Magic and the Art of the Vulnerability Hangover

I've been sober for too long.

Teetotaling at the keyboard, I have been poring out zero-proof stories and phrases that were heavy on the garnish and weak on the hard stuff.

Light, inspirational, and totally safe to share with everyone I've ever met, including my eight year-old and my beloved ninety-five year old grandfather. 

This is all rather funny since I definitely cane of age in a family that values fine wine, quality scotch, and lots of conversation.

Well, certain kinds of conversation.

Wild, creative, magic-fueled, mystery school infused, feminist storytelling and truth telling... that's not really ever been part of family gatherings. (Frankly, it would be way too weird if it was.)

But, that stuff that's not suitable for the Father's Day barbecue has always been part of my inner world.

And, in so many fabulous ways, that feisty magic is part of my conversations with my "unicorns" - my writing coaching and story healing clients and the women in my Sovereign Writers Circle.

Easy to say, not so easy to put on the page...

It's felt OK to get real once I know "I am with my people."

But I was never even willing to admit that I was too scared to share my real shadows and my most blinding light with people who are looking to me for a big smile and a bit of "don't worry, this party is totally safe and happy!"

The truth was watered down before it even made the leap from thought to keyboard. I was way too good at playing my own editing game.

Back to me, teetotaling at the keyboard and offering minimal-impact, cleverly edited phrases that were intended to keep everything feeling... nice.

Yesterday, after months of frantic journaling, hard conversations with trusted mentors and healers, and a whole lot of self-recrimination and disorientation,  I finally allowed those pretty little lies and sins of omission to rock me to my core. 

It was a revelation that had been a loooooong time coming, and I pressed record as it flowed out of me.

And then I released a video that I called Magic, and the Fear That This Is All There Is.

My eyes are wet with tears at the beginning, but my voice grows stronger toward the middle before fading out again at the end.

I was a nervous wreck about it last night (dear gods, I sent it to my list!), but I kept pressing share, daring people to hear me, daring the world to pay attention to a narrative that was my heart's poetry, all spiked with doubt and hope and fear.

And this morning I awoke with one hell of a vulnerability hangover.

I am in the business of asking people to trust me as a group leader leader, a magic maker, a story healer. People pay me their hard earned money so I can help them find the truth in their experiences, the meaning in their work, and the clarity in their message. 

And here I am, talking about screaming into the void and naming what it feels like to live and work in this beautiful, accursed, fucked up, goddess blessed digital realm.

Right now, I am encouraging people to find their wild creative magic in the #7MagicWords Project that starts next week, and yet, I show up all misty eyed as I tell you I am so sure of myself, and yet so empty of hope. As I tell you that I long to believe in the magic and the mystery but everyday must fight the demons of "this is all there is."

I've been sober for too long. I've been well-edited and well-behaved.

I've need to drink deep of my own medicine - especially if I am going to create an experience for anyone that promises to help access wild, creative magic and tell the stories that set you free.

I need to strip down and tell you the truth about all the ways I have been tamed and have willingly corseted myself in polite tea party stories you could share with all the genteel company.

It's the only way I could actually offer you an ounce of wild magic worth conjuring.

(Even if the Magic Maker at the helm is an imperfect, wild woman writer in progress who needs to drink deep her own medicine, let's see where these seven days will take us, yes?)