This year I plan to meditate two times per day. I’m starting with 15 minutes each time. I plan to move up to 30 to 45 minutes each time by the end of the year.

During my meditation last night, my spirit guides revealed to me that they had switched their positions for the new year. Carlina, who is usually to my left, moved to my right. Lucé is now on my left, and Alhamba, faithful supporter of my back-body and spine, moved to my front. Maharaji, my longtime spiritual guru, moved to the rear.

This change feels quite nice, though I’ll admit it’s taking some time to get used to. Carlina, Lucé, and Alhamba have been in their respective spots since I first learned of them, and I’ve spent many long walks, meditations, runs, and surf-sessions relating to them in particular places.

During my meditation, they asked me to pick stones to represent them. With my eyes closed, I did so and put the stones in their correct spots. My guides then told me to pick a stone to represent me and to place it in the middle of them. That felt odd, and I realized that I mostly relate to myself as a void—an empty space moving in space and time alongside matter and characters of substance. One of my jobs this year is to relate to myself as who I am and not as a void or as nothing.

Anyway, after I selected stones for my spirit guides, they started to tell me what they (my guides) represent this year. Carlina represents the Divine Feminine and grounding. Alhamba represents strength, power, and endurance. Lucé represents flexibility and mobility. And Maharaji represents wisdom, support, and encouragement. They all have other representations as well, but those are their primary ones.

Maharaji, it feels important to discern, is not so much a spirit guide as a guru and a father. I’ve known about my connection with him for much longer, and he is of a particular lineage. He is connected to my ancestors, my spiritual lineage, and my soul family. While all of my guides know my heart, he is my heart, and he is my home. He has been around in all of my past lives, and he will be there in my future ones.

If you’ve read this far, I congratulate you. I imagine some of you will have questions for me the next time you see me because you didn’t realize that I walk around talking to 4 spirits no one can see. Or many people can’t see. I don’t see them either (well, except in my mind’s eye), but I do sense them and hear them and receive clear information from them.That’s how I roll. 😉

My spirit guides deliver to me wisdom and vision beyond my years and capabilities, and for that, I am grateful. They gracefully walk me through challenges, confusion, and even moments of being lost (literally lost–like, I have no idea where I am or how to get where I’m going lost). They help me experience the depth and breadth of beauty and love around me. They’re pretty amazing.

I happen to believe that everyone has spirit guides and if you want to know yours, I know an amazing person who can introduce you.

Here’s a picture of the stones that represent them (and me. I’m the little one in the middle. So far, all I know about me is that I have all of the qualities that my guides represent and that I’m as mysterious as the depths of the sea. I have a feeling that this year’s meditations will take me on quite an exploration):

In love and liminality,

Annie Rose

Information is meant to be a launching point. Not a point at which to come to a conclusion. Creating a world that works requires focus, intention, and thinking beyond where we normally think. When we read news, for example, we have to not come to a conclusion about what we read, but instead consider the news within a larger context and then think about how that information is relevant.

When we read fake news, for example, we mustn’t just disregard it. We must ask, “in what context does this fake news exist and persist? What is it that our society is creating and manifesting that makes this popular?” If we truly want to transform systems and create a world in which people are healthy, safe, and connected, we can’t simply disregard the threads that make up our fabric. We have to tug them…see where they lead…ask what structure they support…ask what wove them.

It’s not enough to simply hate Trump. It’s not enough to hate Trump supporters. It’s not enough to disregard Trump supporters simply because Trump didn’t win the popular vote. Trump being elected is a symptom not just of our electoral college (which I believe is indeed problematic), it’s a symptom of our society. It’s not just a symptom of ignorance, racism, bigotry, fear, or capitalism, it’s a symptom of a group of people (all of us) who have played some part in allowing such things to persist, thrive, and overcome other values. Even those things are symptoms of yet something else. (And I have to note that my hate for Trump should not be a stopping point for me. My hate for Trump is a symptom of something else and indicative of something in my heart, thinking, and way of being. My hate is a launching point for thinking more critically. Ideally, I won’t hold on to my hate for Trump, and I’ll instead use it as a way to think more critically about a more entrenched issue.)

We have to think. We have to move beyond our immediate and trained assumptions. We have to explore ourselves and listen to others. We have to dedicate ourselves to our own awakening and the awakening of others.

Actually, we don’t have to. But we could. And if we want to cause change, we must.

