I’ve been waiting years for the right moment to begin another blog post hoping the words would cascade down upon me like a crisp, clear, spring from my intuition… spilling over my inner pool and filling up the pages with beautiful and prophetic prose. Many of my writings begin this way, by the gift of a transmission… like it was received by me, but only because my ears were open to receiving it. Like a magical sword that I was worthy to wield only because my hand was open to catch it. The words feel like a gift… but did I truly earn something? Must I? Is there any earning or “deserving” in the eyes of the divine or is there only receiving? Does the divine just give to give?
My nature is that of a giver. I have spent many days, months, years focused on this sole act. My mother, her mother, her’s, and her’s again for generations spent portions… majorities… ALL perhaps of their lives on this. It’s not a bad thing, it’s a beautiful thing. Giving for the sake of giving is the most beautiful feeling. It’s pure and untarnished without intentions or manipulation. It’s a rare feeling… one many of us can admit doesn’t reap that beauty immediately. One many of us might say isn’t truly pure, despite what we want ourselves to think. Giving is a laborious task,- tiresome, hungry and relentless. It’s often worth it when we see our intent,- the smile, the seduction, the love. We can be good for wanting these things in return… are we better for wanting nothing at all?
What about creating for the sake of it? Is it selfish or self-less? I’ve at times felt plagued by the intrinsic need to create. Its demanding nature to produce. Its unrelenting, distracting tendency to be front and center, pulling my focus and requiring all of my attention. If it were a child, it would be a fat one. Always feeding and requiring more nurturing. Craving and crying for more sustenance and would never be satisfied. Always taking. I imagine however, from my assumed perspective of a mother, that it would simultaneously be giving me more than I could ever imagine just by being alive in the world.
Many of my artistic creations have been crafted with others in mind. Either they gifted me with inspiration and their essence was forever infused with the conduit of energy that created it, or I desired to present them with a gift born of my sheer passion, sweat, and creative juices. No matter the way it originates, when someone is connected with my piece it’s almost like it’s a piece of them too and I’m compelled to set it free with its chosen family. I brought it to life, but that was my only role. A surrogate artist so to speak. The rest of its wonder was meant to be beheld by its muse.
I often think of my paintings as portals. An escape route for the psyche. I journey in and out of the ethereal passageways, riding the lightning-like currents connecting me to inspiration. When I’m in the flow, it’s like riding a riptide. The only way to approach it is to surrender to its power and let it carry me out to sea and return me when it’s ready. I can’t paint when I’m not in this space. When I try I often over-think, which causes “mistakes” and endless erasing trying to revert back to the version before I started my foolish attempts. After many years I have finally learned to grant my art the gift of patience. When I am flowing, inspired and my mind is unburdened… it’s time to paint. Might should I force myself for the routine or the practice? Maybe… but I’ve learned that, for me, those times tend to add to my mental turmoil, stress, (or what-have-you) and then I don’t experience the pride and the bliss art gives me when I open up that portal. This might mean I paint five pictures in five years but I know I can look upon those pieces pure of heart, knowing they harness the magical, throbbing life-force that embodied me as I made it.
But why do I love art?
Ask any artist and they might tell you different. I’m not sure I know what other artists would say. Is it a rhetorical question? It’s obvious they love art… right? Why does defining the feeling with words even matter? Why do we have to explain? Is it to help inspire others? Or maybe another part of our innate need for expression? A more interesting question to some might be, why does someone hate art? Does anyone hate art?
I love art because it allows me to dream… when I’m fully awake. As much as I am a giver, I’m also a dreamer. Constantly conjuring idealistic fairytales to chase, stalk, pounce on and sink my teeth into so I can twist and tort it into submission. One lesson I’m finding most difficult to learn, however,… is how to let them go. How to enjoy the chase and surrender to the outcome. How to appreciate the fight as it shows me where I’m weakest, and how to accept what’s right for me at this moment, even when my eyes are hungry enough to believe I could eat the elephant.
I often recognize the Universe blessing me with gifts of intuition; transmissions of profound wisdom. My darkest times almost always come with a message, a download of divinity that upgrades my system. And as it relates to my most ambitious and wildest dreams, the wisdom granted to me has been: recognizing my deepest desires brings them closer to me than I think. That simply visualizing my dreams in full detail makes them already exist. In a separate reality perhaps,… but still as real as the snow and the rain; waving hello from the safe space of sweet possibility; the place where all ideas were born. A forever parabola distanced by the polarizing illusion of sleep and awake. A waking dream doesn’t have to be a paradox… all you have to do is try and trick it, coerce it, grab it by the shadowy foot and pull with all your might so you may hold it and rock it in your arms beyond the threshold of Neverland.
