Winter’s Wisdom

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Perhaps it’s being the daughter of a school teacher. Maybe it’s because I just passed my 41st birthday. But I always feel a bit nostaligic around the end of August and September always feels like a chance for new beginings. 


I was told by an Akashic reader recently that, actual calendar date aside, I’m in a season of Winter. And that in this season, I should rest and eat and play and decide what I’m ready to let go of so that when my Spring comes I feel ready to bloom.


My 2021, like yours, was and is a shit show. There are lots of things working and each morning I thank the Universe for what is. But I also think it’s toxic to not face, and sit with, the things that broke my heart.


Racism isn’t new to me. I remember being called an Oreo in the 3rd grade. I was called a Nigger, by a teacher, in the 5th grade. “You’re so pretty for a Black girl” , “you speak so well“,  and “She’s not really Black” (after racist joke has been told to group) were all phrases I heard reguarlly by the time I was in high school. 


For the sake of education, or greater opportunities, my mother like most in the 80’s and 90’s perceived White spaces to be better spaces. And I spent most of my formative life becoming more palatable for White people so that they were more comfortable in my presence. I straightened my hair and wore weaves because my natural hair made your hands reach for my scalp and your eyes widen. I allowed you to say things around me, that shook the ancestors in me, because when I stood up for myself you got red and called me angry and difficult. I’ve been the only brown spot in more brunches on Park Ave than I care to mention because the idea of Harlem seems to make your skin itch and suddenly you’re not so hungry anymore but I am and so I acquiesce to calm your nerves and I’ll just laugh about it later over martinis at Red Rooster with all the other brown girls who did the same that day.


I reflect this Winter, and I think about all of the things people of color have had to grieve this season. All of the ways in which the trauma tied to our hue is triggered every day and yet this grief is also so new because so much of our loss now is tied to people who are still here…


My early grief, after losing my parents, taught me that there is a box for everyone. Some people showed me they should be put in the “call me for a drink” box cause their emotional band- with was low but they made me laugh and joy was necessary! Some got put in the “see only at public functions” cause grief made MY band- with low and they were exhausting. I got lucky though and a few made it to the “ride or die for life” box and with them i knew that i could show up sobbing and clutching my cat at 3am and i had someone to sit with.


Grief showed me that there were people that sent texts and then there were people who drove in snowstorms to hold your hand. My parents dying drew a line in the sand and some will do what’s hard in order to show up for you.
But this Civil Rights Movement drew a line in the sand too, and what I’ve realized is, very few people are willing to do what’s hard when race is a factor and that those boxes needed to be revisited again.


You see… when you tell your family that you’re taking care of your grieving friend. You look like a saint. When you tell your friends that you sit with me while I cry and we travel together and share our pain you look like an incredibly selfless person and, whether you realize it or not, it makes you feel good about yourself and your ego is fed. On top of that, grieving or not, I’m a great fucking time so what exactly is the sacrifice here?!?  


Being anti- racist means that you have to be comfortable with being uncomfortable. It means you have to sit at dinner tables and go against people you share blood with, for those with whom you do not. It means you might lose other friends who didn’t realize how “political” you are. It means your job, and your clients, might see that you’re not voting for the candidate that gives them tax breaks and you might not be as busy as you’d like to be. It demands you having to admit that your life was designed to be easier than others and not everyone can sit with that truth.

These are the hard truths I faced:


If I am writing a Blog post about being chased from THREE towns by racists cops and having to hide out in a stranger’s driveway, it’s not okay to repost my blog but not actually reach out to me. Reposting makes other people think you’re close to the movement and those harmed. (PERFORMATIVE) Picking up a phone or messaging me and saying ” I saw your Blog, what can I do to help?” is being a friend. (ALLY)


When I write an article about the phrase “I don’t see color” and even after you’ve heard THIS Black woman explain why it’s so offensive, it is SHOCKING to send me an email explaining why YOU’RE hurt that you can’t say that anymore and that YOU’RE offended as a White woman. It’s also confusing as to why you decided I was talking to YOU. It’s called White fragility and I’M offended that you thought the email was acceptable. I’m also horrified that in your defense of said email on why you are “clearly” not a racist , (insert eye roll) you cited, the black boys that you help in your school district. My jaw truly dropped on that one.