This doesn’t mean that causing change has to be full of arduous work and logical brilliance. It simply means that we have to be present to something other than the superficial level that presents itself. It means we have to be willing to tap into something other than what we already know. It means we have to remain open to curiosity and exploration and divorce ourselves from conclusion.

Even as I write, I wonder what the next evolution is of my thoughts. Is this post my conclusion? Certainly not. It’s part of the evolution. It’s a part of the fabric of one thread that’s the part of a fabric of one thread. And on it goes.

Here are some ways to expand your thinking:

1. Notice your first thought. Label it as your first thought.
2. Notice your body’s reaction to your thought. Said another way, notice your emotions. Are you happy? Sad? Angry?
3. Ask yourself whether or not that reaction is familiar to you. If it is, it’s likely coming from a trained, automatic thought.
4. Think something else. If you’re angry, try to think about whatever it is that triggered the first thought in a different way. Don’t worry–it’s just you in your own head. You don’t have to let go of your strong held beliefs or admit that you’re wrong. You simply have to try something else on.
5. That’s it. For now. Just start there. Just NOTICE what you’re thinking and what you’re feeling about what you’re thinking. Then notice if that feeling is familiar. If it is, try to think and feel something else, even if for a moment.

Here’s an example.

A person says that while she hates Trump, she doesn’t want him to fail.

My immediate thought: Ugh. I hate Trump. I want him to fail.

My immediate feelings: Anger. Sadness. Resentment.

Are these thoughts and feelings familiar? Yes. They are the exact ones I’ve had every single time I’ve engaged with anything having to do with Trump.

Think something else: She’s right. We don’t want him to fail. His failing would be bad for our country. If Trump succeeds, maybe our economy will be better. Maybe we’ll resolve some of our issues at a systemic level.

Note: As I’m thinking (and now writing) these new thoughts, new feelings start to emerge. I’m now feeling anxious, resistant, and slightly hopeful. And I just became dizzy.

Are these feelings familiar? Yes. I feel them when I feel strongly about something and don’t want to change how I think.

When I notice that I don’t want to change how I think, I become aware that I’m attached and not thinking clearly. I notice that I’m more interested in thinking in a way that’s comfortable than thinking in a way that’s new.

Thinking in a new way is uncomfortable. Quite literally, actually. You think a particular way over and over again, and your brain becomes wired for that way of thinking. When you think something new, your brain is forced to break its conditioned wiring, and it literally perceives a threat of danger (death). It then sends your body an alert to run. Until the new way of thinking becomes a familiar way of thinking, it will occur as dangerous to the brain.

Discomfort can be okay. We can embrace it (note that as I type that, my body is saying, “no, no, no!” Straight up resistance to being comfortable with discomfort). Also note that discomfort doesn’t have to be discomfort. It could just as easily be unfamiliarity. Or newness. Or the space of creation. But it can’t be anything but automatic until we begin to be intentional with it.

Okay. I’ve reached the end of this new cycle of thinking. Now it’s time for me to step back and take the time to think beyond this. Might I change my mind? Yes. Might I discover that something about this is no longer true for me? Yes! That is the point.

In love and liminality,

Annie Rose

This sweet soul once shifted the way I see the world.

He was living in a garage.

He didn’t have any clothes except those on his back.

He didn’t have any food.

He was scared, cold, and alone.

He had a family, but they abandoned him because he was cursed.

He wasn’t normal.

We bonded immediately.

Everyday, we hugged, held hands, played games, and talked about what he loved.

I thought about adopting him.

I didn’t know how.

I learned I couldn’t.

Corruption occurred.

And I lost him forever.

He was sent back home.

To that garage.

Somewhere in Lesotho.

He was thirteen.

With the mind of a seven year old.

But his soul was a thousand.

And I miss him.

In love and liminality,

Annie Rose

I’m not very good at working hard. I work hard to the extent that it comes naturally to me, but it’s often hard for me to move beyond that. I noticed this in a yoga class the other day. I don’t remember what my teacher said, but I know that I started paying attention to the effort I was putting into my poses and realized that I wasn’t working hard. That seemed strange to me given I was pouring sweat and certainly challenged. But I realized that there is a difference between working hard to the extent that my natural talent and ability allow me and working hard to move beyond my natural talent and ability.

