I haven't written anything this week because there hasn't been a space of beingness that included both time and inspiration. Kiwi vodka is in a little glass beside me. Kitties play fetch with foil balls. The Mentalist waits for me on Side*reel. Dinner is on the stove. But I need to write.
The Hilarious Coworker has moved on for more money and better benefits. And I am left to do the job of two, plus train the new person, who is sweet, but crazy slow, and kinda computer illiterate, and her back is seriously out. I'm grateful for my job. And I was very very very very glad to see 5 pm roll around.
I am madly in love with my holistic clients. I made a conscious decision to meet them, where they stood, instead of asking that they come to me, crazy me, with my half-awake, half-asleep way of seeing The World and It's Inhabitants. I made a conscious decision to take a deep breath before each session and listen, really listen, for the energy thrumming underneath their words. I am also very conscious of where my line is, that line of what I need to be able to enter into this space of listening with them. I'm giving sessions away each week, I'm doing barters, and folks are paying for sessions. This is the criteria. It must be one of these three. Otherwise, it's just caterwauling via phone, voicemail, and email. Because I follow these three guidelines, I don't feel taken advantage of anymore. And all of sudden, I have this deep, deep well of Yes to draw from for folks. And I am having a dang fine time. And needless to say, business has really, seriously picked up.
Speaking of barters, I now have orange hair. Or rather I have orange and caramel and honey flashes of color in my hair. I have two clients who work at the most bitchin, radical, technically proficient salon in Wilmington NC: Rockin Roller. They are amazing chicks - one who does shamanic healing via cut and color (Heather!) and one who plucks the vision of beauty out of your head in between jetting around the globe doing all sorts of music videos and fashion shoots (Rozy!). They are these gorgeous women who let me hang out with them to soak up the fiery edge of their Yes, and I get to slowly, surely beautify myself in the process. I am so grateful to these two luscious women who are slowly patiently helping me play with the whole beauty thing. Yeah, sure, they think I'm nuts, but they like me, and running around with no makeup, pajamas disguised as work clothes, and a bland I Belong To Hiveworld look doesn't mean that Waking Up comes any quicker, or is more fun. Pictures in the sidebar to the left - and more to follow in the next couple of days! :) . . .
And speaking of clients part 2: I have to come up with an other word for client - it sounds so cold and stoopid - any suggestions?
Which leads me to The Story of Katherine. I hit a place that told me: work out your shit, mutherf*cker. And by sh*t it means the stuff stored in this being called Katherine, be it physical, mental, or emotional. I trust the process. I trust the wall I hit a few months ago that said: deal with your fat and your fear. I don't know how long it will take. And I don't care. I trust the process. I'm surrendered. Even if it means I go get orange sh*t put in my hair and I wake up the next morning, look in the mirror and understand that I am closer to appearing like Who I Am.
And a Oh Yes Let's Do This Now message to those lovely, sweet, well-meaning, buttheaded caterpillars with their delusions of butterfly, who like to send me emails detailing my many failures: kiss my wings/probiscus/far segment muthafrakkers. And I mean that with all the love in my poor, fractured, arrhythmic heart. Because, seriously? It isn't nice or helpful or even truthful. That sh*t is just cold . . .
Yes, I need more vodka. And to get to my coconut rice, roasted carrots & broccoli, and toasted pumpkin seeds dinner before it turns sadly wilted. (Yum)
And you, if you were here, we'd laugh and I'd pour another as we settled into the cushions and I shared a kitty with you to keep you warm and toasty on this chilly Carolina night . . .