So it wasn’t a shock to see a link like “11 LGBTQ Stories to Celebrate Pride Month” from Off The Shelf. The contents of the list though WAS a bit of a surprise, a lovely one. And an opportunity for a different sort of pride.

One of the books on this list was Dear John, I Love Jane: Women Write about Leaving Men for Women, which happens to contain my coming out essay. The hardest and most essential piece of writing I’ve ever released to the world. My first ever in print.

I remember the day I got my author copies in the mail. I tore open the package and opened the cover. I ran my finger down the table of contents and there it was. My name. In print. I’d never seen my name in a book before. Never even imagined such a thing was even possible.

Breath held, I quickly flipped to page 86 and read my own words as if I had not read them a thousand times already trying to make them perfect.

Perfection is not easy to achieve in a story that holds so many jagged edges and broken parts.

My heart was pounding. My body had chills. I felt on top of the world – and also sick to my stomach. Not just because my story was in a book (a REAL LIVE BOOK. with pages and ink and new book smell!) but because *this* story was in a book. This story that had, until then, lived only online and only anonymously.

Back then I was I was Jen, the faceless blogger behind “Awakenings: Navigating the Spaces Between In and Out”. There I poured out the rawest, most visceral and most true stories I had ever written.

Perhaps – because of the safety of anonymity, the truest stories I ever will.

Before then I was what we now call a mommy blogger. Talking childbirth and breastfeeding and gentle discipline and chronicling life in suburbia way back before blogs were even called blogs. It was all very safe and light and entertaining. I even had a little base of loyal readers – but I wasn’t a writer. Never would have dared the audacity of claiming such a thing.

And then came Awakenings.

My entire undoing was chronicled there. The breaking and the becoming. The raw and messy and real. The fear. The confusion. The loss and the ache.

And still – there are parts of the story – the ones where I walked entirely outside of my own integrity, the ones where the shatter cut too deep to bring words to the reality – that remain untold.

When this book came out I had to make the choice. To keep the sanctity of that space where I could say whatever I wanted, or to step fully into owning the story.

It was another choice I didn’t know how to make.

But I remembered how it was, in the early days of my own discovery. How I scoured the internet, searching with everything I had – desperate to find these stories somewhere. Someone who was walking this path. Someone who had survived. Anything to cling to make this feel less impossible.

I had a wonderful husband and two beautiful children. I was a small town preacher’s daughter from the Eastern Canadian Coast. Nobody in the most immediate layers of my close-knit family had ever been divorced.

I had no fucking roadmap for this.

I needed to find something that would make me feel less achingly alone. Needed it like I needed air. Someone or something to tell me that I could and would survive.

Back then – I couldn’t find it – not the story I so desperately needed. And so I did what those of us driven by story must do.

I began writing it.

And then others – other women on their own dark and desperate nights – began finding me.
More and more of them. From all over the world. They sent emails. Long emails drenched in grasping hope. Letters that left their entire lives and hearts splayed out on the screen in front of me.

Was it worth it?
Would you do it again?
I’m not as brave as you, I can’t leave.
I love her, so much – I can’t live without her.
When I touched her skin – everything changed and I couldn’t go back.
I took off my wedding ring today.
I’m afraid of losing my children.
I’m afraid of losing my family.
I am so very afraid.
I can never forgive myself.
I can’t do this.

They sent message after message. I read their words, held their tears. Knew their desperation. Read those letters again and again until I had some of the memorized.

Yes – even then the words created a circle so that we could save each other.

Some of them – as deep as I was in the dismantling of my own life and in the stickiness of my own chosen grief – I couldn’t even answer. I’m ashamed of that. But how could I provide any sort of viable wisdom when I was making such a royal clusterfuck of it all? Hurting and damaging and bringing my entire life down to the rubble – making that impossible choice that wasn’t ever a choice at all.

Choose my life – and all that I love? Or choose myself?

But you can’t un-know something once you know it. You can’t undo what has been done.

I got caught in a tailspin and when the force finally died down life as I knew it was over. And there I was – standing underneath that big ole’ rainbow flag – wondering what the fuck I was supposed to do now.

It’s true. In the end, it wasn’t a choice at all. The choice to come out and live true, and the choice to attach my name to these words of truth in that book.

I had to do it for my own integrity – an integrity I would have to scratch and claw my way back to owning over the course of many years, an integrity that came at a high cost and that left me broken before it found me whole.

And I had to do it for the others out there who needed my story more than I needed the comfort of my hiding space.

