Know The Source Of Your Own Medicine

Get quiet love. Get real quiet. 

I know you’re exhausted and frazzled and ten different kinds of underwater and upside down. It’s go-go-go and don’t you dare stop and keep all the balls in the air all the time and frantic tears at midnight and a longing for something nameless and true. 

You haven’t taken a breath deeper than the shallow end of the kiddie pool in weeks. 

But listen to me now. 

You know the source of your own medicine.

You’ve always known, even if you’ve spent your whole life forgetting. 

Even if it changes minute by minute and is too amorphous to hold. 

Even if have used everything they have to convince you that this is not meant for you. 

Even if you do not fully comprehend what you know and tear at yourself desperate for the solidity of your own knowing. 

Even if it’s the opposite of all the world deems sensible and understandable and acceptable. 

Still, you know. 

You know what knits you together. 

You know what gathers your scattered pieces. 

You know the source of your own sacred undoing, which is a kind of saving that few understand. 

But you do. 

You know what grounds you and roots you and rises you high. 

You know what makes your skin sing holy.

You know what tastes like healing on your tongue. 

You know what deepens your breath into the earth. 

You know what takes you out of your head and silences the relentless diatribe.

You know the source of your wholeness and goodness. 

You know what sets your soul right into your body. 

And what makes that human body expand until it fills the universe.

And you know what makes it all quiet and small again so that you exist inside of the all and the everything. 

It is the cold engine of the ocean knocking you off your feet or rocking you gently to shore?

Is it the body to body, feel the bass reverberate in your chest on the dance floor?

Is it hard edge of rough sex, body taken completely, and given everything all at once?

Is it the scalding bath or the desert heat or the hush of quiet right after the rainstorm?

Is it her arms or his arms or their arms wrapped around you until you sleep?

Is it bare feet on mother earth in the middle of nowhere or a yoga mat in the center of the city?

Whatever it is…

Your medicine is YOUR medicine. 

Only you can define it, claim it, hold it, and know it as your own. 

Has it been the grace that saves you?

Has it held you together when the world was tearing you apart?

Has it lifted you off the ground when gravity became overwhelming?

Has it gotten you out of bed when the simplest of tasks felt like a mountain that must be climbed?

Has it helped you lose yourself in lust or joy or peace or movement or connection?

Has it rescued your breath from your bones and brought your shoulders down from your ears?

Has it regulated your heart rate, claimed the panic in your chest, gave you the power to finish the day.

Then so be it. 

And if you’re still not quite sure, here are some questions to ask:

Does this thing that I do make me feel more like me? 

Does this exchange of energy bring me deeper into residence inside the container of my own blood and breath and bones? 

Does this action or experience carry me home to myself?


Then it is your medicine. Yours and yours alone. 

Protect it and honor it. 

Use it wisely, with discretion or abandon or something somewhere in between. 

Claim your medicine, love. Hold it close. 

Let it forever bring you back to the brilliance of you. 

Tell me, loves. What is your medicine?


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I swear like a sailor, I've been called a word-witch (more than once), I believe whole-heartedly in the power of your voice,  and think words are as necessary as air. I work with humans who are seeking permission to stop seeking permission and offer programs that will get living and writing on your own terms (for reals). 

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