Being You

I've listened to this 4 times since Sunday:




I can't remember if she actually mentions God, but God is very much there.  It really resonates with my spiritual beliefs.

The Art of Being Yourself is the greatest fruit recovery offers: stripping away and sluffing off all the layers that keep us from living whole-heartedly and authentically.

There are 3 swears in the TED talk, but for some reason when swears come out in a Scottish accent, they sound like honey.

Works When I Work It

On Sunday, I went to a class with a lot of ladies.
Did your teeth just clench a little?  Mine did.  A lot of ladies can sometimes feel very, very daunting.  I usually come away going, "I'm so glad I did that" but there have been a few times where I've walked away going, "NEVER AGAIN."  Those few bad experiences seem to have a pretty strong effect, unfortunately.

As I listened to the teacher talk about how prone women are to comparing themselves to each other, I felt a question creep up.  I didn't want to ask it for several reasons.
#1) In the past, I have worked hard to SAY THE RIGHT THINGS... not to enrich but to show how good I was.  I wanted people to think I was a good person because if they thought I was, then I was.  The opinions of others were my God, of sorts.  I was a slave, self-made.
#2) I didn't want to hi-jack the lesson.  I know what it's like to teach and have a lesson derailed by a questions.
#3) It was vulnerable.

I prayed and checked my motivations, asking God if I should ask... I felt that I should, so I did.

"A few weeks ago, I had a friend visit.  Our personalities were different and our gifts are different, and for the first time in my life I felt enriched and inspired by her.  Usually, I feel threatened when other women shine in their gifts, as if something is wrong with me.  I'd love to hear from some more experienced sisters what helps them?  What tools they employ in situations where another woman is shining and they start to feel threatened or worthless?"

Immediately, the woman sitting in front of me reached back and touched my knee, lending sweet support which I really appreciated.  I think I know the answer here, but I felt I should ask.  Being teachable is important to me, and I'm not very good at it.
One woman shared her experience studying different personality types, how understanding HOW and WHY people are different helps her when people who are different from her rub her wrong.

I have found a lot of help studying this as well -I don't want to work Step 4 for others, but it has been VERY helpful to study the strengths and weaknesses of different personality types.  I often find myself nodding at God and going, "This all makes sense.  You put all kinds of people together to life and strengthen each other... it's perfect and beautiful.  We're all one, but we are all different.  Amazing."

Then came the *zing*.
One woman shared her own experience and while I can't remember the exact words, I do remember the exact feeling.  She said it hadn't been her experience to feel threatened or intimidated by other women shining... ever.  She only ever felt inspired by other woman as they shone.
As she spoke I felt pretty, well, dumb.  Broken.  Not enough.  Very, very dumb.

The woman sitting next to me sat up straighter, as if in a sort of panic and immediately reached for my back, holding it.  Maybe she was hoping to shield me?  I don't know.  I do know that she felt the blow with me.

Another woman shared, through tears, how finding her own divinity -her own self-worth -was vital in her journey... that comparing herself and feeling not enough was something she struggled heavily with, but when she focused only on her own stuff, everything else fell into place.

A fourth woman shared how she employs gratitude, how grateful she is for women who help her teach her children... some women can reach her children in ways she can't, and how grateful she is for them.

A few minutes later, I had to leave the class.  It hadn't ended yet, but I had something at my house that needed attention.  I wasn't too sad about leaving.  The brave thing would have been to STAY and FACE it all, but I breathed a sigh of relief as I walked down the empty hallway toward the parking lot.

In my truck, I reached for my phone.  Who could I call?  Who?  I needed to vent.  I stopped my hand in mid-air.  Another thing I struggle with is relying on others instead of God.  I pulled my hand back and started praying out loud.
"God, that hurt.  Not lethal.  But it hurt.  Am I just thoroughly broken?  Unworthy of JUST GETTING OVER IT?  I even wish I was above being hurt by something so petty.  Am I just not resilient?  Okay, okay, okay... even now, I comparing myself.  The ladies all had so much to share, and if I take what they say... studying personality types, finding inspiration, finding gratitude, practicing developing my self-worth and cultivating divinity... okay, okay... There's a sort of path in all that, right?  There's something..."
I tapped my steering wheel as I turned onto my road, "If I find self-worth and root myself in my identity as a Daughter of God, then I can practice gratitude for the gifts of others.  With that gratitude I can move into curiosity and begin to study others as they shine, appreciate what their gifts contribute to the whole, to the community, see them as children of God as well.  Then I could see inspiration coming."
Everything fell into place.
I still felt pain, but the sting of it had eased substantially.  I continued to pray, to lay my pain on God.

