Blog – Page 48 – Gwynn Raimondi, MA

November 17, 2014November 23, 2014

What sparks me: A quick and dirty list of some of the things

Inspired by a Liberated Lines Flash offered generously by Alisha Sommer and Robin Sandomirsky. So excited to open my writing for my heart again.

What sparks me::A quick and dirty list of some of the things

His babbles
Her smiles
His strong embrace.
The way the sunlight hits the trees of our fairy forest, lighting it up, yet never quite reaching me.
The crispness of the cool air as it sneaks in through the cracks of our door
Her sneaking in to quietly give me a kiss
The smile that is spreading across my face
Women gathering, circling. Sometimes with me guiding, sometimes not. Together, finding our power, our selves.
flashing lights that mark the passing of each second
quotes in books that make me scream YES! and want to share them with the entire world
moving beyond
magazine clippings waiting patiently to be assembled on the board, to give birth to the program to come
notices in my inbox, reminding me to keep following my soul, my intuition
coffee. because, well coffee.
a new mug, just for me, found by me. all mine.
cake. because, well cake.
the whispering of our creek in the fall.
crunching in piles of leaves
a table filled with food, surrounded by those I love
gathering. always gathering.
sharing secrets in the dark, under the warmest of covers, only her and I, sharing our souls, letting ourselves be seen in the darkness
a card to cheer me up
slow cookers
quiet slow mornings where I come into myself as they sleep.
warm water beating down on my skin, reminding me to feel, to sense, to notice
walls filled with her art, given to us.
walls filled with my art, allowing myself to be seen.
walls filled with his art, reminding me of reason #1,345,094, 452 why I love him
unexpected packages on our doorstep
unexpected texts on my phone
shelves filled with over loved books, covers soft, corners tattered
yellow
blue
pink
red.
fire, hot, burning
fire, warm, comforting
ice, cold, burning
ice, cool, refreshing
the city, with its magic, its energy, always calling to me
the grass, my toes digging in
mud, earth, connecting to the dirt and dust and water from whence we came
cozy beds, with so many pillows, so many blankets, so many arms and legs tangled up in each other
space, open
breath. always.
questioning
questing
seeking
finding
all the things
wise women, clearing paths before me
clearing my own path
the hum of the heater as I feel the cold leave my bones
stillness
twinkling lights, a rainbow on my wall
sand, warm on my skin
boots. The boots. Those boots.
laundry baskets filled with clean clothes, waiting to worn again
grief, raw, real, reminding us our humanity, our utter lack of control
surrender
shedding skin, each layer coming through in its own time, and then, quietly disappearing, becoming dust
fairy tales, rewritten, giving power where power belongs
myths, exposed, released
Christmas trees and wreathes with beautiful baubles, sparkling, bring memories of what never really was, but yet is deeply felt in my core
creating the life I want, I dreamed of, I never thought possible
knowing myself
others who know themselves
talking, whispering, screaming, of the evolution of who we are and were and will be
letting go
holding tight
being blinded by the sheer beauty of it all
tears of joy, of disbelief
holding hands, her hands, his hands, infant hands, adult hands
body wracking sobs
loud, spontaneous laughter
earthquakes, reminding us that even our planet can’t stay still, must move and reform and reshape
words… always words.
Wonder Woman, Jean Gray, Rogue, Black Canary, Black Widow, Bionic Woman.
My Cher Barbie doll, long lost
lotus
Om
yoga, stretching muscles, opening hearts, allowing
glitter. because, glitter.
baby hands grabbing at necklaces, tasting them.
exploring with my hands, my own mouth
fingers dancing across the keyboard
Circles of women. Not binders.
ink on skin, permanent and not
long hair. short hair. red hair. purple hair.
forgiveness, and the breath that comes with it
warrior women, not always amazons
hearts
their smiles.
open doors, inviting me in, for no reason
those who give comfort. always.
Mamas, dead and living
My tribes. All of them. Each of them.
allowing every person to have so many sides
allowing myself to not love them all, but still acknowledge and accept them all
me. because, me.
(more to come…)

November 2, 2014November 23, 2014

Becoming a Superheroine

Every time I send out a newsletter to my list, one person unsubscribes. When that notice comes through to my email, I smile. I’m always curious who it is and so always look. I’m send some loving thoughts to the email address that no longer wants to receive my love letters, and I wish them well. I thank them for allowing into their inbox for so long. And I nod to myself that I must be doing something right.

