Sunshine and Dissolving icicles.

I am keeping my promises to myself and managing to only focus on three habit changes. Posting lessons and meditations on social media is garnering gratitude from other people who are trying out various ways to work on their relationships with themselves.

I was listening to a teacher today who suggested that you write down an intention that is in the area of your thick, crusted scar tissue. The ego by pass is to figure out what the benefits to you for stepping into that intention would be. And the next step is to see how you can spread out those benefits into the life you are already living.

So my desire for excitement could send me to Iceland, or it could lead me to having coffee in a new coffee shop that I have never experienced before. My sense of cocooning boredom can be broken open by finding new music to dance to in my upstairs apartment. Taking a mindful look at the actual rewards that I seek by going after that intention and building them into my life as it is, is brilliant.

The Cheetah Chimp ego will not become enraged from the jungle green tops and scream out at me. “Too much. Too risky. Who do you think you are?”

Nope. Who I am is changing constantly and poor frothing with energy teeth clenched Cheetah is just going to have to get over it.

In my conversation with myself I am learning to start with the “power lead.” Get right into that word flow and throw down the big glowing positives before Cheetah can show up and fling pooh at me. And it works.

Resistance and Growth

Gay Hendrick’s book The Big Leap is like a hefty, sculpted magic key. It is relatively small and fits into the hand with no effort. But the structure of it is challenging. To wield it to unlock the heart’s desire doorway requires acknowledging the survival mentality ego habits that frequently run my life. It is not an easy passage.

As I listen to the book again, I redirect my mind into the areas of greatest resistance for me. Freedom from constraints is the error illusion on one side and the habits of forced labor work addiction reside on the other. It is a wonderfully constructed pathway to confusion.

Getting clearer and clearer at how my ego works in my life, allows me to see those areas that I let fear be the conductor of my cacophony musical accompaniment. No single melody soothes me.

Anxiety about money has been in a way a gift because I have used 40% of all my income to pay down my debt. Forcing myself to develop a habit of creating freedom in my future at the cost of frivolity in my present has been rewarding. (Or so I think.)

However, the big goals… the heart’s desire goals are still floating out there on the mirage lake of my future.


I refuse to set up a schedule and stick to it. The push back is: “You were tied to a schedule for 30 years. You need to be careful of work addiction. Look how fit, healthy you are now. Your system is working.”

But the cacophony of confusion is how my ego keeps me blindly chained. It is in not knowing that I must get lost. Leaving behind control is growth: controlling actions is growth.

I never want to be in a position where I am pushing, punishing, persisting to the point that I become ill again. That particular path has been explored.

Some people second guess themselves… I have a cat’s cradle of patterned string of intertwined guessing that is brilliantly woven.

And the ego lies that most often come up are found in scarcity mindset.
1. There is not enough time. Why embark on a journey that can never be complete because the hours are short; you are at the end of your life.
2. There is too much time. Sitting and waiting for the day, for outside influences to trigger action means that hour after hour there is the flat prairie of no visual connection.
3. Be careful or you will disappoint you, others will disappoint you. Lower your expectations and keep your small cell tidy and calm.
4. Look at you. You are more muscular, more fit, more radiant, more creative than any other 73 year old you know. Why do you have to grow more. Be content.

Oh I am so aware of the spell casting my ego has done in my life… the magical thinking… the ability to confuse myself into submission.

It is almost with admiration for my gift of confustication that I listen to the one voice become ventriloquists of chaos. At my best, I find it immensely amusing to be able to think two contradictory thoughts at the same time in order to sheep dog me into paralysis.

Strategy is important now for me. I have begun writing down what it is I did the previous day that is a break in habit and is to be celebrated. I am training myself to see what it is I actually am achieving. The patterns I intend to address are all those mastered by fear.

As you are following my blog, you can see that I am no longer hiding my challenges. Saying what I need to say is becoming easier. I will work with my therapist on my anxiety about money and my utter fear of getting into an intimate relationship again.

The biggest struggle for me is to accept my choices and to stay focused on how I am growing. I am done sending myself to my room and shutting down when I have simply been human.

Yesterday, I went out with a neighbour and had coffee and a cookie. (So shoot me!)

It was allowing. Learning how to be a friend is fairly new for me. And I am doing well. I am working out consistently and can see the muscle building in my body. My debt is down. I am writing frequently. I have learned difficult (for me) technology. I have begun to believe that my hermit/healing phase is complete and that I am up for a journey. I sit listening at the door for the knock calling me to step into the adventure.