And so there it was. My name. In a real-life book.

I didn’t talk much about this book when it came out. I didn’t shout from the hills that I was a published author. I didn’t tell my family or post more than the merest whisper on social media. I didn’t blog about it or give copies to my friends. I tucked it away as if it hadn’t happened at all. I was aware that this wasn’t just my story. And that it hadn’t been long since the fallout and the breaking and the collateral damage.

I wasn’t proud of my reluctance to own this in a bigger way – I just didn’t want to cause any more hurt. I couldn’t live with myself if I caused any more hurt.

Please, don’t let me cause any more hurt.

Just like the blog – this book brought so many souls to me. Women who had been, like me, desperately searching for a story that made them feel less alone. In the years since I’ve met many of in person. To so many more I’ve been able to be a hand outstretched in the dark to say “Here I am. This is my story. Tell me yours. You are not alone in this. Not now and not ever again”.

Because here is the thing. Telling our stories matters. Not just the ones that follow the hero’s journey. Not just the stories of happiness and light, of glittering freedom or triumph – though they have their place and should not be forgotten.

It matters most that we tell the real stories. The hard stories. The stories of the dark and desperate nights. Of the demons and the devastation. Of the things done to us and the things we have done. Of our want and our desire. Of our sex and our back-door pathways to whatever or whoever we called savior at the time. Of the trauma stored in our bones, and the things we have broken on our path to saving ourselves.

We must tell stories of our own becoming. On our own terms and in our way and in our own time. With autonomy and sovereignty and yes – choice.

When we tell our stories. We save others. This is not an overstatement, or a metaphor meant to give you all the feels or to power up this essay. This is a truth. I know it not just because stories have saved me.

I know because I still get emails. Emails that say “I stumbled onto your blog on the darkest of nights and I read and read and read and your words gave me hope and because of this I am still here on this planet”.

Words like that – they are not easy for me to hold. They push against my own struggle with purpose and bigness, with the voices that tell me to not take credit for such a thing. That I’m not that special or important or powerful and neither is my story.

But here’s the thing, if stories have saved me again and again (and they have and they did and they do – more times than I could count) then who am I to push back these truths given to me by others?

Who am I to accept them with anything but the most humble and holy gratitude for the fact that somehow in this wild and miraculous world my story pushed its way out of me and then filtered and twisted and found its way to the very place it was needed the most?

Blessed be. Blessed be. Blessed be.

The messages remind me every time of what I know to be true.

The bravery it takes to tell your story has the power to save lives.

A few weeks ago I posted on Facebook to ask others if they felt the same. I asked:

Tell me – would you say that writing – telling your story – has saved you? Or that your writing has saved others?

The answer, of course, was as I expected. Yes. Again and again and again. Writing has saved. From the inside out and the outside in. Telling your story – pouring it out. Whether in a voice memo or onto a private journal or for the world to see. And then searching relentlessly to find your story out in the world – to connect your lived experience to words written by another. This saves lives. This saves hearts. This saves relationships and voices and experiences.

It is a seed for empathy, for advocacy and activism and justice. For visibility and inclusion and validation. It is the root of connection. It is a pathway to the hard truths. It is a way to make real what is unreal, to give voice to the voiceless.

There is a space and a place and a need for stories – for YOUR stories.

It is my life’s work – not just to write myself, but to swing wide open the doors and throw off the bars and remove the barriers between you and your story. To counter the messages you’ve absorbed about your life or your experience or your ability to write it. To dismantle everything built up inside of you that separates you from your own innate power. To sit you down in a room full off blazing light and ultimate permission and give you endless pages ready for the translation of your experience into the words only you can write.

The story only you can tell.

And then when it has poured out of you, and the pages are covered and your fingers are ink-stained and you have finished, I am here to say –

This here, what you have done….

It is good.
It is holy and hard and true and necessary.

Because your words have the power to save.
To heal.
To collect the scattered pieces.
To knit back to wholeness that which is broken.
To unleash the constraints that hold us to lives that are not longer meant for us.
To illuminate the dark corners and set us free.

These words and these stories can save a life.
Who knows – maybe even your own.

Hell yes, writing has the power to save.

But only if you begin.

Xo.
J.

P.S. No matter what comes my way in the length of my writing career, Dear John will always represent one of my proudest moments. Not just the first moment I saw my name in print in a real-life book, but the moment of choice of owning this story publicly, wholly and completely.

Everything began with that.