If I only had 1 White friend, and every day arrived with headlines about White people being killed by cops, or young White girls getting acid thrown in their face at traffic lights, or yet another protest demanding rights for White people, you can bet your ass I’d remember to check on my White friend. It’s not okay to say things like “I was busy” , “I got tied up” or “You don’t usually like to talk on the phone“. We’re talking about my civil rights and those of people who look like me, not what I had to eat for lunch that week. I am not being needy. I am terrified.


So why am I sharing this?

Because I’m not alone in this. I stand alongside countless people of color who were forced to end friendships with people they loved because those people weren’t ready to make “good trouble”. I sit with all the Black women who figured out that some of their girlfriends weren’t the allies they believed they had in their corner. I walk in the sadness of grieving not just the widespread attack on people that look me but the awareness that I am still too Black for some that know me intimately. I am irate that when White people find out that we’ve ended these friendships, that many still say “Don’t you think you’re being a bit hard on her?” as if we are being silly about demanding that people see ALL of us. I’m sharing this because I hope my White readers think about their own friends of color and re-evaluate what kind of friend you’ve been to them. Believe me when I tell you, it doesn’t matter that you’ve been friends for years or had drinks or cried together 10 years ago. How did you show up during the Civil Rights Movement??? If you find out that she’s moved YOU into a different box, do the self work. SHE is not the problem here. SHE is not too sensitive. YOU are not sensitive enough.

There’s something to be said for Winter and it’s bitter hold. A sort of refining happens. A release of what’s not longer necessary. And I hope, those that look like me, are doing to the same. Let us lick our wounds if we must and then gather our strength so that we can do what WE have always done. Rise again… and this time, let them choke on all of this melanin magic. We are not here to be palatable.

Bloom LOUDLY my friends.

From The Mouths Of Women

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I’m often surprised by people. More specifically I’m surprised by how unknowingly some of us are harming others. I’ve made a lot of big shifts in my life over the last couple of years and it’s been the reactions of others that make me realize why some people are so scared to do the same in their own lives. 

Here are some of the changes I’ve made, the things I hear, and why I think women need to DO BETTER.

3 years ago, I made the decision to sell everything I own and turn a school bus into a Tiny Home to travel around the United States for 2 years. I wanted to see America, lead workshops for women and start a podcast on Youtube.

Reactions:

Actual laughter. 

So you think you’re gonna be some sort of Youtube star or something? 

Why would you ever live in a bus? 

Aren’t we a little old for this?

Insert jaw dropped and a tear in the corner of my eye.

Any time a woman comes to you with a dream, you should be supporting her. Any time a woman has decided that she’d like to live bigger, or do more, or step outside of her comfort zone figure out a way to help her get closer. Save your jokes and your eye rolls for your alone time and your mirror. Your sarcasm screams of fear. It tells me that you think your time exploring your own passions has expired. Stop projecting your limiting self beliefs on to brave women. Maybe she isn’t brave and she’s just TRYING to be brave. Your comments could scare her enough not to try. How dare you?

Living in a Skoolie was an INCREDIBLE experience! Hard, but worth it. And now I own a home. HERE is that podcast by the way! And no, I didn’t have plans to become a Youtube star. I just wanted to have dope conversations about things that mattered to me. Mission accomplished! And I wouldn’t change a thing!

Recently, I made a truly hard choice to walk away from a toxic marriage. This was not a rash decision or one that I take lightly. I posted about my leaving on social media after the decision had been made and with the support of my tribe that carried me through.

Reactions in my DM’s:

You need to update me! 

WTH? How come I don’t know this? 

Give me the DEETS girl!

Where is your husband?

RUDE. AS. FUCK. 

If you and I were close, then you already knew. If you heard about it on social media then perhaps you should pause and ask yourself when the last time was that you and I spoke? Or you reached out to me? Are we actually friends? 

When you read that a woman has left a relationship. Left a marriage. Left her home? Offer support first and temper your questions with some warmth and grace. 

I am ESPECIALLY dumbfounded by white women doing this! During this Civil Rights Movement, I’ve detailed instances of being chased out of towns by racist cops. Of the fear we felt traveling through America. Of having to be ferried from a rest stop to a stranger’s home so that we had a safe space to sleep. If you didn’t DM me demanding details then? Then, again, how dare you? If you have a Black friend in your life and you didn’t SHOW UP over the last year, believe me when I say she is not interested in sharing any part of herself with you now. 