And most of all, I am feeling the opening up of my inner space. The moments of deep peace and being at home with myself are more frequent. Gently, gently walk the path. And I know that it will bring me home to a more loving relationship with myself and all others I encounter.

Learning to allow my ego to 12 tone scale in the background without resisting or reacting, is kind of invigorating. Maybe it is just the kind of gritty energy I need for my movie.

New Year… sparkle of intentions

I feel lit up. I feel grounded and strong. My feet like tree roots connected deeply to my past, to time behind, to experiences lived. My body is becoming strong again as I lift the smaller weights and rebuild my left arm that I fractured from not paying attention in October.

And at the same time the ego is running around like a Roomba… telling me the 50,000 things I could/should/must do. As soon as I feel a jolt of possibility striking me, the old patterns are activated.

intention lost in circling

I can paint the base boards in the bedrooms of my B&B. I can write a new book of poetry. I can walk the wet, mythic lands of my ancestors in the North of England. I can send in my manuscript; bleach my teeth; clean out my car; empty my shed; sell my art; get my files straightened on dropbox and my computer.

I have a surge of energy and then the entire cattle drive goes on the run. Each intention runs off of a cliff or into a ravine.

I am far enough along in my ability to step back and watch myself to not be annoyed or angry. It is hugely amusing. I can sit and see the source of comedy in this default setting. Man… my mind is funny.

I start out as an adult and then end up running around the coffee table like my 2 year old grand daughter. Circle faster, circle again.

So as the New Year begins I can feel the brightness of having a starting line. The larger self wants to make sure it is a straight line and not some caucus race to get dry run in the surf by the ocean. Alice in Wonderland had much to teach us about the nature of reality.

I breathe out… stay in the now of it and just feel the gratitude of being able to sit in the joy of new beginnings.

Buddha grounding my home

Wearing Bifocals… what do I see?

Christmas is a challenge. Yep. Can’t get past that one yet. It is like wearing new bifocals for me this year. I see two fields of reality at once. I move back and forth by simply tilting my perspective.

Seeing oneself

Christmas is dark. I am alone. I will never be loved. The world is frighteningly aggressive. That is the old lense. That is the familiar vision. That is the ego narrative yammering at me.

And then I pressure myself for perfection. Why aren’t you more _______________? Fill in the blank. So in the way of my mind habits I criticize myself for criticizing myself.

We are the love we seek


I spent two days last week undressed, wrapped in my red bathrobe with pink polka dots watching Netflix. Oh, I had a companion. And it was a gluten free cheese cake. Over a two day period I cut off slices of the cake until it was gone. Only then did I force myself to get up and get dressed.

So through the one lense I see how far away from the person I want to be I am at this time. The old wounded stories are still there… playing in the background. My vanity parody self comes out and wants to strut around on some runway of validation to the applause of thousands. There are all of these tethers of mind habits that tug on me.

Working with my childhood

Tilting my head, I see that I have attended to sundry physical problems and gone after support and coaching even when I am at my darkness cave pit of depression. I will seed a positive outcome for the future. I have signed up for a punch card at the Y and gone in for a person training program. And then come home to lay in bed in the dark watching netflix.

I have set up physio therapy sessions for my recovering wrist and work on the program daily so that I am fairly constantly in pain as I open up possibilities of movement. I see my new counsellor and am working on the programs we have designed.

Much of the absolute terror of my past has been uncovered and I have sat with it.

trusting my guides

So when I tell myself I am stalled:When I tell myself I am too small for my spirit:When I tell myself that I am feeble and weak: I realize these are all ego past thought habits. And I look to what things I am doing at the present time.

What I know for sure, if I just tilt my head for the distance vision, is that I am dealing with my connection with my body and with my past. It is not small work. It is not the work that a coward undertakes. It is a stage of preparation.

I rest in the knowledge that all growth serves me. Inevitably it will allow me to be a better friend; a better mother; a better spiritual fitness coach. I guess, I learn to trust most effectively by releasing the need for outside validation. I trust because I trust. It is actually quite simple.

December Darkness: Do we have to be giddy for Christmas?

Lately, it has been kind of a layered darkness. I am doing physio on my fractured wrist and getting the use of my hand back is an uphill climb. For the first ten days the constant throbbing was interfering with my peace of mind. Then the flu hit. Everybody, apparently, has this flu so there is nothing particularly dreadful about it other than it is generally dreadful.