Thanks to Candace Walsh and Laura Andre for creating this anthology, for the pivotal moment of choice when I made this story public, and for all that has come to be since then.

The follow-up book ‘Greetings From Janeland’ is now available for pre-order. It includes a brand new essay from me, as well as so many other women who have done the bravest thing.

The post The bravery it takes to write your story has the power to save lives. appeared first on Jeanette LeBlanc.

Or perhaps it hasn’t been that hard and really, you know that life is good and you are grateful and it’s not entirely heavy. But there is an undeniable feeling of disconnect. Of distance. Of separation from self and purpose. Close enough you should be able to touch it, and yet – for some reason you cannot. And the frustration of this dips and loops and causes confusion and fatigue.

I see you, and I know these spaces. Intimately.

I have come to refer to my essential self, my innate center, the pulse and spark and beat that is wholly me – as my wild heart. It beats steady and true. It is untamable, unbound by expectation, unconstricted by rules and regulations. This is my way of naming and knowing that piece of myself that is unchanging and true. My compass and guide. The space I return again and again.

And it is true that, in the course of living this life, I have lost my wild heart – my connection to self – again and again. Perhaps this is also true of you.

It may also be true that you believe that you’ll never find your way back.

But what if your wild heart is not truly lost or gone or missing?

What if it is simply that in order to survive you closed the door, locking it tight or ramming it shut or hiding the whole thing behind a brick wall so you wouldn’t be reminded of it or tempted to go looking when it was not safe or wise to enter. And over time that door became obscured by debris and covered in tangled vines and perhaps you even forgot it had ever been open.

But what if making your way back to your wild is not a complicated affair – not as complicated as we would make it, at least. Sometimes it is simply a matter of finding the portal that clears the path, the one that lets the door swing wide open – intentionally and yet without force.

So all that is needed then is to walk through, into the light that pulses with remembrance, and reunite with that which has been denied.

It is true that most of the time your wild heart – which is to say your truest essence – is closer than you think.

25 portals to your wild heart

1. In the music, the low base, hip spin of the downbeat. In the lyrics that take you home. In the melody that sounds exactly like freedom.
2. In the way that as the day has settled into night and the house is finally quiet and the candles throw your shadow against the wall, casting the curves of your body as art formed of darkness and light.
3. In the darkness when no light remains and suddenly everything is finally seen, full and whole and holy.
4. Under the moon, with only her as your witness, bare feet on wet grass, and the spin and the howl and the hands clasped in unspoken prayer.
5. In the wilderness where a tangle of trees and mossy forest floor whisper and the wild things blink their eyes in the darkness to silently welcome you home.
6. In solitude. In silence. In becoming and belonging wholly to yourself, responsible to and for no one else.
7. In the ocean. In her pounding surf and relentless force and eternal return, in the salt and wet of her – the baptism of the way she brings you to a state of almost painful aliveness.
8. In the unknowns. Inside of the questions for which there are no answers and yet you could write novels without trying – because the question itself holds that much.
9. In the strength of allowing the questions to hold that much.
10. In the liminal spaces. The in-between. The worlds between here and there where all is suspended.
11. In the heat and sweat and salt of desire. In the space where body meets body and it all slip-slides into everything and nothing, all at once.
12. In the contradictions. The hard and holy. The grit and grace. The juxtapositions and the paradox and the things that shouldn’t be but are – and in the breathtaking beauty of this.
13. In community. In tribe. In a village of souls who see and honor and know. Who lift and hold. In the gathering around the campfire, where the pain slips away in favor of the music and the dancing.
14. In truth spoken after long silence. In the reclamation of voice, the throat chakra set free, the deep knowing finally said aloud.
15. In boundaries held – the hard spoken no that is the deepest honoring of self. In the holding of this, even in the face of hurt or misunderstanding or loss.
16. In the harsh acceptance of unmet want. In the grief that drives you to your knees and the love that lifts you back up again.
17. In the forgiveness. Not of him or her or them or the wider world. In the way you extend that toward yourself, and say yes. self – I love you. Yes, I honor you. Yes, I forgive you. For all of it. You did what you had to do, and it was the best that you could. Now, let it rest. It is time to rest. The time for penance is over.
18. In the yes delivered clear, full-throated and honest. The holy yes that ushers in all that has been longed for and everything that has been waiting for you.
19. In the spaces where wholeness is chosen over goodness.
20. In the discovery that you already have all that you need and even more, all that you want.
21. In the demand. The requirement. The statement of this is what I need and I will not settle for any less. Not ever again.
22. In the burning and in the rising. The fire of initiation and the forging and the ashes and rubble and collateral damage. And in the painful forming and uncurling of wings, the stretching and tentative first attempts at flight. And then the soaring, high and free.
23. In the revolution. In the hand painted signs lifted over heads and the marching and the chanting and the solidarity and the spilling into the streets in righteous anger.
24. In the surrender. The acquiescence. The laying down the weapons and walking away from the battle. Because the fighting is over and it is now time for peace.
25. In the words. Always, always in the words. The words that flow like honey from lips or that scrawl messy on page or click rhythmic from fingers onto keyboards. Not just the pretty and purposeful words – no. The raw and the gritty. The dark and unholy. The words that drip like hot wax onto waiting skin.