For example, I’ve been practicing yoga for years now. I taught yoga for years. I’ve worked hard on a lot of poses, and I’ve become adept at many challenging ones. However, I’ve slowly developed my ability to do yoga at a more “advanced” level over time. I once worked just as hard at triangle as I now do at handstand. I used to work just as hard at extended side angle pose as I now do at jumping from crow into chaturanga. I don’t work harder at harder poses—it’s just that the ability I’ve developed over time now allows me to do those more challenging poses. My developed capacities became my natural ones, and they continue to develop and expand over time.

When I noticed in that yoga class that I wasn’t working hard beyond my natural capacity, I started working harder. I started focusing more. I started fatiguing my muscles more. I started pressing into parts of my body more. I started paying even closer attention to my alignment. I started engaging my muscles more. I dedicated more of myself than I could naturally. It was hard. And it was rewarding.

Since then, I’ve been noticing and thinking about my habits.

In sports, I always played according to my natural talents. I never worked on my swing or my shot. I simply played and became better over time. When I reached the limits of my natural or developed-over-time talent, I quit. It was that simple.

I do the same thing as an artist. Yes, I’ve developed my skills over time, but the moment I extend beyond my natural or developed-over-time capacities, I stop. I revert back to what’s familiar and skillful.

I do it in the water. When I surf, I rely on whatever capacities I’ve built so far and almost forget that I can actually work harder. I forget that I can strive to paddle better, arch my back more, pop up faster, or be more diligent about riding a wave. Instead, I rely on my already-developed-skills and get pummeled if my talents don’t meet the demands of the wave.

I’m noticing as I’m writing that there is a gap here. And it frustrates me. It frustrated me as I tried to explain this to my husband too. Let’s see if I can capture something:

Let’s say that our natural talent and ability is water in a glass. The glass is half full. Yes, we’re optimists. The water in the glass represents my natural talent. When I first start something, my skill allows me to use 1/8 of my natural talent or 1/8 of the water. Over time, simply by playing and doing, I develop my natural talent and eventually tap into all of it. I’ve tapped into all of the water in the glass. Now there is a component of whatever it is that I’m doing that requires talent beyond the height of the water in the glass. I no longer have enough natural talent—water in the glass—to meet the demands of the situation. It is at this point that I quit. I get bored. I become resigned. I figure I’m meant for something else. I tell myself I can’t do it. It hurts. I get lazy.

What I learned in yoga the other day is that I can move beyond my natural talent; that I can move beyond the amount of water in the glass. There’s still something missing here. I keep wanting to write something cliché: with hard work, I can get better! With hard work, I can do it! Well duh, right? But that’s not quite what I’m trying to capture.

By doing things I never knew I could do, I can do things I never knew I could do.

My friend Jeff is perhaps helping me name this a bit more. He said to me, via text, that perhaps I’m stronger than I give myself credit for. I think he’s right.

I know I’m a strong person. I’ve been through a lot of shit. I’ve faced a lot of challenges. I’ve worked hard (within the realm of my natural talent, mind you). I’ve failed (a lot!). I’ve experienced a lot of muscle-building moments in my life, and I’m certainly strong.

But I’m strong only to the extent that my mind and preconceived notions allow me to be. I’m strong only to the extent that I know myself to be. I know that there is a range of strength that I can depend upon, and I don’t extend my strength beyond that range.

What I’ve learned is that I’m stronger beyond my range of strength. My range of strength is merely a notion, and one based on my relatively poor and quite harsh notion of myself. My range of talent is based on the same. My range of intelligence is based on the same. My range of generosity is based on the same. The amount of effort that I exert for any given thing is based on my relatively poor and quite harsh notion of myself.

I just remembered this time that I challenged myself to do things that I told myself I couldn’t do. For one day, I did everything that I thought (literally thought) I couldn’t do. I was in Atlanta at the time and dealing with the death of basketball. I had quit the sport in high school and hadn’t picked up a ball since. I had lots of sad memories associated with the sport, and I remained heartbroken about it. So, I thought, I should get a ball! I can’t do that, I thought. So I had to buy one. I did. I should go shoot! I thought. And so I did. I should play around the world and make 10 baskets from each point, including the three-pointer spots. Now that was really ridiculous. I can’t do that. And so I did it. It took me hours. It took lots of patience. By the end, my wrist was swollen, and my palms were bruised. I hadn’t played, after all, for years. But I did it. That was a time that I pushed myself beyond my natural or perceived talent.

So where am I going with this? Who knows? Who cares? The point for now is that I see it. I see my limitation. Because I love extending myself, I know I’ll start pushing my boundaries, expanding my expectations, and shifting my perspectives. I think I’ll start by doing two things: putting myself in situations I’m not sure I can handle and owning my strength—my physical, intellectual, emotional, and soulful strength (thank you, Jeff, for that one!).