Here are a few beautiful messages I received: 

I saw your post, and please know if you need anything I’m here for you.

I know that we haven’t been in touch in a while but I hope you know I’m here if you need a friend.

Now, this one below?? It’s shocking how many of these I’ve gotten.

I’m so sorry for you and for all of these changes you’re having to make.

I’m sorry for you when you write this… The assumption is that women must be sad and worse off now that they are alone. That changes are bad. Your first reaction is pity. Why? 

Why is your internal belief that being in “something” must be better than being with just yourself?

The BEST message I received?

Go Head Girl! I don’t know what happened but I know this shit is tricky and I hope you land in joy and peace and happiness!

YES

Speak hope in to women’s ears! Congratulate them on choosing themselves. Let them know it may be hard but that it WILL work out. Women don’t need pity. We need other women in our corners roaring along with us!

I write all of this because we need to DO BETTER. This time in history is fucking hard. We need each other. And we need to become more intentional about how we show up and how we care collectively. Watch your mouth! Not everyone’s ears have as much attitude as mine 🙂 What you say matters and can make all the difference in a woman’s life and the direction she takes. Be part of her progress.

Namaste Y’all

I Thought I Knew Her

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I thought that I knew who Grief was. She and I have spent so much time with each other. I’ve been intimate with her cousin Death for over a decade now. I know how they look and sound. I know what they’re like when you love them right and I thought that I knew the levels of distruction that they were capable of.

But she’s been sneaky this last visit. I’m not sure I know her as well as I thought I did. I didn’t realize how many faces she has. I didn’t know how far she could reach or how loud her voice was. She’s become a bit of a leach and I wasn’t prepared for her wrapping herself around my people for so long. She seems stronger this time. I’m pretty sure she’s been doping in the offseason.

I’m serious when I tell you this bitch refuses to sleep. She just paces and waits… With this look on her face that I can’t quite figure out. I watch her walk the floors at night and I wonder what happened to her cousin in my absence… I’ve seen Death be so gentle. I’ve watched her lay down and like soft sand, caress the skin of those she loved. If we’re being honest, then yes I knew she had daddy issues. They both do. I’ve watched her be spiteful and vindictive and I’ve seen how quickly her anger can blanket a room. But since when did she start hating people that looked like me??  When did she start allowing herself to be used by people who hate me? When did these two get so mad?

I used to be able to explain my relationship to them to other people. It’s not like I was the only one who knew them. They could be A LOT to handle and you had to be crafty to manage them sometimes. They were exhausting and usually too chatty for me but some days, strangely enough,  I really loved them. I had learned a lot from those two. Our history has been complicated but something about them changed me and I actually liked who I became after getting to know them. 

In the old days, when they became too much, I could vent to my other friends about them and they understood. I’m not sure when that ended. But I can tell that things are different now. They act like these two are my problem. When I tell them that Death has become truly nuts and that Grief won’t stop following me around, they roll their eyes and tell me I’m exaggerating. When I tell them that I don’t think my people can handle much more of Death’s nasty attitude and that we’re thinking about burning down her house, they look at me like I’m crazy and tell me to calm down. I don’t get it. Why don’t they see what I see?

Yesterday was bad. Grief and Death have been on a bender and while Death was sleeping one off Grief went nuts and now everyone who looks like me is trying to figure out how to clean up her mess. Why won’t someone come get these two? We keep trying with them but enough is enough already. 

I thought that I knew who Grief was. But today feels different. I think Death went too far this time.

The Tug

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As a Black woman this Civil Rights Movement, and all of its micro traumas, has become a tug of war on my soul.

People wonder why George Floyd? Why this time? Why this moment? When the truth is, it was simply the final straw. I don’t know of a Black person who is surprised by what some are so shocked by. I think people see the black and white images of our former Civil Rights Movement and convince themselves that it’s from a time long ago. It wasn’t. I’ll be 40 this August. Those are images of my uncles and aunts and cousins and as I watch the images in the news today it feels like tiny cuts each time a man is murdered who too closely resembles my own blood line.

I watch our White allies fight alongside, and for, my Black community and my heart soars! Hundreds of thousands of us marching in the pursuit of righteousness and I can almost see roads being paved for future generations who will never again have to walk this struggle. 