A few minutes later, I was eating a beautiful Sunday lunch with my family and I was PRESENT.

I wasn't obsessing or angry or seeking vindication or validation.  I was okay, really okay... not pretending okay.

I still wish I was the kind of person who wasn't HIT by comments like that.  What she said really had nothing to do with me at all, AT ALL.  It wasn't a direct or malicious comment.

That evening, I checked my phone and saw two facebook messages and one text -all from women who had been there.  None of the messages were filled with hate or gossip, only appreciation.
One simply said, "Thanks for your vulnerable question today."
I checked when it had been sent -it was sent in the middle of class.  Like the woman next to me who held my back, this sweet woman "held my back" by reaching out and sending me a message as fast as she possibly could.

I smiled at her message and went to my step 4 inventory -something I'm looking over again.  I added, "vulnerability" to my assets.  What a crazy asset.
On one side of the coin, I can experience deep connections with amazing women -amazing!  The women in my close life are deeply incredible women.

On facebook one day, I reached out because the day was sucky.  Not horrible or the worst day ever, but just truly a dumb, dumb day.  The responses I got were hilarious.  Seriously.
My friends posted memes and jokes that just made me smile and laugh out loud!  There was one or two "fixy" comments, but overall, my heart just burst.  Someone commented, "you have the best friends."
I DO!  I truly do!  My friends are all ready to handle REAL, and they WANT REAL.  They treasure it and place high value on things that matter (like cat memes, fur real).

The women who messaged me were all women I really admire.  That fact alone validated my vulnerability -it attracts really gorgeous souls.

On the other side of the coin is this horribly painful feeling that maybe I'm walking around the earth wearing nothing.  Except my weaknesses.  People often say things without meaning to hurt, but because I have little armor on, I feel the full WHAM-O.

But guess what?
Guess what?
God is ready to take that WHAM-O.  I can sit and lick it... and I have done that before.  I probably will again sometime.  But yesterday was a victory.  A recovery victory.

One of the women present in the same class said, "If the work I do in my head were somehow visible... like if the work my mind does in one day was represented by a garden that people could see, I think they would be amazed."

Oh, yeah.  Isn't that the truth?
Recovery is like that too.  I work it, but there isn't anything visible really -I mean my house is trashed and my 3 year old daughter carts her toy phone around and whispers, "Shhhh, I'm in a meeting."

It feels defeating most days.  Like, "what am I even doing?!?!"

But Sunday was a big pay off day.

I didn't camp out in victim.
I wasn't able to remember exact words I felt were aimed at me (I usually remember PERFECTLY).
I reached out to God first.
I prayed.
I LET GO.
I enjoyed the rest of the day.
I connected deeply to women I admire because of my vulnerability.

When my husband asked how my class had gone, I told him, but I struggled to remember exactly what had happened.  I remembered what I'd learned... and that made me laugh.
"It works when I work it," I chuckled, quoting from the s-anon script.

I did get a text from the woman who made the *zing* comment, apologizing if she'd offended me.  I told her no, that I was fine.
Then I erased it and said, "it did sting."
Because I added something else to my inventory that day: I lie to avoid confrontation sometimes.

Self-discovery is an adventure, ladies.  It's a journey of owning up, of saying, "God, that wouldn't have hurt if I wasn't reacting from a place of pride... take this pain and forgive my pride."

Today in group, we read Step 3.  I had never noticed that in Step 3, it refers to trying to handle everything myself as slavery.
SLAVERY!
How true that is!  Self-inflicted slavery of the rottenest kind.

But God has offered me glorious freedom from the captivity of my own mind.
I need only choose it.

I don't always.
But Sunday, I did.  And that is a victory worth appreciating.

Bleeding Out

At UCAP, I attended a class given by Traylor and Melody Lovvorn.  As they team-presented on trauma, Melody gave a very powerful metaphor.

In essence, she said, "When a woman comes into the ER, bleeding out from a gunshot wound and then the shooter follows in behind her, who gets the attention?  The gunman, naturally.  All hands run toward the gunman while the woman bleeds out."

Sometimes metaphors are nice and helpful... this one was.  But it was also painful.

