instead of letting me leap out of bed to the grocery store like I’d promised the voices of my family. I fought and headed to the grocery store, saw the line of people and carts snaking around the building as other shoppers waited for entry, and went to another. There, I did what I had once understood as prudent for mothers and those caring for the sick or elderly and wiped the handle on a cart. A friendly chat with an older man did not lift my spirits as it always does when I encounter him or others like him. I feel concern for him. I feel concern.
It was a different scene, almost tranquil, but I can feel I’m not the only one vibrating at this subdued frequency. And as I look for my preferred bread in the empty racks it hits me, a wrecking ball made of packed-tight shame-mold. How many times had I internally turned up my nose at a certain type of bread, at a bargain brand of tea, at the “wrong” brand of oat milk? Looking for eggs, any eggs, quickly drove home the doubt: was I really grateful if I have been picky about what I have been able to get?
Rationalization quickly swept into the scene, and as I listened to it, I smiled hard at a fellow shopper—who quickly stopped gazing at me—in an effort to hide my suddenly watery eyes. “Oh, you’ve been grateful!” it crowed in a tinny, bravado-laden voice. “You’re just looking out for your health and for the earth! Do you know how they treat hens that don’t live in pastures? Or how many toxins are in, like, Lipton tea bags? And cow milk makes people produce excess mucus, that’s no good for your asthma and that terrible laugh-induced cough it supposedly gives you!”
Fair enough. But I couldn’t pretend that there wasn’t a bit of petulance in me when I would “have to” bring home a different kind of oat milk for my homemade cup of coffee, because it foamed “wrong.” Or that my frustration wasn’t a bit disproportionate when the store-brand chamomile and lavender tea barely had any lavender in it.
I’ve been lucky. I’m still lucky, even having just lost my only paying gig, even with plans dashed, even with my independence threatened in a way I’ve fought for decades. Even when I set out to make a risky-on-a-normal-day set of dreams come true and left what was stable and comfortable behind me. I’m lucky because I’m healthy, I have a roof over my head, I have food. And above all, and most conflicting for my lone-wolf batooty, because I’m not alone even in my voluntary hermitage.
And don’t get me wrong, one thing I’ve learned is to be compassionate with myself. I have the right to mourn the sudden limitation of (already narrow) sources of comfort. It’s valid to be especially upset about the little things when all the big things are frightening or lacquered in a new, threatening veneer, and looming over all of us. And, to be honest, it’s even tougher when my new coping mechanism has been to not open up fully to anyone about the depth of my shadow feelings, no matter how much I’ve worked to change that over the last two years. It makes sense that I become a brat now.
But I guess I am having a mirror turned onto my far-more-fortunate past. I’ve been grateful, but have I been grateful enough? If the new normal is really the new normal and changes things, will I look back and be able to say I valued what I had as much as I could have? Is there such a thing as “not-enough gratitude,” and did I indulge in that trying to strike the balance between fear of loss and being good to myself as I’ve been taught it these last few years?
¡EN ESPAÑOL!
Las dudas que he tenido sobre mí misma nunca han tocado la gratitud que he tenido por la vida en general. No sé si ha sido la ansiedad que he tenido toda mi vida, pero tengo la deprimente tendencia a tener muy claro lo efímero que es todo lo bueno. En el pasado, eso ha querido decir que me aferraba a lo bueno, tratando de mantenerlo vivo y en mis brazos aunque fuera forza’o, y lamentarlo agudamente cuando inevitablemente se desvanecía. Ahora, resulta en esfuerzos casi constantes para mantenerme en el presente y en mirar al cielo cuando soy testigo a cualquier bendición o buena noticia para murmurar un “gracias” escondido cuando nadie me ve (o cuando me ven, ya que mientras más vivo menos vergüenza me da. Perdón a los que hanguean conmigo, pero también a sus órdenes.) Quiere decir que me acurruco en mi cama al final de cada día dándole gracias al Universo por cinco cosas por lo menos, aunque haya tenido un día heavy… especialmente si he tenido un día heavy. Con todos estos años de sanarme a mí misma, de afilar las destrezas de la conciencia plena, de aprender a confiar que el Universo me desea bien, las listas de agradecimientos han sido mi arma más afilada (e inconsistentemente usada.)
Pero ha cambiado mucho en el mundo en las últimas semanas. Y se está perdiendo tanto. El coronavirus ha matado a muchos e infectado a mas todavía en el mundo, y a los que sobrevivimos se nos pide que nos aislemos y, si salimos, que tengamos muchísimo cuidado.