The words that shape the stories you once thought untellable. The words that are received and held and known and lifted by people you once called stranger. The words that stack one on the next on the next until they begin to form themselves into the story that changes the course of all things. The words that don’t just unlock the door, or swing it wide open – the words that blast off the hinges and knock down the walls until your wild heart floods your entire being with light and energy and freedom.

In the end, it is always the words that bring me home. The words that unwind the chains and break open the locks. The words that return me to myself, to my wild heart, to the truth of my being.

Tell me, is this also true for you?

If it is, grab paper and pen. Find a quiet sliver of space. Sit down and get ready to write yourself free.

The post 25 portals to return you to your wild heart appeared first on Jeanette LeBlanc.

Writers are often an introverted group, preferring the company of words to people, but that creative fire — left to its own devices — can burn itself out rather quickly.

You know what I’m talking about. We call it writer’s block. Frustrated Artist Syndrome. The whole overdone trope of the artist pacing in his slovenly garrett tearing his hair out — full of angst and unable to write or paint or make music. And always alone.

But here’s the thing. Writers — artists, musicians, creative beings — we gather. Somehow we pull away from our art and we dust ourselves off and we emerge into the outside air. And then we find each other. Introverted or no, there’s a magnetic force in play that brings creatives together. Over and over, through the ages.

We find one another because we need one another.

Deeply.

unknown photographer, vintage snapshot print, July 1915

Leonard and Virginia Woolf and their contemporaries — renowned intellectuals, artists, philosophers and other early 20th century badasses — formed the London based Bloomsbury Group — creating works that had long reaching impact on literature, economics and feminism.

The Saturday evening literary salons at Gertrude Stein’s 27 rue de Fleurs welcomed that Lost Generation of post-war Parisian expats that included Hemingway, Fitzgerald, Picasso, Joyce and Matisse into ‘a haven for the sacred sparks of insight visited upon humans…Stein’s apartment was a church with art as the divine matter.

And perhaps the most famous of these magnetic creative gathering points — The Chelsea, in New York City. To read it’s list of residents — Dylan, Bukowski, Joplin, Miller, Mapplethorpe, Ginsberg, Warhol, Cohen, Kerouac is to take a deep dive into the exploding literary and music scene of the 50’s and 60’s — an unintentional artists colony smack dab in the middle of Manhattan — a legend around every corner and more stories than the walls will ever tell.

All of these wildly talented artists convened in these spaces and places because they needed each other. Needed to be fed by the convergence of ideas and passion and creativity. To be supported. To find understanding — to discover others whose demons would play nicely (or at least creatively) with their own.

I need this. You need it too.

You know you do. Even if you look at that word that I keep using — Writer (With-A-Capital-W) and think… “that’s not me. I’m not a real writer”. Quiet that voice — right now. You’ve got a desire to write and a pull to the story — of course you do, or you wouldn’t be here.

And if you are putting pen to paper or fingers to keyboard or joining letters into words and words into sentences in the quiet safety of your own mind, then you, my dear, are a Writer.

And I would be willing to bet that you feel that hunger to gather with others. To find that tribe. To discuss. To dive deep. To drink. To dance. To seduce the muse. To be understood. To be uplifted. To join your fire to their fire and all of our fire. To burn. To rise. To create. Together. En masse.

In community.

Because you need it. To maintain the spark. To fuel the flame. To keep burning and burning and burning until your story can be born. Because when creatives gather? That is exactly what happens. Watch out. That combined creative fire? It’s magnified for all.

You need this. And we need you.

When my, ’Wild Heart Writing’ course launched a few years ago I watched as the women and men in that space formed their own version of what Hemingway and Bukowski and Woolf claimed for themselves so long ago.

