I was sitting at my friend’s light filled healing space in L.A. on a gorgeous spring day, a couple of days before my birthday, experimenting how to access and move stagnant energy from my sacral and solar plexus chakras with breathwork.
That heavy energy on my abdomen has been there as long as I can remember,
accumulating and gathering strength from words that I never spoke out because it was easier to agree, feelings that I never expressed because I didn’t want to show my vulnerability or how I really felt,
emotions that turned my blood ice cold and filled my lungs with sadness,
depression that replaced the joy and imagination and covered everything with numbness,
how I had equalised my self worth with external validation and achievements.
But the energy of what wasn’t dealt with back then keeps crying for attention, it wants to be acknowledged and understood, and it wants to move and transform into something lighter.
And we talked about how to take the pressure off from my relationship with creativity. Creativity that has always been my lifeline and has always been there for me when I eventually chose to show up. Something that comes so effortlessly is so easy to take for granted and neglect.
How could I show up for the creative practice for the sake of practice, not because I would need to achieve any kind of external validation but for the sake of my healing journey.
How to keep the energy flowing, how to show up and commit even when it is hard, how to trust and be open for what is yet to come, not by forcing but by being gentle and curious.
Trusting that eventually the energy will move through the layers of stagnation.
Trusting that the inner fire that has only been flickering as a weak flame will get stronger as I keep calling back my power, and that the fire will burn off everything that is not needed anymore.
Last year, it had been 11 years since I had painted anything, something that once was my source of joy and connectedness and as the months passed I started to feel that it might be time again. So on a grey and chilly November afternoon I attended a mandala workshop, and when I held a paintbrush after all those years and watched a drop of color moving across the paper I felt the joy that once was there and kept wondering why it is so easy to stop doing things that we love.
And those lessons that have come to me after that are so often lingering around us, but we don’t often hear or see them because it's so easy to get caught up with our own expectations and interpretations.
There just needs to be a circle to start with and every single time something shows up. Sometimes I have an idea on my mind I would like to explore, certain colors or shapes, but what shows up is always completely different if I’m just willing to let the mandalas take their own form.
There are days when it feels hard and frustrating, but often, what feels ruined beyond repairing is actually a starting point for experimentation with imagination and an opportunity to give up strict boundaries and control. The willingness to journey through disappointments and seemingly dead ends transforms into spontaneous beauty when compared to something that was planned beforehand.
And then the idea started to slowly gather inspiration under it’s wings.
Mandalas with my voice. No matter how they would show themselves I would accept and capture my truth at that given moment,
both with my artwork and my words, reflecting the soulscape of the current moment.
Trusting that something will show up.
Starting from a beginning every single time, without expectations.
Trusting that eventually the lessons and beauty are going to show up because they are always there,
deep within, under all of those layers.