JANUARY 25, 2018 TWENTY ONE months old

First post of the new year, long overdue.

Since we last talked, I’ve thought about quitting this book, I’ve thought about starting it over. I’ve thought about switching my direction entirely, and I’ve thought about waiting until a “better time” to try and become an author.

Without even realizing it, I started sabotaging myself and the idea of publishing this journal, thinking, I’ll still write a book, just not this one.

I can now recognize those words as nothing but fear, hiding in disguise and sneaking into the corners of my brain like a slithering snake, trying its best to scare me to quits.

But it’s scary to have two years of work, written out on paper and summarized into one little proposal, which gets sent out to huge publishers that honestly probably don’t even open my e-mail inquiry.

Here goes my current affirmation:

The right publisher will embrace me.

This project will bloom into huge success.

Because without belief and the knowing that these words will become bound in a book, it’s just not possible.

I continually forget that I’m not supposed to know how to do any of this. I’m not supposed to know which publisher is right, which wording is perfect or how to build my audience–I’m supposed to trust and relax, trust and relax. I’m supposed to keep meditating each morning so I can get my brain quiet enough for the day ahead, ready to hear and see and become aware of all the ways Source is communicating to me the way forward.

So that is my focus now: trust and relax. It sounds like the easiest thing in the world, but yet nothing has proven to be more damn difficult.

A few days ago, I watched a home video of you and hours later, while driving in my car alone, I kept crying over and over, each time I remembered the way your face looked, the way your voice sounded, the way we were all permanently recorded together in that special house as a family.

It’s been awhile since I’ve cried about you, but I don’t say that to brag. I say that because I’ve honestly forgotten that you used to be a physical person. I have become so used to thinking of you as unseen energy, like my personal little spirit in the sky, that when I saw you on video, you came alive again and I felt my heart flutter and pound and silently whisper over and over, mom mom mom mom.

I felt like I was your tiny baby again, needing the one person who felt natural and right to take care of me.

But in that grief, in that sadness, I have learned that just because I can’t see you, doesn’t mean you’re not real, which is perhaps one of the strangest lessons for us humans to learn.

It reminds me of the Polar Express book Nana would always read to us kids at Christmas. At the end, she’d gently shake the jingle-less bell, saying that only those who believed would hear its ring. We’d all say, “I hear it! I hear it!” after it was individually held up to each of our ears.

Seeing is believing, but sometimes the most real things in the world are things we can’t see. 

I can feel more than anything, how much I want Everett and all our future children, to never stop believing those words. Because we all come into this world with that sense of magic, but lose it when everyone else around us starts questioning it, trying to come up with answers, like as to why Santa Clause can’t come down a chimney, or why the dreams we read about in fairytales just don’t come true.

That’s why I have to keep writing. How can I look at my kids and tell them all these beautiful truths I’m learning to remember, if right now, at this pivotal becoming “era” I feel like I’m in, I shrink back into myself, afraid of failure and afraid of doubt?

It just wouldn’t work.

When I first thought out my “plan” for this book, I gave myself until August 2018 to have some kind of end result. Why, I don’t know, I just felt it, so I wrote it down and made an end goal. While I know this is something I want to create–I know I can’t dapple along for another five years, saying to myself, I’m writing a book. 

No. Homie don’t play that, said in your original words, of course. I want to give myself the room to believe, the room to relax and trust, the room for this path to unfold without forcing my way through it. But I also need a time goal, or else I’ll change my mind another thousand times, something I seem to be infamous for.

Haven’t you noticed? I am ready for a baby. No way, not yet. I have baby fever! I am scared when I see newborns. I mean, that was an ongoing conversation in this journal for the past year.

At the end of my 6 a.m. yoga class this morning, I read one of my favorite quotes of all time, one I’ve never thought to share with you. And it just seems to sum up how I feel in this phase of my life. I want to tape it to my bathroom mirror, and repeat it each morning.

I now have a life of ease and lightness

Every day, in every way, I’m getting better and better

I am working smarter, not harder

I am now creating the life of my dreams,

in an easy relaxed manner, in a healthy positive way, in it’s own perfect time,

for the highest good of all.

It seems that I keep needing to remind myself to continue believing in my capability, each and every time I go on a binge of self-doubt. It seems I have to keep reminding myself that you’re still real. But I don’t want to feel ashamed of those things anymore, thinking, why can’t I just get this stuff right once and for all? Because I’m not supposed to. And I want anyone who ever reads these words to remember that it’s okay if they have to keep reminding themselves that they’re beautiful, that they’re powerful, that they’re capable.

I think that’s a part of our journey here on earth: to constantly keep remembering to believe in all the good–to consciously choose to believe in the good, about ourselves, about each other and the world around us.

Now while I didn’t write to you all this time, I still wrote in my pen and paper journal:

January 20, 2018 

I don’t have much time to write, but I’ve had the feeling I’m pregnant. Our past two “tries,” I said the same thing, but I feel like I did before finding out I was carrying Everett–I’m not questioning it, I honestly and truly feel that I am, for reasons I can’t entirely explain.  

Last night I decided to pull a tarot card (Chris sometimes likes to “play” the game at night before bed, to my absolute surprise) and I got the queen of hearts. She had long flowing hair and green eyes and was holding with her hands, centered at her chest, a bowl overflowing with flowers and fruit and I said to him, “I bet this means a baby.” 

She looked literally fruitful and motherly and like the beautiful goddess I try to convince myself I really am. Pulling that card was the intuitive proof I needed for the way I had been feeling. And coincidentally (or not), hearts in the tarot deck represents your intuition and emotions. Hello. 

Hoping to prove Chris’ doubts otherwise about my gypsy cards, I looked up in my little guidebook what the queen stood for: 


I bet my lucky stars I’m carrying my second child.  

I won’t ever have proof that that queen of hearts card was meant to be pulled, right on the day that I kept thinking on and off: I’m pregnant. No I’m not. Yes I am! Nope, no you’re not. But the way I felt when I read it–it solidified everything.

All wrapped up into one teensy moment, I felt you, I felt assured, I felt a part of a great power, I felt taken care of and most importantly, heard.

May I trust each and every beautiful moment like the one I journaled about, knowing each and every time, to just trust and relax, trust and relax–that everything is always, without exception, working out for me with perfect timing.

Because everything is always working out for us if we simply choose to believe so. The magic is always there, hidden in plain sight for anyone who dares to search for it.



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