At the World Domination Summit this summer, I attended the premiere screening of the documentary Indie Kindred, by Jen Lee. The film features 10 independent artists talking about creativity and collaboration. These women are singer/songwriters, painters, writers, and magic-makers. I fell in love with each of them as I watched them be honest and vulnerable on the screen.

Sitting in the audience, tears streaming down my face, I knew what I had to do. Now, after months of thinking about it, knowing that it felt both crazy and essential to my well-being, I am about to launch into a creative sabbatical.

From October 1 through December 31 I will be spending my workday writing, reading, dancing, painting, taking photos and generally getting reacquainted with my creativity. There will be no blogging, no teaching, and no newsletters until January.

This is my oxygen mask. After years of putting others’ on first, it’s my turn to breathe. I want to use this time in the most heart-centered way, so that come 2014 I’m rested, filled up and on fire. There are a thousand things I want to do with my life, with my particular gifts, but doing them from a place of depletion…well, it just doesn’t work. As Lisa Nichols says, you’ve got to serve from the overflow.

I’ll be pulling some of the most popular posts from the archives and sharing them here while I’m away, and there’s a remote possibility that I might sneak in and post something. (I’ve been known to change my mind on a dime when feeling inspired) But life has been telling me to turn inward this last year and though it took me a while to catch on, I’m listening now.

You can still find me on Facebook and Pinterest. I’ll be unsubscribing from lists and blogs for a while, but I’ll always answer email. And I’ll be checking in here too, so you are welcome to leave a comment. I just won’t be pressing publish on anything new.

And now, I’m wondering…what’s your oxygen mask? What do you really need to do this fall to take care of you?

Tell me in the comments, shoot me an email or let me know on Facebook. I really want to know.

with so much love,
Alana

P.S. Click here to find an Indie Kindred screening near you.

P.P.S. You have no idea how hard it is for the over-achieving, people-pleasing little-girl-inside to allow this kind of a decision. But I’m standing in trust and in the truth of what I preach, not knowing where it will take me but believing it will be good.

It was September of 2009. I was sitting in my new living room by the beach in Ventura, after a decade in the jungle of Los Angeles, feeling the wide open space of a beginning and the ache of saying goodbye. As though it was dropped in my head by angels dancing on the ceiling, I had the thought to start a blog.

I had no idea how profoundly this decision would change my life.

The blogosphere can occasionally feel like a high school popularity contest, and I’ll admit it has triggered my “I’m invisible” story more than once, but the circle of people I’ve grown to know and love blows my mind and heart wide open on a daily basis.

Liz Lamoreux is one of the women who has come into my life, as if by magic. I’d long admired her words. Her jewelry was on my 40th birthday wish list. And then we ended up in each others’ circles and a real friendship was born.

I am thrilled to be the first contributor to her new guest blogging series, Circle of Kindreds, writing about the importance of believing in your own magic. Please join us in the circle. You are so very welcome.

with love + gratitude,
Alana

P.S. Another amazing woman I feel lucky to call a friend is Kristin Noelle of Trust Tending. If you missed the post I wrote there last week while she was away at the Wake Up Festival, you can read it here. It’s on another of my favorite topics – learning to be present with our feelings when life is hard.

P.P.S. If you’re not signed up for Liz’s “adventures in creative self-care” newsletter and Kristin’s Trust Notes, I highly recommend them. They are both like a breath of fresh air in my inbox.

This went out to my newsletter list a few months ago. After an emotional couple of weeks (Ben’s anniversary, my daughter’s birthday) I needed to read it again. I thought you might want to hear it too.

You are luminous.

Yes you.

I know this for a fact.

I know it because we all are.

Every single one of us has an inner light – a glow.

It’s there in the voice that whispers Yes! when fear tells you No. It’s there in the you that knows deep down inside you’re going to survive, even though life has brought you to your knees and you’re not sure how you’ll ever stand again.

It’s there even if you can’t see it.

Sometimes it’s covered by overwhelming emotion – grief, anger, despair…

Sometimes it’s hidden under layers of grime built up by judgment, disapproval and comparison; by the voices of parents, teachers, society.

But it’s there and it’s ready to shine brighter.

Your glow is what calls the people you need into your life.  It’s what draws joy to you and finds you the support you need when you’re feeling lost and alone. It’s what helps you feel seen when you’re tired of being invisible. Your glow is what allows you to feel peace even when the waves are crashing all around you.

So the journey isn’t to “get” a glow. It’s to uncover it, like a prospector searching for his vein of gold. It’s to learn to live whole-heartedly with the grime while listening deeply to what’s underneath:

To your emotions and your intuition. To your inner wisdom.

They are your moment-by-moment guides through this life.

Listen. Listen closely. What are they telling you right now?

**********

P.S. Shine starts two weeks from today. Instead of a power wash with the hose labeled “Fix me”, Shine is a gentle soak in love until the grime begins to melt away.

Here is what Casey Bee wrote on her blog about her experience during the second week of Shine:
“It’s incredible, really. Shine is showing me a side of my personality that I thought I’d completely lost in the midst of my grief. I’m getting closer than ever to finding that place of peace within myself that is eternal and unshakeable.”

 

Tonight my daughter struggled to fall asleep because “bad thoughts” were scaring her. This has happened a few times over the past year. She won’t tell me what the thoughts are so we talk about ways for them to have less power, for her to feel less afraid. We practice noticing where we are and what’s happening in the moment. We tell those thoughts we don’t need them and pretend to blow them into bubbles that float away into the night. Eventually she falls asleep and I’m left reflecting on fear, mind chatter and modeling a life lived in trust.

I studied attachment theory in grad school before she was born. I knew what I was aiming for in her early years. Other than her brother’s stillbirth which rocked us all for different reasons, her world has been safe and loving, and she walks through it with visible confidence.

I wonder about these thoughts that scare her. Are they something she’s seen or heard coming back to haunt her the way a television show I watched fifteen years ago still visits me? Are they the typical monsters-in-the-closet fears of childhood or is there more to it? She’s sensitive to energy and it’s possible her fears are being triggered by something outside of her that she doesn’t understand yet.

I slip out of the bedroom and consider my own relationship with trust. This past Monday marked the third anniversary of Ben’s death and during the tender days leading up to it, the experiences of my pregnancy with him were on my mind. There were lessons on faith, on belief, on fighting for what I wanted and on surrendering and letting go. Since the moment I found myself alone and hemorrhaging in a hospital room, surrounded by a magical golden light and deep peaceful love, turning toward trust again and again and again has been my path.

Sometimes I am afraid.

I trust in the inherent good of human beings, while understanding that good can be horribly twisted by pain.

Sometimes I doubt.

I trust in expansion, in the soul’s desire to grow. I trust in a universe that has my back, because despite my fears and the yuck I’ve lived through, I’ve never known otherwise.

Sometimes I rage.

I trust the fact that I’m here living this life for a reason, even if some days I can’t see past the end of my nose.

Trust gives me space to breathe. It allows for forgiveness. It reminds me I don’t have to rush while encouraging me to keep moving.  Trust lifts the weight off my shoulders and points me toward peace, toward joy.

Trust rocks my world.

At 41 I have yet to get a tattoo. If I ever do, the first one would say, Yes. The second, Trust.

 

The Declaration of You, published by North Light Craft Books and available now, gives readers all the permission they’ve craved to step passionately into their lives, discover how they and their gifts are unique, and uncover what they are meant to do! This post is part of the last week of The Declaration of You’s BlogLovin’ Tour, which I’m thrilled to participate in alongside over 200 other creative bloggers. Learn more — and read some of the many other posts – by clicking here.