Who knows what I’ll find! I’ll likely keep you posted.

In love and liminality,

Annie Rose

Today in yoga my teacher said to stop listening to our minds and to pay attention to something much more subtle. A devotee to the body and subtly energies, there was nothing new about this request. However, I took it on newly and tried to release my mind and sense that something subtle.

It seemed impossible today, and I found my eyes quickly filling with tears. I wasn’t sad, exactly, as much as I was present to how hard it is for me to sense and feel God right now.

For those of you who are wondering (and maybe none of you are), yes, I believe in God.

I don’t believe God is a man or someone to be feared. I don’t believe he’s the one and only and that I must devote myself to him if I hope to go to heaven. I don’t believe that God is all of us or a universal presence (necessarily). But I have sensed God, and I do know that something exists.

What exactly that is, I have no idea.

I grew up hoping that God existed and that there was something beyond my pain and seemingly misdirected life that was somehow putting me on the path to happiness and freedom. I hoped that there was a reason for everything and that someone, somewhere, was under control. I found myself feeling safe and comfortable in churches and other religious places and I often fantasized about becoming a nun so that I could sit in God’s presence constantly and devote my every day to him, or it, or whatever it was.

As an adult, when I mentioned to one of my spiritual teachers that I often considered being a nun, he gently laughed and said something like, “Annie Rose, I think you would last about 5 minutes not being with men.” He was right. He handed me a book about Neem Karoli Baba and several tapes of Ram Dass. I took them home and read and listened over and over again for weeks straight. Strange things started to happen. I started to notice 33s everywhere. My airplane seat. My hotel room. The time. Random pieces of graffiti. My best friend’s favorite number. Then, I googled Neem Karoli Baba one day and spelled his name wrong. Up popped a weird website selling Chinese jewelry. Then, the screen changed to an entire screen—and I kid you not—of 33s. It was a sign, to me, that Neem Karoli Baba was my guru. I started to study his words and actions, and I learned a lot about God.

The first time I experienced God, I was on a spiritual journey in the wilderness. I won’t explain exactly what happened, but I came out of that journey knowing with all of my heart—and feeling quite relieved, I might add—that God did indeed exist and that God was definitely present in my life. What followed that moment was a year of some of the most mind-, heart-, and soul-opening revelations about love, God, life, and the nature of humanity I’ve ever experienced. Through additional spiritual journeys, twice daily meditations, tons of mantras, tons of sacred dance, numerous dreams, a few out-of-body experiences, and lots of reading and conversations, I felt God thoroughly and deeply.

I haven’t experienced God since then. I don’t know why. It’s as if someone said, “Whoops! That’s enough for you. Goodbye, now” and simply took God away. I still hope that God exists, and I still have experiences that tell me that there is something beyond me, but I’ve lost my faith. Sometimes I lay in bed trying hard to have faith. I remind myself that trust is something I can give freely and that I don’t need evidence to give it. But that’s hard sometimes, and I often question whether or not God truly does exist.

On a somewhat different note, I have these three spirit guides. My psychic-intuitive friend Shoshanna alerted me of them a few years ago, and I’ve been talking to them ever since. Sometimes I even do it out loud, like I did during a 10-hour walk by myself on El Camino. One of my spirit guide’s names is Carlina. She resides on my left. Another is Lucé. He resides on my right. And then there is Alhamba. He resides behind me. Carlina is this soothing, motherly type who always loves me, sends me healing energy, and guides me with care, sweetness, and strength. Lucé is this French man who makes me laugh, reminds me to remain lighthearted, and keeps me connected to my sensitivities. Alhamba is an African man who stands strong and tall behind me, always offering protection and strength and reminding me to stand firm, tall, and proud. All of them provide me with distinct guidance and energies, and sometimes they work together when times get tough. They give me all kinds of wisdom, and they help me through moments of confusion, sadness, and despair. I feel lucky to have them.

So how in the world can I sense and feel spirit guides but not have any faith in God? What does that mean? I think of my spirit guides as sacred and divine, but somehow I don’t see them as God. But then again, I do.