And then John and I pull into Morris Illinois, and I watch 2 pick up trucks box us in. I watch 2 cop cars pull up and talk to them first. And I see a white woman, emboldened by her own ignorant righteousness, and with her teenage daughter in the truck, point to our bus. My home. With 3 cops at my door, and Mrs. Pick Up recording on her phone, I was told that our bus had been reported as looking aggressive. I was told that we were reported as looking menacing. And I was asked when we were planning on leaving. 45 minutes later, the cops pulled off with our promise to pull out of our public parking spot in the morning. And then the pick up trucks peeled off one after the other honking their horn, yelling words I chose not to listen to. And in that moment, I’m reminded that everybody aint happy that Blacks are being heard.

With my ancestors stirring and dancing in my bones, I sign petition after petition and I can almost turn cartwheels when Tamla Hosford’s case is re-opened and Rayshard Brook’s killer is charged. And then I talk to my family and we can’t help but think back to the decades of cases where charges are lessened or dropped entirely and while officers collect pensions our community is left to mourn a lie. And we all mumur something like, “We’ll see…” and go about our day.

After Morris, John and I pulled into Paw Paw Michigan. Just days afterwards. We parked, I walked the dog, and the 3 white people watching me from their front porch started taking pictures. Not 5 minutes later, 4 white teenagers pulled along side us taking pictures of our bus. And right behind them 2 cop cars flashing lights and sirens. This time, the deputy wanted my first and last name. When I told him that I didn’t find it necessary to give my full name to a police officer for sitting outside of a public park at 2:00 in the afternoon (in my nicest “please don’t kill me” white girl voice) he called me Miss and told me to calm down. He wanted to know why I was there and this time, he didn’t give us until morning. He told me that “racial tensions are high here” and he told us to go. And we did. And those 3 white people kept watching and those 4 white teenagers laughed and took pictures of us driving away. 

A day later, I sobbed on a work call. I knew this country was racist. I’ve been dealing with some version of it as far back as my memory allows. But I had underestimated just how angry some become when we ask to live free. When we dare to demand equal treatment. I had underestimated how threatened they become by the sight of my skin. I sobbed and I told my team that I didn’t think I could do this anymore. Within 10 minutes, my boss and one of the founders of The Dinner Party, had texted me an address of a safe house. It was 20 minutes down the road from the rest stop we’d slept in. Within a half hour I was being hugged by 2 white women I’ve never met and told we were welcome to stay as long as we needed. We’ve shared meals and wine and gardening tips. We’ve shared stories and laughs and for the first time in weeks John and I slept without fear. We’ve been here for over a week and will be here until July. Mantra Magazine, having read my last post, and without being prompted sent cash via Venmo just in case we needed it and a promise to bail us out of jail in case my cop ass kissing ever fails.

The ACTION of my colleagues. The ACTION of a brand. The ACTION of these women here in these Michigan woods is what allows me to sit here and again feel my soul being tugged towards joy.

They understood, and understand, that this moment requires a sense of urgency. We didn’t need a text, or a phone call or a fist emoji. We needed help. And we needed it immediately. There is immense happiness to be felt when we see progress being made but don’t let it distract you from the fact that our happiness incites a level of hatred many of us can’t fathom. 

This fight is exhausting. Each day is begging something new out of all of us. If you’re like me and feeling the tug? Let go… let it pull you… There is a place for our anger and our sadness and our fear. But there is also enormous room for gratitude and hope. And there is a brief moment in the middle where someone will spring into ACTION and remind you that there is such beauty in our collective humanity when we try. And you’ll be ready to pick up the rope and begin again…

Just keep going.

Please feel free to comment below. I welcome all good energy!

WICKED

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Up until a VERY embarrassing, but hilarious, audition for The Lion King in my 20’s I was convinced I was going to be a Broadway star. I started singing in Church around 5 years old, and spent most of my life in performing arts schools around NYC. I’ve long given up that dream, and I only sing at home now,  but to this day WICKED is one of my favorite musicals.

“Wicked” was translated from page to stage through Gregory Maguire’s novel “Wicked: The Life and Times of the Wicked Witch of the West”, and takes place some years before that tornado brought Dorothy from Kansas to the great Land of Oz.

Doctor Dillamond is an animal professor who tragically faces discrimination at the school. He finds friendship in Elphaba, who wants to help him fight against those trying to oppress him. 