I’ve always identified as a dreamer and defined myself as an artist… but other than that, getting to truly know myself has been the greatest challenge I’ve faced. Even my parents couldn’t offer me complete confidence in my identity. Reanna, Rihanna, Reannah, were all contenders before Rheana came into view. Their intuitive patience was mysterious and inspiring… just as I feel at my core.
Through the lens of my own personal identity crisis I can say, trying to define one’s self is hard…. Like defining water as a liquid while all it wants to do is transform with the environment around it. Ice, vapor… it’s still the same thing but you wouldn’t recognize it. To attempt to define something you must know what it is… and quite frankly I’ve been confusedly accounting my qualities and characteristics with the balance just not adding up… like a child’s fairytale creature or an old, mixed-up box of jigsaw pieces on the game room shelf. It just doesn’t make sense… my fiery ambition vs. my slow, steady nature. My masculine strength vs. my soft, feminine features. My explosive temper vs. my grounded, peaceful demeaner. My polished professionalism vs. my profound creativity. My earthy dark hair vs. my sky blue eyes…
My life has been full of contradictions… divorce and committed unhappiness were my examples for marriage, yet… I’ve been happily committed since age 16. Highly unmotivated by the education system with no desire to go to college, yet am personally ambitious and have achieved an impressive amount of career success. When you meet me positivity abounds… but if I let you see within you eventually learn about the dark, depressing undercurrent… a mysterious force within me that even I, for most of my life, wasn’t courageous enough to face in an attempt to truly understand it.
One thing I know is I’ve struggled to control the emotions within me. Like a tempest trying to control the rain, I can’t hold it back. Once feelings are provoked my tears flow like a primed well, gushing with the intensity of the blood rushing through my vessels with each pump of my heart. A burden to some, a mystery to others… a release for me. Washing over everything like blackwater that’s poisoned with the feelings that spurred them. I may not be in control of my emotions, but I do listen to them. I attempt to gain a shred of wisdom from them before they shred me from the inside out along with whomever is on the other unfortunate end. I am driven by my emotions; my feelings are all that guide me. All that to me seem worthy of following into the dark … the only thing I can trust to guide me into the unknown.
They’ve tried to change me. They’ve tried to lead me away from this invisible compass towards more practical means of finding direction. Money, affection, career success, possessions… none of it means anything to me without the string of intuition connecting me from start to finish. Perhaps that’s why I still feel like I’m walking in place. Or, like a treadmill… am I gaining results without the obvious change in scenery? I’ve never enjoyed treadmills. I enjoy a changing environment. I enjoy new experiences that help me feel like a new person. Why then am I so resistant to change and fused to my bad habits like patch work? Why am I so aware of what I don’t want in my life but cannot find the motivation to let it go? My astrological chart has suggested a few things. Fixed in Earth and Fire, I’m grounded and impulsive, which has led to most dream catching occurring only while I’m asleep. It feels like I’m spinning my wheels in quicksand, I continually snuff out the sparks of my own starting gun. Constantly inspired with no motivation to move out of my comfort zone. How do I make peace with the friendly fire without spilling bad blood? How do I let go of the feelings I’m defined by in order to make way for the feelings I want to embody?
Or on the other hand…
What if others that don’t understand me and the sensuality I hold so dear are missing out on an entirely different part of life? What if the thought-bound were to try reading their emotions like a testament? What if you turn off the projector of the mind and sink into the sensations only you are experiencing at this moment? What if you were to live every second that in-tune with your physical response to life?
I suppose arguably that’s where logic comes in (snore 😪) and logic in my opinion, is the killer of wanderlust. There’s no logic in feeling the next chip you place in roulette; or the direction to place your first step on a soul seeking journey; or the precise pages of a book to turn to for the intuitive guidance you seek; or the exact moment to start or finish a piece of meaningful art. Logic dampens my spirit but has its role I’ll admit, in the workplace. Somethings require logic as a guide to remove ambiguity, subjectivity, and misalignment. But once I’m free, back on the road seeking new and exciting visuals to enrich my Tuesday afternoon commute, I’ll select one of my carefully curated playlists to feed my exact mood like soul food. And when my melancholy ears recognize the rain drops pitter-patter against the windshield in perfect beat with the drop of the snare…… “carry me home I got my blue nail polish on…”, the solemn side of my heart is lifted and consoled, as if hushed by the wind as she collected me in her arms and let me sob gently onto her shoulder.