So who exactly do I think God is? And what exactly do I hope God does? I recognize that I hope that God makes things okay. I hope that he has plans and that everything is working out accordingly. I hope that despite my very human mistakes, confusion, and uncertainty, God is working everything out for the best. But I wonder about that. If God is doing that, why do we have social injustice? Why are there senseless killings? Why are some people suffering so much? I don’t really believe in karma, and I find so much of the suffering happening on our planet senseless. While I would like to believe that God has a hand in all of it, I just can’t make sense of that. So if God doesn’t have a hand in that, how can God have a hand in making sure that I’m okay and that I’m on the right path? How can God give me those gifts but not give them to others?

I notice that I’m hungry for God right now. I want to know that I’m doing the right thing in so many areas. I have lots of tools for comforting and empowering myself in life, but I still want some confirmation that all of life is in service to something and that that something exists beyond my limited scope.

I think that’s it for now.

In love and liminality,

Annie Rose

As we head into fall and winter here in the states, I’m letting go of a lot. I’m clearing space for something new to emerge–something I’ve never imagined or hoped for, but have always wanted from the depths of my heart and soul. I’m inviting in the mystery and opening my heart and mind to their truest expressions.

Letting go proves to be quite uncomfortable. There is some stuff I’m giving up that slips away rather easily; I remain attached to those things, ideas, and ways of being for maybe a day; maybe five minutes. There are other things that I’m letting go of in the spirit of fierce hope and trust—hope that they’ll return healthier and stronger and trust that I’m doing the right thing at the perfect time. I’m still attached in those many areas, but practicing grace and faith in the face of them helps.

There are a few quotes that speak to me in this moment of transition, and I thought I’d share them with you in case you’re going through transition too. I’ve also shared a bit about how the words influence me. If these words speak to you, spend some time with them…chew on them…let them in. It’s so easy to let quotes inspire us for just a moment and to forget that they’re commonly quoted because they contain deep and universal wisdom. Enjoy!

“People have a hard time letting go of their suffering. Out of a fear of the unknown, they prefer suffering that is familiar.” -Thich Nhat Hanh

So true. I hold onto suffering constantly. I love familiarity, and I hate discomfort. That is precisely why I’ve put myself into so many uncomfortable situations in my lifetime–I know that transcending my attachment to comfort and familiarity is my great work. Many people look at my life and think that I’m fearless. I’m not. I’m constantly afraid. But I am indeed courageous.

“You have to grow from the inside out. None can teach you. None can make you spiritual. There is no teacher but your own soul.” –Swami Vivekananda

Even those things outside of yourself that you’re clear were your teachers were really reflections of your soul. Trust the wisdom that lives there. It’s wise!

“Man learns through experience, and the spiritual path is full of different kinds of experiences. He will encounter many difficulties and obstacles, and they are the very experiences he needs to encourage and complete the cleansing process.” Sai Baba

I once had a Turkish bath in Turkey. The woman scrubbed me clean until my skin felt raw. It hurt! But I emerged feeling so bright, sparkly, and refreshed.

“Enlightened leadership is spiritual if we understand spirituality not as some kind of religious dogma or ideology but as the domain of awareness where we experience values like truth, goodness, beauty, love and compassion, and also intuition, creativity, insight and focused attention.” –Deepak Chopra

Imagine if the leaders in our world lived from this awareness. Magical. Brilliant. Powerful. Imagine if we lived from this awareness. We are the leaders, and we can choose to live from here.

“If I go into the place in myself that is love, and you go into the place in yourself that is love, we are together in love. Then you and I are truly in love, the state of being love. That’s the entrance to Oneness…” –Ram Dass

Ahh, yes. Sometimes we can drop into this space of love while in union, and sometimes we have to let go of someone or something to drop into this space of love. We can choose to drop in and ask others to join us. We can enter Oneness.

“The thinking mind is what is busy. You have to stay in your heart. You have to be in your heart. Be in your heart. The rest is up here in your head where you are doing, doing, doing.” –Ram Dass

Wow, this can be hard. So much of our society, especially in the west, asks us to use our minds. Dropping into the heart can feel scary and even irresponsible. But try it. It’s amazing and worth the effort.

“It’s easy to come up with new ideas; the hard part is letting go of what worked for you two years ago but will soon be out-of-date.” -Roger von Oech

I love to be attached to the ideas and practices that worked brilliantly for me at some point. But my attachment to them–as brilliant as they were and continue to be–keep me from a new, more wonderful and expansive expression.