I felt a surge of longing: where was this metaphor when I was bleeding out?
I felt a surge of gratitude: there are women in this room bleeding out, and this is making perfect sense to the invisible pain pouring from their hearts.  Thank you, God.

Who, then, stops the bleeding?  Who applies comfort and nourishing attention to patient unable to comfort and nourish themselves?
I think we all have our own answers.  For some, it is a dear, sacred friend.  For some, it is a sister, a mother, a neighbor.

For me, it was a shifting figure... but in the depths of my rock bottom, it was really just me heavily bleeding and apologizing for it.
I made such a mess.
No one cleaned anything.
The kids ate whatever, watched whatever. 
I tried to fold laundry that one time...

My triage stay was longer than average.

After a time, I moved into a sort of hospital room.  Now I'm in the thick of physical therapy.  My support team is proud of me, cheering me.  They listen, they love.  My sponsor is tugging at all of my wounds, pushing me.  I'm uncomfortable, and sometimes I feel like my sponsor doesn't like me at all.
I mean, if she did, why would she stretch me like this?
Later on, I realize the stretching was for my benefit and I'm grateful.

Between appointments, I find I need better food and more sunshine.
When I'm feeling confident, I return to the figurative street where I used to live... a bombed-out war zone.  I kick the bricks and sift through papers, broken glass.
There are shards of things I want to keep, but as I survey the scene, I can't help but wonder, 'who was the girl who felt all of this was vitally important?'
I don't recognize her anymore, not fully.  And once upon a time, I treasured that rubble.  But I wouldn't trade it for anything now.

Would I go back to the way it was?

When I spent hours in front of the mirror, trying to get it "right"?  Whatever that looked like.
When the only thing Danny and I had to talk about was the neighbors?
When I cared more about my figure than my character?
When I flinched and shrunk?
When I stood for nothing except outside validation?
When God was in the wings, quiet and patiently waiting while I carried out a performance for the sole purpose of feeding on the applause?

I wouldn't go back there.  What's more, I feel a strange sort of tugging sensation, as if there's an unpaid debt owed.
But to who?  To what?

The bomb.
The bullet.
That which brought destruction opened a door that wouldn't have opened otherwise.

Owning It

I was never an angry person.

Angry people were just annoying.  They made stressful situations worse by blowing up, people walk on eggshells around them, and there's a red-ish, black-ish cloud that follows them everywhere.  Though you can't SEE it, you can FEEL it.  Angry people were to be avoided whenever possible.

Angry people.
For some reason, as a child I had taken an emotion and morphed it into a personality type.  If someone had anger, they WERE anger.
And I wasn't. because anger was not good, and I wanted more than anything to be good.

Here I sit, watching the afternoon wind down into evening... the wind blowing outside, a crochet blanket over my lap.  My joints hurt.  They hurt A LOT.  They always hurt.  I never thought I'd grow up and sit in a recliner IN PAIN at 30 years old.
The Good Doctors run tests.  They're really good at ordering and reading them, and I appreciate it.  In all the blood pokes, the x-rays, the scans and nasty pre-procedure drinks, they have found that my body
is totally a-okay.

Well, mostly.  There is one word that keeps popping up:
Inflamed.

Your stomach shows inflammation.
Your joints show inflammation.
Your tonsils were highly inflamed.
Your vocal chords are swollen and inflamed.
Your stomach is inflamed.

It's like a bad rap song.

To put it plainly: my body is attacking itself.  I have spent hours scouring my brain, the internet and books and the minds of people who have dealt with health crud.
It could be a chronic infection, a hormonal imbalance.
But you know what it actually is?  Do you?

STUFFED EMOTIONS.

Of course I was never angry because I didn't allow it.  I shoved down every emotion that I didn't approve of... anger was at the top of the list.
After I got over the shock and shame surrounding this:

Anger is a natural emotion that needs to be released in a healthy way, and I have anger.

I decided to punch a pillow in the face.  I spent some time comparing punching bags on Amazon.  Part of me thought I should spend some time in the middle of nowhere with breakable things and fire, but the other part of me talked me out of it.

I'm embracing the process, and hey.  There's progress.

Yesterday, Danny did something that made me so mad.  SO. MAD.  Two years ago in a similar situation, I would have shoved the anger down and patted myself on the back for my ability to not say and do unsavory things.
Then I would move comfortably into victimization.
Which always, always morphs right into resentment.

My cycle was predictable, and (I thought) rationalized.  Other folks would side with me, surely.

