I met Dana back in the spring of 2011. We met in the South Class of The Four Winds Society Light Body Healing Program. We have stayed in touch and have developed a caring and supportive friendship. She has also been my spiritual & personal coach, as well as my financial and business coach. She is a true spiritual beekeeper, amazing and powerful woman. Here is her beautiful story that she posted today as well as the link to her website.
Candid commentary by a seasoned practitioner, for clients and colleagues about the art, science and insanity of unfolding a thriving metaphysical business.
It was 1993 and I was on the verge of graduating with a Journalism degree from Indiana University and deeply in love with poetry, raw words, authorship and the desire to become an MFA graduate student at Alaska, Iowa or Indiana. My grades were mediocre, my test scores lacking, my writing raw and passionate, my experience green, my family oblivious and my desire sky high. This deadly combination meant I was rejected from each program and required to find work while I watched my brother continue on to a PhD in Physics. I said nothing. My heart broke, I found random employment and continued to write, sometimes freelancing and submitting poetry to journals, but mostly I took my beloved words underground. For years.
Now? Years later? I didn’t realize how much this meant to me, an unexpressed and unknown wound deeply brewing, forgotten, adjacent the embers of unrealized dreams; until a brilliant line, one resonating person, the right person burst through and essentially demanded about my writing, “Who the hell are you?!” And it all came rushing back. It was her wild outdoors, her spectacular grasp of artful writing, backed by deep, raw experience and willingness to meticulously research that snapped me. And did I mention, she’s successfully published while also teaching in an MFA? Only someone like this could ask me like that and create a domino reaction like none other.
Bam. The memory flashed back. Twenty-three years old with a dream and no way to claim it. It was right there in front of me again in dusty boots, bright jeans and t-shirts, a penchant for driving too fast in a 70′s truck on back-gravel roads with the Rocky Mountains in my rear view mirror, thinking I was something between an Angelou and a Mellencamp and a Colvin. Yes, the words scratched into a journal, its papers blowing in the wind beside me. This love affair of words vibrated in the air space around me in texture, bending the air with meaningful resonance. I was love-drunk on the power of it, so completely engaged in a way I couldn’t describe to others. Unknowingly channeling the very Angels and Ascended Masters I would directly know in twelve years. How could I be denied from this? My writing.
That memory arced from twenty years ago, landing at my feet now, like a rainbow, brushing, weaving through the rich journey (so far), tying together “that was then” and “this is now” with my Ascended Masters remarking in energy space, “See, it’s all answered.” I see now. Had I been indulged by writing programs, the embers of my spiritual nature and the creative freedom I needed to completely explore the metaphysical world with words could easily have been marginalized, homogenized into the political correctness saturating today. The thought nauseates me. Uck.
Somehow, not being claimed by the writing world twenty years ago did me some kind of favor. I see now, the tender emergence of my most recent writing, an odd, but somehow compelling brew of irreverent spirituality, connective nature, forty-something rebellion, unique vulnerability, edgy metaphysical wisdom, testing the waters, lifting up through the chaos of Facebook and the internet, beginning to gain merit and attention that wasn’t even there six months ago. This merit and attention answering the journey of writing through my life for twenty years.
It was bound to come through sooner or later. Maybe even like a dandelion so pissed off or so in love with joy it’ll grow through pavement.
This arc touches the raw dream of two decades ago to today like a kiss. It rushes. It blows into the room, uninvited, yet welcome. And somehow, I unfold from my protective hunched state, the layers falling away, and I know I must meet it. This is the presence of the dream that once cast me out, now claiming me. There are no certificates. No book contract. There is no redemption except the right of passage to continue writing everyday. Yet, there is something. Her presence, standing at the threshold of my life, saying, “It’s time. It’s time to be seen and heard in a way you never have. Are you ready?”
As I lean into the reflexive “Yes” I also understand this convergence spontaneously reflects the several other spaces in my life where the rough edges of living my crazy-unique truth automatically casts me out of the dangerous safety of convention.