Though this wasn’t a decrepit hotel in Manhattan or a ritzy salon on Paris’ Left Bank — simply your typical Facebook group — we created community. We formed a tribe. We showed up as ourselves, raw and vulnerable and lit from within with the power of what was being created. Not just words and stories and ignited hearts — but a swirling force of creative energy — far greater than any one of us could have created alone. We lifted and legitimized and most importantly of all we saw each other. Fully.

I’ve never seen anything like it.

Several years later — the community, and the sharing and the combined creative fire — it continues to burn.

And let me clarify one thing. I did not create this community. I created a course that helped weave common threads among strangers. The birth of the community was alchemy and mystery and full on magic. The creative community creates itself, and it grows itself and it becomes through the sheer force of that much passion in one space. It is inevitable and it is necessary and it is a thing of great beauty and love.

“We know that community is sacred. The fire where we gather, sharing our stories, tending to the light and release, is where we resurrect ourselves and remember ourselves. It’s where we die and labor ourselves anew. It is a holy place where we see with tender eyes and let ourselves be fully seen. The sweet honey loving of the Wild Heart Writers so naturally calling out what they liked and loved about another’s writing was beautiful. I find myself still posting here because it feels like a home for my wild heart and wild words to come and be real and revealed. Even though the course is over, I truly hope the writing and the group has just begun.”

Winter Session participant, Tulasi Adeva

Soon we begin again. Welcoming another group of creatives and soul searchers and wild hearts. Opening our arms to another collection of those who know that the best way to find yourself, is to get lost in the wild, and then write your way back home. Growing the writing community that started by the most perfect sort of serendipity.

I would love, more than anything, if you would join us — to make this commitment to yourself and your writing community, to be welcomed into our tribe of Wild Hearts.

I’m positive Hemingway and Fitzgerald would totally have my back on this one.

Xo.

Jeanette

“The Wild Heart Writers space allows me to feel alive and connected to my own wild heart and all the beautiful, messy, raw, honest, amazing pieces of me I see in all of you…You give words to the deepest truth inside me, that I don’t have. I give understanding to you that is true and real and known. You inspire me. I risk showing up. We expose our nakedness and see our common humanity”

Winter Session participant, Kathy Whitman

The post Do you need a creative community? appeared first on Jeanette LeBlanc.

Darling, it has been such a long journey.

An epic quest. No such thing as stillness and complacency for you. There never has been, has there?

No. You’ve always been made for bigger things that that.

You know it’s true. You never were like the rest of them.

The ones whose peripheral vision never saw past the nearest horizon. The bloom where you’re planted, stay close to home, safety-first, keep the same friends and the same job and the same habits – forever and ever amen.

No, not you.

Your restless rose up early. Teased you every time you felt that far-away wind tangle through your hair.

You were always called elsewhere. A daydreamer. A wanderer. An explorer of worlds nobody else could see. Long before you could leave you learned the limitlessness of your own mind. No geographic boundaries or sensible borders for you. You were made to move.

You’ve always followed the pull of your wild heart. For you there is no other way.

Lost and found. Found and lost. Souls like you know that they are really just one and the same.

Over and under and around and through. Barefoot and dirty. Among strangers or in the center of the vast alone. Traversing foreign lands and barefoot dirt country roads or the farthest reaches of your brilliant mind.

You wild and beautiful vagabond. You’ve wandered and you’ve searched and you never stay still for long – no matter what the outside world has seen and believed.

You are a universe unto yourself. You know no borders, swirl through the liminal spaces, live on the edges and dance in the margins and croon under the moon. You have no fear of the wild – for the wild is your second home.

This is how you were born, this is the way you’ve known and named your own self.

Because you were made for that restless wind. You were made for the trail into the shadows and the pathway straight into the blinding light. You were made for the cavernous depths of night and sunrise over the mountain and the crash of ocean against shore.

You know how to pack light. The second nature knowing of moving on and beginning again. No, you’ve never shied away from that.

And you are being called now, just as you are always called – into motion, into the wild, into the wind.

Into the truth and into the grit and the light and the wide-open world.

But this is different. Not like all the other times.

Sometimes you can search for so long that you lose track of the one place that matters the most.

Home.

It is time to go home.

Home to the earth that named you. Home to the ground that flows with that which brought you to life. Home to the root, to the heat, to the core of it all.

Home to yourself.

This is not about home on the map. Not about where you were born or raised. Not about where anyone lives or where the good jobs are or where you’re expected to turn up eventually. Not about the lover who weaves words into the heat of desire. Not about ties that bind or anything that feels like obligation or giving up or giving in.