Christmas itself is always very difficult for me. A long holiday with my parents shut up in the house with us was like a prison. The fact that it was “normal” for adults to have a rainbow bar full of various types of booze did not help the situation. Learning the skill of being a frozen faced actress helped me. The rage was volcanic and just under the surface. Who would be screamed at and then thrown against a wall next? The cheerful Christmas music in the background ran as a counterpoint to the reality we all were experiencing.

My spunky grand daughter decorating the tree

So the pressure I put on myself to “get over it” wrestles with the triggered depression. This year combined with inhibiting hand pain and the trembling in the bathroom flu experience has left me at odds with my ideal self.

Every single Christmas commercial causes an outbreak in tears. God help me if somebody shows a kitten with a tiny hat on its fuzzy head. When I was phoning Green Shield today, I could barely get through reading my number. What I was hearing in my head is “This is all too much. What if they misunderstand me? Why is the number so mixed up and complicated? Why do I have to repeatedly untangle issues with institutions? Why am I such a wimp?”

the desire to glow

So I put the fireplace on the TV set and listen to the Cinnamon Bear radio show that was a bright spot in my childhood Christmases. As my little brother and I lay on the carpet in front of the towering console radio, it was an anticipated shared pleasure. The series ran every night from Thanksgiving until Christmas. My mother sat in a chair doing something… mending or sewing. And I cannot remember one time when my father raged during the program. I found the show on You Tube and sent it to my brother.

Cinnamon Bear

His reply, “Good times.”

And I know full well I have a lot of work to do on my hand to get its use back. The flu will eventually be defeated. And best of all, Christmas will be over.

Maybe then, I can stop forcing myself to live some lie of cheerfulness. It is a difficult time for me and may never get easier. Learning to be at peace with the struggle is what I am hoping for.

Christmas Contrast

Yesterday I went to the Mall to mingle. There are times when I just wish to “participate” in the socially constructed delusion of purpose. I still remain outside. Even in my dreams I stand outside of a scene in which I am reliving a past even.

So I encourage myself to walk as many steps as I can while checking in on my fit bit. I stop and visit with Rose at the Bay behind the jewellery counter. She has warm, soft and sweet energy. When I see her, I check to see if she is busy and then if she is free, I walk to her.
“Hi Rose,” I say with a big genuine smile on my face. “How are you?”

We talk and as we are exchanging words I think, “I just love you.”

In the submarine hallway of the dark winter shopping center, I stop at the kiosk packed full of young clerks in their black sales costumes. They are kind to one another and to customers. Even though there are four or five of them jammed into a small space there is no competitive striving for territory or sales.

I call them the “better in black” crew and always stop to throw out some trivial words and exchange smiles. They are working so hard to make a life for themselves. They take a bus home and are unlikely to own their own residences any time in the future. But they bend over helping confused people figure out their phones, their plans, their sense of not knowing how to proceed. It is a kindness in intention.

There are opportunities to see a father holding his kids’ hands; a young couple stopped in front of a window enjoying some new style programming experience. The tribes of teen girls have somehow lost their coats and parade in the eye catching attire that they believe gives them value. Groups of young males insult one another and walk in unpredictable lurching playful patterns. There are in jokes exchanged and sudden out breaks of laughter.

                          How to fit in

Crowds have shown up because there is a yearning for village in a place that sprawls out over the landscape. So many towns have a central street to walk upon once a week. Everyone comes to stroll. Everyone comes to see the new baby, or the new shoes or to hear about the child who is living somewhere else pursuing opportunities.

And now, we are apart. We live in enclaves without a central Malacon or Main Street. We spend hours a day looking at the blue/gray light of a screen. But at the mall at Christmas, people are buying presents to ship to those far away. And it brings us together.

We are a reflection.

I have happened upon people I once knew, I once worked with, I once served on a board with, I took a class with when I was in the mall and it provides a certain continuity in my life. It brings back my history and memories of who I once was. It brings the lie to the sense that I am an outsider and not connected.

Every action I have taken in life has in some way connected me to others in either a positive or a negative way. It is good to remember. Watching the village crowd into the mall is a way to remember that we all share an energy.

Going Under the Story: part two

What I am currently learning is that the sense of emptiness that is under my story cannot be disappeared through work, accomplishment, addictive entertainment binges or by achieving some illusive validation badge from society.