The truth is, I can’t, and don’t want to, please everyone. My love letters can sometimes be muddled and murky, sometimes crisp and clean; sometimes rambling, sometimes to the point. They are an expression of where and who I am in those moments. Part diary, part hey, what’s up, part love letter, to my readers and to myself. They document my skipping, running, walking and stumbling along this journey I’m on, this pilgrimage to each new iteration of me.

I acknowledge that my pilgrimage isn’t for everyone, and I’m grateful for that. The guide work I do is deep and intense, for me and those who allow me to guide them. I don’t want my energy going to those who don’t want it, or who aren’t ready for it. I want those who gather around my guide work to be ready to be… well to be guided into a deeper understanding of who they are, who they were and who they want to become.

This is not to say that every person who is ready for that deeper understanding would want me to be their guide. I get this and understand it. We cannot all be everything to everyone. If we stay true to who we are, the right people will start to gather. Our communities and circles will grow organically. None of this needs to be forced or demanded. It’s not about big numbers to me, it never has been. It’s about, has always been about, knowing exactly the right people will come forward at the right time, and the group that gathers around any particular program will have its own magic and feel.

…

So now I am in this place of curiosity about being female in a patriarchal society. I’m in this place of wanting to understand what it means to be a strong heroine in the fairy tales (like the show Once Upon A Time has re-written Snow White and others to be strong, warriors, independent, the true heroines of their own stories); what it means to be a super-heroine like Wonder Woman or better yet, Black Widow or Jean Grey. Women who have their own back stories, who weren’t always Super Heroines, who have had their own trials and struggles like all of us, and still are fighting for what is right, are still hoping to heal the world. Women who are strong and unapologetic in their femininity, who reject the rules that don’t fit them and allow themselves to be fully who they are. Women who have awakened to their own embodied knowing.

I have always been a rebel, in one way or another. I’ve written about it time and again, both here on the blog and in my love letters. I believe in screaming a firm fuck you to the status quo, in letting go and burning of all those shoulds and can’ts and definitions others place on us about what it means to be a woman or a mother or good girl or a bad girl. I firmly believe we need to shed our shame of who we are and embrace ourselves and each other. We need to stand together, accepting and celebrating our differences and our similarities, acknowledging that no two stories are exactly the same, but they are also so very, very much alike.

Another truth: we are all special snowflakes, and at the same time, none of us are.

So what does it mean to stumble on this pilgrimage of life, of being and becoming, of putting on our super heroine cape, to fail and succeed at becoming the people we are called to be? How many different capes and masks to do we wear, can we wear at once? And are they all us, each its own unique expression of who we are in each moment, in each setting? I don’t have all the answers right now, and I believe this is my quest, my exploration and excavation work for this year of being 43.

So more layers will shed and new ones will glow through, and more people will decide the pilgrimage I’m on isn’t for them, and more people will gather close and circle with me; this is the ebb and flow of life; this is part of what it means for each of us to be on a heroine’s journey, each of us finding our own way, in our own time and gathering together when our paths meet, at exactly the right time, exactly the right place.

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October 27, 2014September 10, 2016

Falling and grounding

The leaves are settling on our deck and in our yard, as they slowly fall from the trees of our fairy forest. We have had a couple of windstorms, forcing leaves that maybe weren’t quite ready to leave their humble branch home, to move along their way; forcing them to stop clinging to what they now and to release into something new.

Some may think the leaves are falling to their death. I see them falling to their new life. Watching them sit and decompose in our yard, blending into the grass and mud, finding their new purpose, being one again with the ground.

I am seeing the amazing circle of women I am working with this fall in Being & Becoming are much like these leaves in some ways. Life has brought them to this moment in time, where they may not quite be ready to release what they think they know, yet they are letting go to become more grounded and centered; to discover who they are and want to be. I am honored that they chose me to be a part of this journey with them. I am grateful and awed by the work they do, the vulnerability that is coming forth. And I am learning my own lessons from them; releasing some of what I thought I knew, shedding another layer, becoming more grounded in who I am now, who I am becoming.