But I'm tired of that ride.  I want to get off.
So last evening, I did.  I finished making dinner and then left.  I went to the dirt road behind my house.  It's become a sort of haven for me -a chapel of sorts.
I ran.
It hurt to run.  My joints ached, my lungs burned.
I didn't stop.

I talked to God, did I use words?  I don't know.  What poured out of me had words in it, I know... but I conveyed my message primarily with emotion -with ANGER.

Danny hadn't listened to me -that was the problem.  I had talked and he hadn't HEARD me.  Working recovery has taught me something very sacred: my voice is a gift from God. 
I've spent years silencing myself, trying my very best to reign my voice in.  I had longed my entire life -desperately -to be quiet, never knowing how.  I punished myself for things I said, for using my voice too much, too loudly. The scars on my shoulders remind me...

In my youth, my unbridled voice was an irritant.
The does she ever stop? kind.  I knew it, and I didn't know how to stop it.  In moved shame, in moved self-judgement.
I lived that way for twenty years.

And as my tired, weary feet hit that dirt, I spit anger from every pore. God sent me answers, He spoke calmly.  I didn't.
Just when my body was giving out, I could see in my mind's eye: a little, hurting girl.

I wasn't mad, not really.  I wasn't angry.  I was treacherously hurt.

I turned to the little ditch bank. I've spent lots of time on that little ditch bank.  It has held my prayers, my tears, my meditations.
All around me were trees -rare beauties in the high desert.  I ripped at the dead limbs, stomped, ripped, tore, twisted.  Once I had a thick sturdy branch in my hands, I took to the tree.
Beat, beat, beat.  Curse, curse, curse.

To feel unheard is so incredibly painful for me.  It sucks for everyone, but apparently for me?  It touches a really hot wire.  Really, really hot.
I grabbed a thick piece of wood and threw it against the tree, it broke in two.  I didn't stop.
Throw, throw, throw.
Hot tears.

The tree didn't bow up.  It didn't puff up.  It didn't get defensive or cry.  It wasn't a victim.
What's more: it didn't shield itself.  If I didn't know better, I'd say it welcomed the lashing.
It took it all.  I landed blow after blow, word after word.  My hands were on fire.
That tree was God for me in that moment... taking my pain, my anger, my sorrow, my hurt.  I caused the tree anguish, and it did not flinch.
It only accepted, calmly blowing in the evening breeze.

Out of breath and suddenly aware of just how much my hands hurt, I turned away from the tree.
That's when I saw it.
Was it there before?  I didn't remember...

It was the perfect walking stick.  Just the right height, just the perfect taper, perfectly worn, adorned with some beautiful fire damage.
I loved it.
It was as if God fashioned it for me in that moment.  I picked it up, turning it over in my raw hands.

After all that -the outburst, the tears, the anger... God literally sent me support.
I picked up my phone for some more God-sent support, and then I walked back home.

The anger was gone.
It had successfully moved out of me and into the tree.  God took my anger, I surrendered my pain and hurt to him.
Did Danny REALLY cause me pain?  A little.  He tripped a short in me though.
Was my anger his fault?

No.

My anger is just mine.
And I have it.

Anger is a firey, hot thing.  And after years of pretending I didn't have it, it's no wonder my entire body is ON FIRE INSIDE.

I can't afford the slightest bit of increased inflammation, so I accept anger.  I let it move through and out.
Anger from last night moved out, but hurt from 15 years ago moved out as well.

Recovery has taught me the sacredness of my voice.  I've allowed it to be shamed, I have judged it and hated it.
Now is the time for amends.  Now is the time to treasure it, to be upset when people I love don't hear it, to stand up for it, to have it's back, and to give it to God... to do with it what He will.

Render under God that which is God's.
My voice, my anger.

He supports me in my sincerity, in my TRIES.

Step 4 -Shame Busting

I'm on Step 4 again.
Third time for me, thanks.

The first time was really hard.  It took 19 months.  I spent about 17 of those filled with shame, unable to put anything to paper, rationalizing what I could and numbing what I couldn't.  I felt like a freak sometimes, like a mortal sometimes.
And then I got a sponsor.  A few weeks later, my Step 4 was done.  Written, processed, read.  OUT LOUD.
I felt so weird saying things out loud.  I wanted to talk about everything little thing, explain stuff away, manage my sponsor's perception of what I'd said, what I'd done, how I'd behaved.