Doctor Dillamond, Elphaba and Galinda go to visit the almighty Wizard of Oz, with the hopes he’ll put a stop to the intolerance. After a tragic mishap and a spell gone wrong, the Wizard frames Elphaba as a ‘wicked’ witch, and Galinda is cast as the epitome of goodness.

WICKED is about a lot but it’s also the backstory of how we come to believe Glinda to be the good witch and her sister to be wicked and deserving of her fate. The backstory to why there was so much rage that a town was ravaged. It’s the explanation as to how the wizard allowed his lies to turn the world on Elphaba so he would never have to be held responsible for his mistakes.

2020 is the year of pulling back the curtain. Some of you are very sad about what’s happening in our own version of Oz but I’m wondering why some of you aren’t ANGRIER  that the wizards thought you cruel enough to never question their motives? Why aren’t you irate that they took bets that you would be too busy profiting from your privledge to wonder why it existed in the first place? They assume that your drive to be seen as the symbol of goodness will  prevent you from ever truly defending your sisters.

Be sad but get angry! Use it to fuel your fight. Prove to them that you are on to them and MAKE THEM HEAR YOU!

I love men but it’s women who bring about change! It has always taken the bravery and courage of a woman to make a man listen. 

10 years from now, we will still be talking about this. People will ask you what you did and where you stood. Decide now if you want to tell them you were busy being Glinda. Or do you want to hear your future self proclaim that she stood up for her sisters and helped to dismantle OZ? What version of you do you want to face?

“Do the best you can until you know better. Then when you know better, do better. Maya Angelou

Dear White People

sundaribliss28 Comments

I’ve sat down at my keyboard a hundred times by now. I’ve sat, staring at my phone, wondering if I should post about life these days in St Louis and then feeling frozen because my heart was too heavy to be trivial. I’ve thought about my white friends, and my white clients and hesitated because this moment feels like a line in the sand and I don’t know yet whose gonna wind up with me on the other side. I’ve thought about being quiet, but then I remembered the words I wrote in another post about no longer playing small. I considered keeping my head down, and then I thought about my mother having to keep her head up when she rushed past boys and girls and parents yelling Nigger at her as she desegregated her Queens. NY school. I thought about that and I said Nahhhhh. I, WE, need to be heard.

2 weeks ago, John and I spent time in Moab, Utah. On a rainy Saturday, and in need of WIFI, we pulled into an open parking lot, with no No Parking signs, and parked for the evening. Around 11:00pm police lights surrounded our bus and we heard them knocking on our door. Ana- Mae, our dog, was barking and getting anxious so I took her in the back and asked John to go outside. I saw a look cross his face, and it was too late before I realized what it was. It was fear. 

I listened to their questions. I heard their tone. I felt their ignorance. And then they requested an ID. And I knew in that moment, that I had made a mistake. I had forgotten what country I was in. I had forgotten for a brief moment that we are black and as black people we are not afforded the same rights. There was no reason to ask for an ID. To tell John that the sheriff had been watching us. To ask if we “had the means” to drive out of town. I had forgotten, and we are never allowed to forget what color we are in America.

Realizing that things were going left, I called outside and asked for John to watch the dog. I yelled out to the cops that he would be switching places with me. (Lest he move too quickly and they get “nervous”)  And I walked outside barefoot and prepared. I had flashed on a conversation a black cop in Chappaqua NY told me once. We were, safe to say, the ONLY black people in that town and in high school I was good for winding up at whatever party was getting busted. One night, he pulled me to the side and told me to “cut it the fuck out”. That I was not my white friends and that it would serve me to be clear on that. “You can’t do what they do and you’re gonna get yourself killed thinking you can. These white cops don’t care about your black life.”  

I’m grateful but sad when I think about that conversation. These are the lessons our elders are forced to teach us.

When I walked out of the bus, to see two cop cars and 3 cops and flashing lights, I heard that cop’s words and so I smiled and tap danced and shucked and jived to make them feel comfortable so that they wouldn’t kill us in the middle of that Utah desert. I preened and rambled and kissed their ass until I could see that I had convinced them that we were an acceptable fit for their empty parking lot and they finally left us alone. It took an hour. We were making no noise and breaking no law. We were just black, after dark, in their town.

