To live is to suffer.

To survive, is to find some meaning in the suffering.

I am a mother, mentor, devotee of the breath and a weaver of interbeing. I root deep and expand wide to support the letting down of the pressured pace of dominant culture as it presents through our multidimensionality. The slowing into the womb of the relational is the healing - the being seen, felt and held so tenderly our tissues can unwind and do something else. With the dominant model being one of treating symptoms as isolated disease, we are seeing a mass separation and excision of people from their context resulting in epidemic diagnosis that pathologize the individual for what are collective and systemic problems. 

"The next Buddha is the sangha."

As Thich Nhat Hanh predicts, awakening is a collective process. Our true nature, our Buddha nature, is found in the relational. 

My work is centered around sacred community (sangha) as the portal to cultural and personal transformation. Through connection and seeing ourselves in each other, we can shift our energy away from the cultural shame of being human and toward embodied liberation - a liberation that includes all beings. 

The awakened heart does not transcend the body. It embodies to transcend. It knows that it is through pain that we liberate. It knows that liberation is a birth process, a process of expansion into edges and dancing with the threads that bind us. 

It’s through the dancing, the holding, the unraveling and the unfolding that the awakened heart stokes its aliveness, its capacity to sit in the fire and breathe love. 

I want to go so slow that my pericardium hugs my heart tenderly and whispers “I’m here”, as my tongue rests into her rightful home. The epicenter of my perineal body coalescing into a tap root plugging me into a sangha of kind eyes breathing sighs through a fungal gossamer lace gown. 

A slowness that only softness knows - silk reels spinning infinities into my cervical spine and pelvic clocks twirling me out of time. The softness of a peach fuzzed earlobe or a well worn frontal lobe that has given up making sense of time. Grey matter blooming into synaptic musings, dendrites infusing pearlescent twine with the divine ramblings of the heart-mind.

The softness courting the slowness and the slowness walking the softness into paced ambulations unraveling the midline from linear time.