She sat with me with nothing but listening ears and a wide open heart.  It was unlike anything I'd ever experienced.  No judgement, no fixing?  What was this world?

I walked away from that conversation with a little more courage and a lot more clarity.  Life started making a different sort of sense... I could see my part more clearly in things.  My proverbial mirror was polished, and I think for the first time I was able to see myself authentically.
It gave me the courage to do it again.
More came up the second time, but it didn't take 19 months.  I didn't reason as much away.

I became more objective about myself -not to excuse myself in any way, but to just write a report of what I found when I sat that proverbial mirror up in front of me.  I saw some things I lacked, some thing I loved... I wrote them down.

Defects is such a mean little word.
All it REALLY means, really, is "things that are actually rooted in righteous stuff that I let run rampant so they got into a patch of loco weed and now I need Jesus even more."

This time around, it feels almost as if I'm falling into that mirror and being taken on a tour I was never ready to take before.  I'm recognizing lusts and appetites my body has, making note of them.  I'm seeing strengths that have popped up in the last 3 years -are any of them former defects?  This is something I'm asking myself, examining patiently.

Patterns, more patterns, are emerging.  Instead of feeling the urge to reason them away or numb them away, I'm kind of fascinated.  Like, "hey, I do that.  WHY do I do that?  What is my soul getting at here?  What am I missing?"

Step 4 has catapulted me down a crazy path where instead of feeling judged by women who organize well and then letting the shame eat away at my worth and center, I now say, "Yeah, organizing is something I will always be working on because my mind doesn't work that way because I have other gifts instead -creative ones that thrive in chaos.  I was shamed about cleanliness a lot, so I need to be patient as I work the surrender process, even in SMALL THINGS like laundry on the floor and cluttered counters."
I talk to God about it, I talk to me about it.  I talk to support people about it (sponsor, friends).
And then I'm free.
The shame dissolves.

I guess I'm excited?  to dig up more?

The truth dawns on me more and more these days: how can my soul be healed and reconciled if I don't know it?  If I am daily shoving it down and denying certain aspects, how can I ever connect fully to myself? to God? to others?

"Know thyself!" said a wise man once, and those words give me a triumphant sort of courage as I put my pen to paper once again, as I set to polishing my mirror yet further.

Where My Demons Hide

Not so very long ago, I listened to Elder Holland give a definition of The Soul.  It isn't synonymous with "spirit" but the combination of the body AND spirit.  I've known that, I guess.  But something about that has hit home over and over again since then.

My body loves this earth -it loves to binge on food, chocolate and Dr. Pepper.  It loves television and money and flesh.  It has such an appetite.

My spirit loves heaven -it misses heaven.  I loves love, charity, beauty, grace, family.

If I could create a cool Venn Diagram, I would.  But all cards on the table, I had to spend a full 2 minutes googling around because I couldn't remember what the name of those circle chart thingies are.
VENN DIAGRAMS.

Math-ish Stuff,
You will forever evade me.

There is a hefty beautiful overlap between my body and my spirit.  It's filled with good music, beach sand, pine trees, miles of flat desert and fresh air.  Sometimes I lock eyes with my daughter and touch heaven.  Meditation brings me to the pearly gates.  Pushing my cold hands into warm, soapy water as the sun sets beyond the window that sits over my sink... that is one of those moments.
Harmony moments.

I disrupt harmony by listening to music that isn't the best.  I have the utmost respect for Eminem's talent.  That man has a WAY with words.  When I turn up one of his classics, there's a disruption in harmony -a dissonance.  I feel the same way after spending an entire day binge watching a series.
Dissonance Moments.

My Dissonance Moments quickly bring out my shame.
In the spirit of, "Inside Out" I will just say this: 78% of the "driving" in my mind is done by Self-Judgement.
I can't decide if she looks like a witch or demon or just a droopy, sad figure.
Maybe she doesn't even know.

My shame is mostly self-judgement.
How could you?
You piece of crap.
Those who know better, do better.  Except you. Because you're a freak.
You drive people away.
You're screwing up your kids.


The list goes on, but I'm feeling some pain here... so I'll stop.

How do I turn my dissonance back into harmony?  Christ.
I don't always do that, though.  Sometimes I reach for my measuring cups and my Doris Day Pandora station and I cook while she sings about pillow talk and black hills.  Harmony and balance start to creep back in.  I like to deny stuff.  I like to deny my worth:

I don't matter enough to Christ.
I'm not important.  He is.  And He's got enough to deal with, thankyouverymuch.