I push the envelope in each of the three genres that I love, that so compel me. Spirituality. Writing. Conscious Business. And my Scorpio rising just . . . cannot . . . leave . . . things . . . alone. I push. Pushing conventional spirituality out of its box and ask for the truth when p.c. spirituality is smeared over unseen (bullshit). I poke at it, looking deeply for more of the why and the how than I should. And I exuberantly take others along for the ride in experiencing soul space, light space as deeply as possible, as much as possible, as powerfully as possible and usually deliver surprisingly more than what is expected and accepted. Yes, feminine power, especially in spirituality has been “nice” for too long. I stretch that too.
I don’t stop there. I rattle conventional conscious business practices by flying too much freak flag when I’m told I shouldn’t; when its obvious I might scare away potential business. But I do anyway. I frequently ask for my clients and audience to smarten and stretch while standardized market writing asks us to dumb it down and keep material within grasp. And for the smaller Colorado mountain communities I’m akin to, I’m breaking the rules of the accepted 1980′s spiritual business modeling of single sessions, trading, low numbers and keeping it in the modality box that conspires to keep spiritual business small. Instead, I’m gradually breaking out with growing commitments, bigger numbers, bigger results and a message that is beyond modality and imminently closing in on, rapidly unfolding through to focused mission.
You’re right. Comfort is not necessarily part of this equation. The dumb-it-down, keep it chest close, play it safe, be acceptable, just doesn’t do anything for me, especially when it comes to jubilantly dancing with the vast evolutionary wave engulfing us. We’re so much smarter and brighter and gifted and evolved than that!
But I have to live. And so, balancing and satiating my voracious appetite to stretch the bounds of convention comes into light with my living: the daily, sometimes abrasive balancing of weighing convention, weighing my continued experiential truth, weighing my sensitivity and gift, weighing past trauma, weighing survival (or should I call that thriving now?), weighing unconventional spirituality in the conventional business vessel. It all swings somewhere in balance.
Sometimes. Sometimes it all breaks loose, or all hell breaks loose into an artful stream, a cascade of synchronistic, God-like grace that leaves me breathless with blessings and thank you’s for this intermittent manna from heaven — uttering “grace” for what I do because there is nothing else I can do. Since I am unemployable on paper, having blown the conventional box, I live for the ever-more-frequent miracles that are showing up these days in greater numbers and frequency.
Since slow-death-by-cubicle is no longer an option that I already tried, I’ve learned to live in the habit as a cast-out. This cast out. Always seeing through my perceptual filter in the many ways, oh-let-me-count-them, that I have been thrown out of the mix. Rejected. Not let in. Painful. Not a part of a greater whole. And irrationally, absurdly, not understanding why. It’s all so laughable! That all this stood, until she showed up and shifted my perceptual filter. Made me see that perhaps, all the spaces I’d assumed, wrongly assumed I was cast out, were and are beginning to converge.
A convergence of the rivers of my life, like all the rivers I love in this state, silently, secretly, beginning to slide together in an emergence. Somehow, the magic of my utter non-convention, all the places in my life where I have naturally and repeatedly been cast out, are beginning to converge into what I thought was a diametrically opposed diorama, but instead is merging into a cohesive landscape.
Her presence helped me note, made me see the people, the people almost un-noticeably edging in, gathering around me, showing up, compelled by the raw living truth and wisdom in my words. Words I earned by living them. Words I learned by writing millions of them down on thousands of pages for two decades. And these people know this because these words, these unique truths, these moments of life experience are not answered in cubicles or by convention or via the president or the pulpit or passed on by a diploma.
Where I thought I had little to no ground — that space where I joked about going off on a limb and then turned around and sawed that limb off? Well, it turns out there is ground beneath. The fall might be a little hard if not for the grass, but there is ground beneath my feet and I am surprised to be standing upon it.
I am ever-so-grateful for the woman who blew open my door with a Western wind, and snapped me out of my old story, pointing to the new story converging through me, making space for all those gathering to hear the succulent words I dreamed up over twenty years ago.