There are many feelings I experience that can’t quite explain. It would be like trying to add lyrics to a masterful symphony. There’s nothing like letting my emotions take me by storm, its reckless and unrelenting. There’s havoc, there’s rainbows, there’s many lives lost (metaphorically speaking of course… I’m not a monster!) in the beauty of the wild and fervor nature of my heart. Getting to know myself has been so difficult I’ll admit… that I hadn’t really even tried until the last two years. I was scared to know what lied within, or why people fell into my eyes the way they did during conversation; why anger ignited fiercely inside me at the mere mention of any of my short comings; why tears flowed uncontrollably at the thought of any strong emotions… why my throat choked back my words at any attempt to speak my truth. But what I did not expect was that the dive would be so deep. So much so that at some point… I drowned. I had to surrender to the depths of the ocean pulling me down, and be still enough to feel it all. To see my reflection for what it was… my worst fears. My biggest disappointments. My deepest wounds. Only then could I know who I was, or more… what I had been turned into.
Our trauma is our greatest gift. I’ll say that loudly and proudly knowing that many cringe at the word alone. I’m fully aware that it’s what none of us want to hear. The trauma of five miscarriages was not instantaneous for me. It built itself up like rust in a bucket until finally, the damage was unavoidable. The corrosion ate right through what I thought was stable. What I thought I could ignore. And then, as I mustered the courage to turn toward the damage that had been done, I was able to see the many other holes causing my bucket to leak. Many from as long as I can remember. Others inherited from much longer ago than that. But once aware, I was able to repair. One by one, some bigger than others, some taking more time. Now I can carry my own water. And that is a gift. The gift of healing which I gave to myself. That which I would not have plunged myself into if I didn’t have these miscarriages, at least, wouldn’t have had the boldness to do anytime soon.
Alas, as you’ve heard me say before, I believe it’s always darkest before the dawn. The day finally came when I awoke with a new perspective… a literal vision of releasing my own shackles and arising from the depths pf my shadow and experiencing the surface again for the first time… peacefully as a floating gull watching the dawn break forth to a new day. My journey was still far from over, but that was the moment I began to recognize my choice. My choice to give myself what I wanted. My choice to feel the way I wanted to envision myself. The day I chose to lean into the wisdom of each moment, no matter the lesson. That day I chose to take a step towards my side and recognize that I had been waging the war with myself in vain with a sword in one hand and a shield in the other. I have no enemies in sight except a mirror. All of my external conflicts are simply a reflection of my internal torment, and have always been.
Now I know who I am. Now I can erase the boundary lines and blend forces for a stronger alliance with myself. I’m discovering how to be whole, how to accept my imperfections as assets, how to embrace my masculine and feminine qualities, how to recognize my excellence and my blind spots and use it all for good on my path. Had I not given myself the gifts of attention, prioritization, vulnerability, and patience… I fear I would never have met myself again. I would not have been able to see the girl with so much fire, so much heart, so much courage, and so much kindness. She would have still been buried in the past, in her guilt, shame, fear, and grief…. until the day she was brave enough to face it all head-on with love.
No matter how hard life gets or who I uncover on this expedition of excavating the deepest parts of my soul… each experience is helping me discover my inner truth. And the truth I’m finding is and always has been the truth I’ve known about myself since I was young… that I will always be a lover of weed gardens, Texas sunrises, and Colorado sunsets… rainbow weather, the ruby-sweet sweat of July, and catching the moon over my shoulder all October long. I’m learning that Rhealand will always beckon me and gift me with a place to escape- the place where clouds morph slowly like a moving painting, casting shallow shadows over the rolling meadow landscape beneath it; a place where the tide washes out to reveal the secret caverns covered with crustaceans, anemones, and tidepools fully alive and ready to explore like colorfully bustling cities… That my heart will always be open and gushing out for everyone to see. This isn’t an admittal, but a commitment. A commitment to my soul purpose, my higher self, my future self, and my inner child. I will never stop seeking, learning, and observing. I will never stop fighting to gift myself and others with the best version of myself through recognition, growth and healing.
The hardest things I’ve been through have been gifts. The growth I gained from turning squarely towards my darkness, the resilience I developed from fighting for radical self-love in the midst of reproductive failure. The self-awareness, courage and vulnerability I gained from elevating myself professionally as a leader. Every struggle I faced over the last decade was a gift. An initiation into the womanhood my heart has been waiting for. The progress that my soul has worked towards for millions of years to finally personify. The destiny coming into view on the horizon and finally is within the grasp of one transient lifetime, or at least… closer than ever before.