I'm realizing that I deny my body A LOT.  I don't want to face the appetites of my body.  I don't want to hold a very clean mirror up and look at myself objectively and say, "Okay, you want ALL OF THAT.  Now what?"
If I hide my body's appetites -even from myself -what the hell am I even doing here?
How can I possibly fully heal?  How can I live genuinely from my beautiful soul?  I'm slamming half of it down daily.

In some of my reading, I came across a quote.

I spent some time with it and made it fancy so it would be sure to know how much I appreciate it:

Accept myself?
Can I do that?
The past says, "no."

Am I brave enough to make this kind of an inventory?  To write down:
Who my body is
What my body wants
Who my spirit is
What my spirit wants

Look it over objectively without leaning toward one team or the other because THEY ARE THE SAME SOUL TEAM and then just

Accept?

This is Step One.  Acceptance.  I know I'm not the only one out there saying, "I will forever be on Step 1."
I think I've had times where I've thought, "I accept me.  SO GRATEFUL because self-acceptance is a sucky bucket of a journey."  But now I realize I've only accepted *parts* of me...

The parts of me that talk too much
The parts of me that look for humor everywhere
The parts of me that parent differently
The parts of me that won't ever look like they did when I was 21.

But what about the parts I've denied?

Heaven help me.  This is going to be such a sucky bucket.
But as a music major, can I just say? Harmony is worth it.  Dissonance is just the worst.

I've spent so much time playing God -trying to save myself, trying to save others.  But I've also spent so. much. energy judging.  I judge myself, I judge others.

These realizations will be painful, they will be me stepping into my mess.  I don't know what the ending result will be, not completely.  But I do know that I will come out of it with peace, and with that Soul Peace, I will be able to withhold self-judgement and others-judgement.

I will render unto God that which is God's... my demons.

A few days ago, I heard this song in the back of my mind.  I began humming as I walked around my house. When I had a minute, I pulled it up on youtube.  When God wants to tell me something, He pops a song in my head.  The message in this song felt Godless, so I listened to it until I found God.

God's telling me He wants my demons.  But in order to give them over, I have to recognize them.  This means I'll sit in church and wonder who I am really.  Who everyone around me is.  I have to let myself down, let my self-judgement fall as I take God's name upon me each week.

I'm handing my judgement over, Lord.  

I will sit fallen next to other fallen people.  I will let myself fall.  I will let others fall.
Can I face this?  Not alone.
I can't escape this now unless You show me how.

Oxygen

Each morning after my morning prayers, I go outside.  Headphones plugged in, inspirational talks streaming, I greet the day.

Jane sent me this "Advice from Elder Busche" and so often I find his voice in my head saying, "Embrace this day with an enthusiastic welcome, no matter how it looks."

I embrace my mornings. Morning air smells different, feels different. The energy morning brings is singular: healing, refreshing.
 I feel grateful when morning light covers my face... like, 'hey, I have been given another day!' 

Bronco, our retired and arthritic K9 Belgian Malanois, keeps me company as I breathe in fresh air and dodge cow biscuits on the farm road.

 Last Friday, I walked a road between two fields -one was hard, covered in stubbled weeds and the other had been plowed under. I thought about my Grandpa. He'd come into my Sunday School class a few weeks ago to teach my 14 year olds about seed growth.
"Soil need oxygen," he said, sitting on his walker, waving his callused hands in the air for effect, "How do you get oxygen to soil."
"You turn it over?" the kids asked timidly.

 It sounds so simple, and it is. In theory, it is simple. The more I get to know God, the more I realize that simplicity is His calling card. But as I looked at the upturned ground that morning, I felt it. I know what it's like to "get oxygen to the soil." If I want to grow a good seed, I need to prepare myself for it to take root. And upturning soil is painful, painstaking! This week, I'm working on formulating boundaries for myself so good seeds can start sprouting within my soul.

My counselor suggested this formula: Behavior -------> Alternate Behavior -------> Consequence

Example: I feel self-judgement shame ---> I think of a positive affirmation to counter the shame and dig deeper to find the roots of the shame ---OR I wallow in the shame in which case -----> I read three chapters in "Captivating" (a book about the beauty of a woman's soul) and read my positive affirmations out loud to myself.

 I'm turning over the soil.
 Oxygenation will be a blessed process, ongoing forevermore.