My 43rd birthday has passed. I quietly celebrated the day with my husband and then later with the him and the kids. It felt right to allow the day to softly pass with those who matter most to me in the world. I had quietly anticipated the day’s arrival, feeling calm in this new age, this new being I was becoming. Knowing that in one day I won’t be a different person, regardless of the anniversary that is marked by the passage of time, knowing that the passage of time will only reveal who I am.

I have been in a state of “pinch me” with my work, with the women I am guiding, with the families I hold space for at my internship, with my children and husband, with my friends. I have felt lucky and blessed and privileged to be doing this work and play also knowing the tears and frustration and near mental collapse that preceded this iteration of my life. It’s been almost four years since the metaphorical windstorm that formed me to let go of the life and career I was so desperately clinging to. When a layoff happens, in those early moments we aren’t able to see the rightness of it, the doors that have been flung open, the opportunity to explore and play and heal that has been granted to us. And yet, those things are all there in those early moments, we merely need to become aware of them.

Looking back seven years to the woman I was, right before and after the birth of my daughter. Knowing how she changed me, how I allowed the transformation, is a touch overwhelming. If people had told me then the woman I would be today I may have laughed at them and thought certainly they were in need of some medication. And yet here I am. The woman I never even thought of dreaming to become.

We make plans. And life has doesn’t care about those plans. When we are open to the shifting, the releasing, the grounding, our plans matter less and the being and becoming transforms into the ebb and flow of the breath of the universe. Sometimes our own breath is in rhythm with this ebb and flow and sometimes it is in discord. That is another piece of the ebb and flow of life.

As our son starts to figure out crawling and eating solid foods; as our daughter masters reading and writing and discovering her own passions and ways of being in the world; as my second to last semester of graduate school flows into the second half; I am seeing my own ebb and flow into being the woman I am now, the woman I dream of becoming. Part warrior becoming a super-heroine, part princess becoming a queen, part sage, part artist, part jester, part mother, part wife; filled with love and gratitude for those in and around my life; knowing that as I release from this branch, I will fall into my center and ground and grow into the next me who is meant to be.

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October 11, 2014September 10, 2016

Coming home to myself, again

Time is ebbing and flowing and weaving as fall settles into our lives. The leaves on the trees in our fairy forest are falling before they change color, leaving me feeling a bit melancholy. The speed at which everything in my life seems to be changing is leaving a bit disjointed and wistful.

And yet through this I am finding and nourishing deeper connections with those in my life. I find myself connecting more with those in my life, both in and out of our home; in person and on line. I have deliberately started to reach out to people I miss or want to get to know better. I’m creating time to connect with those I love and focusing on being present with them as I do.

I’m finding as I journey closer and closer to my 43rd birthday my own need to slow down and deeply connect with those in my life. While I am wistful and melancholy over the passing of time, I am also grateful for the time I have left to explore, to create, to live.

D.H. Lawrence wrote, “A woman has to live her life, or live to repent not having lived it.” I spent my 20s living my life, and my 30s worrying about life and trying to “build a future.” I find myself coming not exactly full circle back to my 20s, but rather spiraled up to a place of wanting to live this life given to me. Some days that means being in the car as I drive the kids to this field trip or that play date and others it means being at home and having an impromptu dance party.

I have neglected my writing as I have filled our time with connection, building relationships with those in my local circles and online. School, my internship and my business have also each given me so much opportunity to connect with even more people; more people to learn and grow from as I allow them all to affect me, allow myself to feel.

I have done the work in my own Being and Becoming circle, right along with the beautiful women who have gathered together for this journey through fall. My own ah-has are highlighted by those of the other women as we each reconnect to ourselves and slowly heal and shed another layer.

I began this intentional journey of becoming 43 forty-three days before my birthday. I have dipped my toe into restarting practices I love (yoga, meditation, writing) but am finding that right now my focus is on the people in my life. I am filling up on conversations in person and online, learning more about myself and others and mostly breathing in the quiet knowing that in time I will step away for a bit and hibernate, refocusing on my “solo” practices.

Or perhaps I won’t.

Maybe instead my solo practices will naturally weave their way back into my life.

Time will tell.