“Relationships are eternal. The ‘separation’ is another chapter of the relationship. Often, letting go of the old form of the relationship becomes a lesson in pure love much deeper than any would have learned had the couple stayed together.” -Marianne Williamson

Keep in mind that this can apply to the relationship between two people, among many people, or between you and an idea, event, or circumstance. And man, sometimes it is so hard to let go and trust that the result of letting go will be a purer love. Letting go requires such trust and risk. But what if the result is indeed a purer and deeper love? Wouldn’t that be worth the relatively temporary pain?

I happen to believe that we all are transitioning through something constantly, but sometimes that transitioning is a bit more noticeable and intense. If you are in the space of fierce transition, I send you love and remind you to practice patience and trust—all will be well.

In love and liminality,

Annie Rose

One of my favorite things of late is playing in the ocean. I don’t surf. I don’t swim. I don’t put my feet in. I get in, and I play.

The water is relatively warm right now, so I wear a bikini and rash guard. More water licks my skin, and I love it.

I wade in slowly until the water reaches my hips. Then I dive under, and the first submersion always shocks my system.

The water begins to blend with my skin. I can’t tell where she ends and I begin. I turn onto my back and float. My toes emerge from the water. My arms stretch out along the water’s skin. My ears become submersed in the water, and she gently splashes my face. She holds me, bobs me, caresses me. I can hear the ocean floor, the movement of the sea, the arriving wave.

I come upright when the wave is near. I like to hang out right where the waves crest, and I love the big ones. Sometimes I dive deep under the wave and revel in the fast pull of its current, and sometimes I stay near the top and let the fast rush of heavy white-water smash into my face, stealing my attachment to my mind and placing me in a present moment. The waves come in sets, and sometimes I exhaust myself. Then I lay on my back again, and I look at the sky, or, my toes.

Sometimes I think about sharks and stingrays and freak myself out. I either pull my feet from the sand or place them firmly to the ground. Neither technique, I realize, will keep a shark from tasting me or a ray from stinging me. My belly clenches just thinking about them.

I sit with my fear. I let myself go too deep, to the place where the water is too dark and I can’t touch the ground. I let the huge waves engulf me without trying to control my experience. I let myself feel my fear of drowning, losing control, and feeling uncomfortable. I welcome the experience of an encounter with a shark. It hasn’t happened.

I do all of this at sunset. I wait until I have an hour left ‘til dark, and I get in. The sun is beautifully orange at that point; the sky majestically blue. The clouds are swirls of gold and pink, and the beach is still. Each time I emerge from under a wave, I watch the sun drop further and further until it disappears behind the marine layer. Then I tell myself that pretty soon, I’ll have to go.

But I linger. I stay in the ocean’s embrace, my one sanctuary right now, and I ask her to hold me. She does, with all her might.

Then I leave, dripping wet and in the dark. I wrap my towel around me and I walk barefoot to my car. Sometimes I peel off my wet clothes and put on my most comfortable sweats; sometimes I drive home in my bikini. I always turn on the heat and roll down my windows. I love the combination of warm and fresh air.

No matter my post-ocean dress, I always take off my rash guard. I put my arms over my head and peel it off. I love the feeling of more and more air licking my skin as more and more skin becomes free. I love to stand there for a moment and let my body breathe. I love to put my towel around my shoulders and to feel the magnificent combination of warm and cool; damp and dry.

I’m so grateful for this ritual right now. No matter how I am before I go in, I always emerge at peace. I always emerge grounded. I always emerge confident. I always emerge feeling sexy. I always emerge feeling strong. I always emerge feeling me. I appreciate the intimacy I have with the sea, and the gift that she gives me.

In love and liminality,

Annie Rose

Tenderness abounds.

Eyes leak.

Hearts aches.

Memories attack.

Regret emerges.

Threats arise.

Sweetness subsides.

Hollowness expands.

Sometimes.

Softening happens.

Growth occurs.

Breath returns.

Life moves on.

And I’ve changed.

In love and liminality,

Annie Rose

I sit with you, old lover,

once lost

but with me once again.

Your fingertips grace my cheek,

I blush.

My eyes touch yours,

we kiss.

As sweet as it once was

As full as it could be

As beautiful as we once were

We are tonight

in touch.

Transformation is afoot.

I’m tracing my finger along a line to see where it goes.

I’m pushing here.

I’m releasing there.

I’m letting go.

Life is shifting for me.

I’m shifting too.

My ideas? Gone.

My plans? Moot.

My pleasures, my passions, my dedications? Drastically changing.

I appreciate this space…and, it’s revealing…sometimes scary.

But here I am.

In the space

of transformation afoot.