En una llamada, mi mama le urgió a mi hermana mayor que aprovisionara comida, y ella, asustada al ver la creciente escasez en su propia jornada, me dijo lo mismo. Cuando sugirió que tal vez lo mejor para evitar que mi traserito asmático se contagie era pedir compras por Amazon Prime, sin pensar contesté: “Ajá, tal vez es mejor así porque entonces puedo conseguir el té que me gusta. La selección de tés en [nombre de tienda redactado] es LO PEOR.”
Jura’o que me sentí como si en vez de salirme palabras de la boca, hubieran salido lombrices, pero no entendí del todo por qué me sentí así. Mi hermana siguió hablando, ajena a lo que germinaba en los rincones de mi ser, un hongo como que detrás de mi conocimiento. Me dormí y desperté con él, y como me pasa cada vez que siento algo negativo, el hongo me pegó las sabanas en vez de dejarme salir corriendo al supermercado como le prometí a las voces de mi familia. Peleé y salí a la tienda, vi la filota de gente esperando para entrar que corría alrededor del edificio, y fui a otra. Cuando llegue, hice lo que antes vería como prudente para las mamás de pequeñines y los que cuidan a enfermos o viejitos: limpié el mango del carrito de compras. El hablar amigablemente con un señor mayor no me animó como lo hacía antes cada vez que pasaba, con él u otros como él. Sentí preocupación por el. Sentí preocupación.
En este supermercado la escena era otra, casi tranquila, pero pude sentir que no soy la única vibrando a esta frequencia sumisa y callada. Y al buscar mi pan preferido en los estantes vacíos es que me golpea la bola de demolición hecha de hongo-vergüenza compacto. ¿Cuántas veces había yo rechazado en secreto algún pan diferente, algún te de baratillo, alguna marca de leche de avena que “no era”? Al buscar huevos, cualquier clase de huevos, entendí mi duda: ¿en verdad he sido grata si he sido quisquillosa con lo que se me ha facilitado?
La justificación llego volando, y mientras la escuchaba, le sonreí duro a otro comprador—que rápido viró la mirada—para esconder las lágrimas llenándome los ojos. “¡Nooo, pero tú has sido agradecida!” dijo en voz aguzada y metálica. “¡Lo que tú haces es cuidarte y cuidar la tierra! Tú sabes como tratan a las gallinas en granjas sin pastura, o las toxinas en los tés como de Lipton. Y la leche de vaca aumenta la producción de mucosidad, eso no es bueno para tu asma o la risa podri’a que te da.”
OK, bueno. Pero no puedo fingir que no había refunfuño alguno cuando “tenía” que llevar alguna leche de avena diferente a casa para mi taza casera de café porque no “espumaba bien.” O que mi frustración no era exagerada cuando el té de manzanilla y lavanda de marca del supermercado casi no tenía lavanda.
He tenido suerte. Todavía tengo suerte, aunque acabo de perder el único contrato en el que ganaba dinero, aún con planes estropeados, aún con mi sentido de independencia amenazado de una forma que he resistido por décadas. Aún cuando traté de hacer sueños ya arriesgados en el día a día normal y dejé atrás todo lo que se considera estable y seguro. Tengo suerte porque tengo mi salud, tengo un techo, tengo comida… y lo que más conflicto me hace sentir como loba solitaria que soy, porque no estoy sola aunque sea ermitaña voluntaria.
Y que quede claro: algo que he tenido que aprender es el tenerme compasión. Yo tengo el derecho a apernarme porque de repente hay limitadas fuentes de consuelo (más limitadas todavía.) Es válido sentirse mal sobre cosas insignificantes cuando todo lo importante da miedo, o está enfangado con capas nuevas que dan miedo, erguido imponentemente sobre todos nosotros. Y para serles honesta, la cosa está más difícil todavía ahora que mi nuevo mecanismo de defensa es el no compartir completamente con nadie la profundidad de mis sombras emocionales, no importa lo mucho que he trabajado eso en los últimos dos años. Tiene sentido que me ponga con malas crianzas ahora.
Pero parece que la vida me está encarando con otro de sus espejos, mostrándome la fortuna pasada. He sido agradecida, pero ¿he sido suficientemente agradecida? Si esta nueva normalidad es permanente y cambia las cosas, ¿podré mirar hacia trás y decir honestamente que valoré lo que tuve? ¿Existe tal cosa como “la gratitud deficiente,” y si la hay, cometí yo ese crimen al tratar de encontrar balance entre terror a la pérdida y el ser buena conmigo misma como lo he aprendido estos últimos años?