For years I have been meditating; keeping the house spotless; using self discipline to attend to the small, bothersome things first. The result has been a lack of passion. The result has been a deep moat of isolation around my being. No matter how hard I worked I could not drop the underlying sense of fear of making a mistake that would upon occasion arise like some horror movie violin screeching warning. I had to keep myself under control.

After eight years I am no closer to being in a loving relationship with a man. Art sits in my studio unseen, un-marketed and unsold. My books sit in a cupboard unheralded. The sense of loneliness becomes more and more pervasive.

I have grown in so many ways. I no longer awaken screaming from my nightmares. I have lost four sizes and made my body far more healthy. I have totally reconstructed the sense of power in my physical being. I have paid down a massive debt from my “reverse dowry” divorce.

The friends I do allow close to me are supportive, can be counted upon in illness and show me a model of compassionate growth. They are willing to accept all of me, all of my story.

Nevertheless, what lies underneath is The Upside Down World. And the flashlight I am using to go into that dark place is the word “naturally.” Who I am flows out “naturally” as a consequence of from what happened to me as a child.

Once, in a shamanic retreat, I saw myself as a child under the age of three laying in my bed with freshly broken bones and bruises. The room was dark and I wanted to cry. I was overtaken by the consuming pain of knowing that I could not cry out. He would come into my room. He who could hold a pillow over my head until I passed out; he would come in and this time he could kill me.

And since this memory came back to me as a woman in my sixties, I could allow myself to weep. I sat in a group of supportive people and once again came to the thought, “I didn’t do anything wrong. I am so scared. I am so scared.”

All of my energies as a child shifted as soon as my father arrived through the door. I was on hyper-alert and the assignment was to stay alive. Which of his six shifting personalities would arrive. Would he be the small boy who rocked and cried? Would he be the violent abuser? Everyone has seen movies like the Story of Eve, but I lived with it.

My entire life the survival tactic has been to say, “it was not that bad.” My self encouraging, warrior voice told me to just get on with it.

It was like being in a war zone and the buildings were collapsing, so you look for a path through the rubble. There is no point in sitting and grieving. Getting on with it is the only way to live another day. Keep moving.

But now, I am going under the story. What lies beneath in The Upside Down World is darkness. My bones are broken. My nose and cheek bone are broken. I was used as a sexual anesthetic for a sick man’s pain and my mother stood by and allowed anything at all. Anything at all.

And now I am connecting with “her”. I see “her”: the 18 month old; the three year old; the seven year old. For the first time in my life I am not afraid that feeling compassion for “her” will somehow kill me.

The big journey right now is to understand how absolutely terrified I have been most of my life. Because I am strong enough now, I can see how important it is for my future that I feel into the past.

And underneath it all is the chaos; the terror; the sense that if I did the wrong thing he would kill me this time.

The habit of mind of constant conflict that I hold at all times of my day is to ask the question,”What should I have done? Did I just make a mistake, a wrong choice?”

I can never be sure because I was dealing with an adult with multiple personality disorder. What would please one “being” would enrage another.

My patterns, my coping systems, my rigorous guarding of my boundaries make complete sense to me now. As I go down into the dark, underneath, I see how it has created a field of energy that has flowed out into my life.


My child; my little girl was left alone to deal with terror and there was no adult to comfort her. Until now. Until now. I am with her.

Going “under” the story.

Pema Chondra instructs those who attend her workshops the vital skill of going “under” the story. In her own inimitable way she chuckles as she reminds her students that anything they are feeling; anything they are doing will grow. If a person is practicing a skill it will become ingrained and more powerful.

Six weeks ago, I felt as if it was time to address some of the issues that I have just been pushing down in an exhausting attempt to ignore them. I began therapy again.
For me, going to therapy has a deep taint… I see it as a stain. To admit that I can’t do it alone is a sign of weakness and like some Classical Mythic being, I will have the vultures circle over head. It is a staggering weakness to admit weakness. It is an invitation to shame to admit shame. It is a uniform of the losing team to admit I have been playing injured.

So now, I am walking through the story with the guidance of a skilled therapist. I set myself the task of not being afraid of the fear. And it has been difficult.

For many years I have not cried except for others. A picture of children massacred in Syria will elicit the bleeding grief from my eyes. A television show about those who die alone will immediately trigger the flow of sadness.

But now is the time to go into my story and also to go under it. Once before in my life I connected to the brutality of my own past.