It’s not about staying or leaving or anything in between.

It may not even be about movement at all, not the way most people think of it.

No. This time, you are called home to yourself. You are called to integration. To the point of intersection. To completion. To the center of the paradox and the white heat of your own knowing. You are called to a claiming of place and space and intention and desire.

And even if you don’t yet know who or where or what that home is, you will be guided on your journey and you will know, with absolute clarity, when you arrive.

This is just the way of things.

So look around you now – at all you’ve collected on your many journeys. Take stock, give thanks. These are the things that have brought you to who you are, that have delivered you here – to the greatest journey of all.

Gather up the few things worth keeping; the ones that speak the memories of the love that gave you life, the talismans that brought you knowledge of your power. The magic bits, the crystals, the torn love notes you wrote to your own goddess self. Tuck in only the things which nourish your soul. The rest is no longer needed.

You don’t need much to hold the most precious of your belongings.

Tie all those bits in a pack over your back. Use the silk scarf that held your hair in the sea breeze that day when you sat in the sand at the edge of the world and the sun shone warm on your shoulders and you saw all the way to infinity.

That day. Do you remember that day? When you were all the way broken and all the way lost and then somehow you found yourself there? You had that silk scarf tied around your head and your old black converse were full of sand and your heart had was in pieces and somehow you managed to save your own life. You found your way home that day. You will do it again.

You know what to do. You always have.

So heed the call. Set off on the path. Whistle that long slow whistle, the tune you’ve been hearing since birth – the one that always calls you home.

There will be choices to make along the way. It will not always feel safe or be easy. No – real journeys rarely do.

But the choices are all yours. This is the time of complete agency and ownership of self.

It always was, you see, you just were not ready to know it yet.

Here is one important truth.
Nothing is forbidden.

Someone taught me that once, and I read that line over and over the words became a steady drumbeat guiding me into my own life.

Do you hear me now – nothing is forbidden.

Stop right now and read those words aloud.

Now speak them again and again.

Nothing is forbidden.
Nothing is forbidden.
Nothing is forbidden.

Your life belongs to you. It always has, but it is so easy to forget. In the losing and the finding and the finding and the losing – sometimes we lose track of that one essential truth.

And in case you have, I will repeat it one more time.

Nothing. Absolutely nothing, is forbidden.

There is nobody walking with you on this leg of your journey – truly there can never be. The journey home is always a solitary one.

But solitary does not mean lonely, or even alone.

You know this, dear one, don’t you? You are never truly alone. Get quiet now. Pay attention. Can you feel your hand in mine? Can’t you feel the weight and warmth of it? Don’t you feel the touch of every loving soul and the light of all the wild things? The whole entire universe is lifting you up.

The fire keeps you company. And the spirit of the wolf. And the wild white mustang. And the essence all of those you met along the way. You carry them inside you and all around you.

You’ve become a part of their journey as well.

This is the way it always is with kindred souls. This is the way of the wild. This is the way of the pathway home.

Quickly now. It is time to leave. The full moon lights your way.

Your life belongs to you now. Your life and your story and your body and your precious wild heart. Every last bit of what makes you the miracle that you are. Regardless of what the rest of the world demands, here, there is no compromise. No settling. No making do.

This is reclamation. This is hallowed ground.

And it is entirely true.

Nothing is forbidden.

In the wild that is your home, nothing is ever forbidden. Not now, not ever again.

Welcome to your life, wild one.

Welcome all the way home.

“When did you know your life belonged to you?”
“When nothing was forbidden.” Isabel Abbott

Do you, like me, know you have a wild heart? And do you, like me, lose connection with it through the whirl and swirl of life?

If your answer is yes, please consider joining me on a journey back home as we step into sacred space together for 30 days of questions and prompts aimed at taking us back to that wild heart of us – which is our one true home.

The space is already filling with open minds and pounding hearts and sacred mystery.

And having you there, wild heart open and ready to write, would make it even more holy.  The Summer Session begins on July 25th – as a gift of love to ourselves.

Please join us.

“I loved this course. It was the reason I woke up in the morning. No really, it was the most heart centered real, present space, so  lovingly created, crafted and nurtured by Jeanette and a bunch of wild hearted writers from all over the globe –  brought together with a love of the written word and expression. I highly recommend this course. It’s totally totally worth it!”
~Hanizan Abdul Hamid

The post Nothing Is Forbidden {It is time to go home} appeared first on Jeanette LeBlanc.