For now however, connecting with those outside of me is where I am drawn. And so I am spending more time in my circles, outside of my home, and when home and not with the kids or my husband, online, learning more about the amazing people who are in my life, both peripherally and solidly in the center, and in the process learning more and more about myself. I am in the space of doing rather than reflecting, although truth be told I am always reflecting on myself, my life.

It is not a time of solitude, but rather of being in community, in circle, in my family. Seeing and being seeing, listening and being heard. My circles expand and I breathe in how gracefully and chaotically my life is evolving right now, again knowing that there are also fits and starts, the constant ebb and flow the ever being and becoming.

I feel myself coming home, again, to me as I circle and center in my community and family; as I hold the hands of my children and husband; as I hug friends both new and old. Seeing parts of myself in each of those around me, taking in what feels true to me in these moments and allowing the rest to be.

Quietly becoming 43.

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September 17, 2014September 10, 2016

Here and now: Finding True North, Right Where I Am

I am sitting at my very messy dining table. It’s been over a week since I cleaned it off and it is piled high with art supplies and materials for the Being & Becoming Circle (self)care packages. There is a stack of mail in the corner, a bottle of wine in the center and my son’s bumbo chair (yes, I know) at one end. My kitchen is close to needing to be condemned and I have dinner cooking in the slow cooker. Last night after work (!!!) I cleaned off a small corner of our counter.

I look in to our living room that has legos and wooden blocks all over the floor, right next to the baby’s floor mat (yes, I know). His jumper seat, that was his sister’s such a short time ago, takes up a large amount of space, sitting next to the cradle that he is about to outgrow. The bouncy/vibrating seat thingy is sitting in there too, taking space, but now too small for our boy, ready to be passed on to one of my best friends as she awaits the arrival of her next son. Only one of the chairs is empty to be sat in, the others filled with bags and random stuff that needs to be put away.

I breathe in this chaos, this proof of our lived life. I feel both frustration and calm as I sit here in the midst of it, writing these words, sipping my coffee. I have opened our dining room window and can hear the birds and squirrels, our creek and the quiet movement of our neighbors. As I opened the window I caught a glimpse of the abandoned kiddy pool, water now black and filled with leaves, waiting to be cleaned and put away until next year. I am reminded of the art supplies that are on our lower deck, waiting to come back inside. Reminded of how the days seem to slip by without these seemingly simple tasks being accomplished.

I am sitting with sadness that sprung up from work yesterday, my own sadness about a future that probably will, though may not, come to be. I have allowed some tears to fall for this yet to be seen future and am breathing deeply in the truth that that future is not today, not here yet. I release as much of this sadness as I can right now, being grateful for the life I have, the life my husband and I have created together, the life our beautiful children bring to us every day.

I am sitting with calm and peace and humble gratitude as I think of the women who have come forward already to do this work of being and becoming with me this fall. Some of whom started with me this past spring, others coming forward to start now. All of them trusting me and allowing me to be a part of their journey.

There are days when I can’t believe how blessed I am. Days when I think back to my younger selves and wonder how they got through, how we got to now. I smile at how 15 or 25 or even 35 year old me would have reacted to being told who she would become at almost 43. Would those past mes believe that it would all turn out so lovely? Would they believe I could find this deep peace in my life? Would they shake their heads and laugh or would they breathe a deep sigh of relief?

I wonder about the women I am yet to become. Me at 45, 55, 75, 95. What wisdom will I have earned then? How much deeper will this quiet knowing I am only beginning to feel at almost 43 run? What stories will she share? What kind of grandmother, great-aunt, long-time friend, wife will she be? And more importantly, who do I want her to be right now, even knowing that too will change as the years flow.

Right now, my daughter has come upstairs and is sitting in the chaos of our lived in living room, playing with those legos she had abandoned yesterday; wanting to share space with me and giving me space to write, to express, to observe.

Tonight I will hold space for families who have lost a parent, a spouse. It is work I am called to do and am grateful for. This weekend I will begin holding space for the women who are ready for their being and becoming work and play, keeping that space safe throughout our fall season together. Right now, and always, I am holding space for my family: giving love and gratitude, taking in the beauty and truth and reality of our life together.

And I hold space for myself. Allowing my own sadness to ebb and flow, letting its lesson of gratitude for the now be heard and internalized. Grieving the yesterdays lost and celebrating the tomorrows to come. Finding my own true north, right where I am.

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