I attended a group session held in Telkwa, B.C. by a group of Catholic nuns who named their methodology Personal Human Relationship Study. We formed a circle and slowly build trust. Exercises helped us to open up the armour that each of us wore on a daily basis.

And as others shared with brave openness, the epiphany struck me. I saw in my mind a picture of an 18 month old child. I was 18 months old when my mentally ill father returned from France with his PTSD and became a dark, explosive and dangerous presence in my life. He went to a psychiatrist and a lot of good that did.

Mere seconds after that image appeared in my mind, the words fell out of my mouth.
“I was so tiny. I didn’t do anything wrong. It wasn’t my fault.”

I drove an hour home on a Northern isolated highway stripped of the not knowing. When I arrived home, I immediately called my mother. I asked her, “Was I abused? Did my father abuse me?”

She saw the world through her own fractured filter. As a person with Borderline Personality Disorder, she was deeply investing in being the victim. There was no room in the nuclear family for another one.

She told me a story. “I didn’t know,” she said. “I came home and he told me you walked into a door,” she said. “You climbed the car and fell off onto your face is what your father told me,” she said. “I saw him when you were 12 come up behind you when you were doing the dishes and grab your breasts. But that was just playful,” she said.

After that I slid down the wall holding onto the phone and I began to sob. I can’t remember the rest of her words.

I was not yet forty years old but never, once had I connected with a compassionate love with the toddler who was beaten and lay alone in a bed with her bones broken.
How could I deny her empathy and connection? Because I was taught to. Because none of us knew anything. The will to survive comes from bonding with the caregivers. Numbing out; making myself wrong; dissociation worked.

But now the story I live is simply not rich enough in texture and depth to explain the deep well of sadness that I carry with me from the time I wake up until I sleep.
With a loving guide by my side, my intention is to go under the story of my daily narrative and connect to the reality of how I experience life. And as I drive my car, I have Pema Chondra’s lessons to listen to. There is a bigger truth to explore.

What is Cultural Capital?

Cultural capital is a term developed and popularized by late-twentieth century French sociologist Pierre Bourdieu. … Cultural capital is the accumulation of knowledge, behaviors and skills that one can tap into to demonstrate one’s cultural competence, and thus one’s social status or standing in society.

Cultural capital is the possession of tangible or intangible assets–be they institutionalized, objectified, or embodied–that promote social mobility but are distinct from financial capital. Cultural capital is measured by the value society places on an individual’s assets in a given situation. Financial capital is understood in terms of the economic power an individual can wield. The third fulcrum of power is social capital. Those who do not in and of themselves hold financial capital can through their connections access funding, publicity or vast network that creates power for themselves.

The movie star Cary Grant is an excellent example of an individual who understood cultural capital. He recreated “himself” by studying how connecting to cultural markers anointed other individuals that he admired. Hiring a speech coach, learning the manners and markers of elegance, dressing impeccably was undertaken to purposefully  transform his presence and power.

my parents who were the children of farmers and skilled laborers from the North of England and from Bosnia, Serbia went after Cultural Capital with a knowing vigilance. They knew and taught me so I could have the cultural knowledge I needed to move in a circle of more highly educated people.

And from that vantage point I read and attended plays. My father read books out loud to me from the public library such as H.G. Wells entire Outline of History. I was allowed to purchase the classical records series at the local grocery store and play the entire series repeatedly. Shakespearean plays were shown on a TV channel and my access to that program became more important than any other viewing plans that evening. My mother sewed clothing that was up to date so that I would fit in to the upper middle class high school I attended. I watched television to understand the world of dance and took dance lessons from the local parks program.

My grandparents were simple laboring people. On my father’s side they were illiterate. On my mother’s side they were barely literate. But I had access to learning in my environment.

A country can build into its structure the ability to enable its citizens to hold Cultural Capital. It begins with free day cares and pre-school programs. It extends to access to libraries, to art galleries, to public presentations of intellectual speakers. The conscious building in of culture as accessible is the way a country protects its future.

And why this is so very, very important is that those who are allowed to study and absorb ideas then go on to have self confidence in their own power. They then go on to become creative thinkers.They look at the future and see a problem and devise a solution. The society cannot ignore the intelligence and creativity that is on fire in citizens, or in new immigrants. The necessity for engineering a manner for these people to enter the gates of the leaders is foremost in the world today.