But the true power of a gift is only defined by its ability to be received. Do you know what I mean? How the kindest gestures can be undermined by our skewed expectations of humbleness. Or how the comforts we’re offered by others are so quickly shoved away in an effort to protect vulnerability from poking holes in the frailty of our egos, or to protect our shame with the might of an iron grip. How do you feel when you receive a gift? Do you accept it with open and grateful arms, along with the love of the giver? Or do you struggle with feeling worthy of any gift you’re given so bad that you barely acknowledge it out of fear of seeming full of it? In public, I tend to awkwardly freeze, lock eyes for a quick heartfelt thank you and dart away like an imposter from the spotlight of the watchers who, in my projections, are analyzing my every move and never cease to judge my deservingness. This mindset was challenged most recently as my loving and extraordinary E showered me with grandiose gifts this Christmas, all of which he gathered ideas for over the few weeks prior, no matter the cost, and never questioning if I deserved it. His only desire was to see the look in my eyes and the smile on my face. And that he did. Instead of downplaying how touched I felt, or shying away from the attention, or consulting the inner monsters who guard my merit, I let tears pour down my face and gratitude, and allowed thankfulness to radiate from my heart out of full acceptance of what I was granted. This was a new feeling for me. Accepting my desires, receiving from the universe, acknowledging the gifts with pure appreciation, and quieting the voices of the grumbling, humble-giants within that never cease to whisper, “you don’t really need what you truly want”.
As much work as it has been to become comfortably and secure with my identity, I feel as though I’m barely scratching the surface of what it means to truly receive the blessings of the universe. I can’t attract at the same rate as I repel. I can only manifest what I can imagine becoming true for myself. I can only heal where I am open to seeing pain. And I am only able to fully receive what I feel worthy of being gifted. That feeling is still new to me,… the feeling of not being in debt to the universe. Not feeling as if I have to try to coast under the radar and not be perceived as another preference to consider. A nuisance, a leech, a burden on others. This healing of my receptivity, my worthiness, is one I recognize is of great importance for my dreams. Possibly the most. Not only do I understand it as the key to unlock the depth of my feminine energy, the softness and flow I so crave, but also the depth of my potential to love and have the capacity to hold space for every possible experience I want to attract in this life.
I feel honored for the gifts I’ve been capable of receiving in this life. Even if it was presented to me shrouded in darkness and fog, dripping in blood, and aching with the uncomfortable unknown. Strength is the biggest gift I’ve been granted thus far, like unlocking a new secret power needed to defeat the next big boss in this game of life. I feel as though I started with almost none. And I realize looking back, that I haven’t gotten stronger by laying in my plush, warm bed surrounded by creature comforts,… although I believe allowing yourself rest is also a form of strength. Strength is the gift I’ve granted myself by embracing the hard circumstances I’ve been given and seeking the messages; the hidden gems; the gold buried in the dark. I’ve learned to believe struggle is just as honorable as bliss and joy. It is what sets us up in the position to see our blockages and move past them, in order to move forward towards our potential. It is what reveals the truth of our character in the mirror and offers the opportunity to love our reflection… if we’re willing to see past our learned projections and instead, learn radical self-love.
As I get older I’m also finally learning that, in addition to the importance of receiving all of the gifts life has to offer, its as equally important to take advantage of these fleeting moments I’ve been given and truly honor every aspect of this experience. I must honor my body through movement, my spirit through expression, and my heart through unconditional love. I must honor my mind through challenges, my voice through speaking my truth, and my sight through seeking new perspectives. I must honor my senses through new experiences, my potential through growth. Most of all, I believe I must honor my creative gifts through sharing them shamelessly with the world.
I’m finding I’m stronger than I ever dreamed I could be. When I think back, I’m already so many versions of myself that I longed to be. I know I will always have more desires ahead of me and will still over-analyze myself with a critical eye, but I see now what that has given me. If I continue to give myself the gift of dreaming I will always be capable of bringing my visions to life. That thought excites me and makes me feel strong, powerful, and radiating with potential. I am a dreamer, I am a lover, I am a badass, creative force that attracts connections and circumstances that help her grow.
After trying to strong-arm my life and shame myself into improving I’m learning the more fruitful approach is also (ironically) the path filled with enjoyment, ease, and love. Now instead of anxiously and hopelessly demeaning my abilities to pursue my goals, I’m trying to visualize my greatest achievements well before they’re underway and then enjoy the ride as I coast towards it, jumping over obstacles and dodging cracks in the pavements as they approach me. Somehow, the speed bumps become gifts for greater agility. The puddles- opportunities to question my perceptions and reflect. The flowers on the side of side of the road are intentional distractions to help me take pause and marvel for a moment at the beauty we all too often rush by. I’m no longer tripping over taking the scenic route, blowouts, construction and all, because in the end I know I’m still on the path my soul intended from the beginning and am more ready for this journey than ever.