Norway has an entire generation of software designers and IT experts that have grown up from their farmer third world immigrants. The country provided free services to teach the immigrants how to navigate a new social landscape.

Canada needs to do this as well.

A person who is locked down into a lower class, who is unfamiliar with Western Civilization and cannot read can through design be systematically exposed to the vast world of ideas, history, art. It has been shown to be an effective way for them to utilize their passion and then go on to save that country.

They create small businesses that at a greater rate in Canada than Canadian born individual do. And in the future their creativity may go on to figure out how to protect water, how to prevent diseases.

We, as a society, place too much emphasis on financial capital. There are other methods of bringing value to a society.

It is one of the reasons it is so very important for people to be taught the joy and power of reading. Reading is the most rapid way to improve language thought patterns.
So a society providing free, rich, varied cultural experiences results in citizens who are acculturated.

That doesn’t happen when the citizens are having limited cultural experiences.

We have seen through studies that the people who are struggling and sitting in a lower class can rise up with access to free libraries, to free art galleries, to free lectures.

The other part is to undertake to do as Cary Grant did and know what the markers are for the leaders.

And it is entwined in knowing creativity.

Many people have recreated themselves and garnered more power by studying what is expected by the culture.

But the “markers” for the acculturated are important to know.

I  just explained to you what my parents knew and taught me so I could have the cultural knowledge I needed to move in a circle of more highly educated people.
And from that vantage point I learn even more richness of the mind: about plays, or new books, or new theories. A habit of intellectual curiosity became the driving force of my life.

It is what Cary Grant did… a poor circus acrobat who assiduously studied the culture.
He learned how to walk, how to talk, what to wear, what the cultural history was in terms of art, music, intellectual history and then he spent the rest of his life not just “passing” but by becoming one of the icons of society.

The Fulcrum of Compliance

Today several things came together in my field of attention. First a very conventionally beautiful woman put a post up on facebook and I wondered about the idea of complying to the cultural concept of beauty.

When a woman chooses to have procedures, selects ultra feminine clothing, tilts her head seductively what motivates her? I wondered.

It is exactly what I am working through in my life right now. My mother conditioned me to “be pretty”. I had perms at 4 and 5 and back then the chemicals were beastial. My eyes stung. I could barely breathe. The curlers lifted up my scalp because they were so tight. The concern was that it “would take.”

As my mother made me dresses that restricted my muscular shoulders and shoved unforgiving mary jane plastic shoes on my feet, she reminded me of where my ultimate power lay. “Women must suffer for beauty,” she said to me during these ritual attempts to mold me into a feminine form.

mind prison

The idea of fitting in to a high school that was full of the richest people in my town was entrained in me. We lived on “the heights” where doctors’ houses perched, lawyers’ abodes were custom designed over-looking the lower levels of the town where chicken farmer, mechanics and factory workers lived. Their children went to the “other” high school.

I walked the hallways through groups of girls wearing cashmere sweaters with matching socks; with boys who got a TR3 for graduation. But I was a fraud.

My parents worked four jobs between them to build a house. I was a fraud. I was not interested in being pretty and remaining passive.

At home, I was beaten and molested. At school, I was mocked and strange.

The question of how one goes into the world as a woman is on the table right now. Posts in media are asking the question, “Why have women stayed silent.”

We have stayed silent for the same reason we had ribs removed in Victorian times: in order to fit in. We have stayed silent for the same reason we walk in shoes that destroy our feet. We have stayed silent for the same reason we refuse to speak up for equal pay.

We bleach our hair blonde. We look to our fellow captives to see how they accumulate attention and power and what we see is compliance.

A few woman break out and body build, or fight like hell for the dysenfranchised, or are brave enough to say #metoo.

It is a time of transition. Since the time of the Elysian Mysteries when women held the societal power, we have been ruled by men. Throughout the history since the Mysteries collapsed, we have looked around us to see how other women embrace their own slavery. What gives them attention from men? They move up the ladder because they are not a threat. They are available to be sexual presences in the work place because of the way they dress and present themselves.

We see through our own shadow.

Men do not have these restrictions on them. And it is time that women, each individual woman, sit down and have a conversation with herself. Who am I when I am not trying to fit into a persona? Who am I as a free spirited being moving through life?

From that point, things will change. It moves from being a fulcrum of compliance to a fulcrum of authenticity. I have faith that is where we are headed.

For me, I sit with the question… how was I conditioned? What choices are truly my own? I am curious. And not knowing is the beginning.