Afterwards John took a shot of tequila to calm his nerves and I sat and cried. I cried because I saw in that moment that I was no longer that high school girl. I wasn’t rolling with rich white girls whose very presence prevented me from winding up in a jail cell. I am black and 40 years old and rolling with a KING whose very color makes lesser men nervous and trigger happy. I cried because I recognized my new role as his shield and that’s really scary. But necessary.

I’ve cried every day this week. I cry for my black women who are also acutely aware that on top of life  and it’s heaviness they must also be their man’s protection. I cry for my black men who have to wake up every day to be told they don’t matter here. I cry for my community who are scared to run, walk, drive, or sit at home on the fucking couch for fear of being murdered. And I cry for YOU white people, because you still haven’t figured out how valuable you are to the discussion. 

Let’s be real REAL for a minute. This country is racist as hell. Our government is racist as hell. There aren’t enough fireworks on the planet to ring in Independence for people of color in America. WE are not heard. WE are not considered. YOU are. So help. 

Help by asking us if we are okay. Have the conversation. Be uncomfortable. If you are my friend, and we aren’t talking about this then we are acquaintances. If you’re not able to have an honest conversation about what’s happening right now then why are you friends with black people in the first place? It’s a lie that you don’t see color. Stop saying that to yourself and to us. You do. You ignore color when it gets uncomfortable. 

Your silence in your home says that this is okay. Imagine, if when growing up, Black cops were killing Jews? And getting away with it. What if Black men, in charge of their neighborhood task forces, were shooting little white kids in hoodies? Now, what if my mother didn’t talk to me about it? What if my father never said a word? When I become the 40 year old woman I am now, what do I think about the value of Jews in this world if I’m never taught how wrong those cops were and what racism really is?

Start stepping into your privilege. As a woman don’t we know ours? I know I’m a beautiful woman. I know I have big boobs and a cute butt and that I can get away with a lot when necessary. And when necessary, I’ve used it all to my advantage. White folks? Use your skin color to your advantage. 

It was a white teacher who walked my mother into that school in Queens that day and yelled back at those heathens who threw things. It took the courage of white people, who sat next to us at Jim Crow counters, and protested with us on the front lines, to propel the Civil Rights Movement forward. And it’s taken the actions of our white comrades today to have these cops arrested, let along tried and sentenced. 

I am asking you…Stand with us. Speak up for us. SEE US. Or miss us with the bullshit. I hope as the black community, we all draw a line in the sand. I hope all of us require that our friends and tribes have our back. I hope that we didn’t just come together to sing and pray when Covid hit. That we weren’t just seen as part of your community because people are sick and maybe your people die too and now you too are scared. I hope that if nothing else, you’ve read this and sat back to wonder where you fall in all of this. THIS requires work. Self work and that sucks but you are a mandatory ingredient in our survival. 

Black people… You are so beautiful. So magical. And so valuable.  I love you. I love you. I love you. Hold yourself tight and your families tight. We always rise.

Life These Days

sundaribliss2 Comments

I’m not calling this thing the CoronaVirus or the Pandemic. Those words carry fear and it’s not going to help me by continuing to repeat them. I’m calling it the Reset. The planet clearly needed one, Mother Nature is on a serious glow-up! But I think we all needed one too. That being said, this Reset is a mother fucker huh?!? I know that coal produces diamonds when put under pressure but I would have settled for a Topaz honestly. 

I get asked a lot how all of this is affecting life in the bus, and nomadic living so I thought I’d do a breakdown

  1. We were seconds away from tiling our bathroom floor and building a door to separate the front of the bus from the back. I’m only strapping on that crazy mask once and it’s for groceries so for now Mama still poops with no privacy. 
  2. We didn’t know this was coming but Eula- Mae is designed for social distancing. We carry a 65 gallon water tank, plus 5 extra gallons, a full apartment sized fridge for storing food, an oven, an outside grill and have 6 panels of solar and 8 AGM batteries from GoPower Solar! We are completely comfortable off grid and it takes about 4 weeks before we need to hit up civilization again.
  3. Part of this tour was my leading a workshop in each city. Guiding women through Yoga Nidra is one of my favorite things. I teach what I need and I heal a little bit with each session. I’m really sad that this is no longer an option. 
  4. Both of our primary sources of income were already online. Before we moved from Miami, I had moved my private yoga clients online. I was already leading Death Doula workshops on Zoom and my work with the non-profit grief org The Dinner Party is a remote job. John is a graphic designer and so nothing changed for him at all. We are grateful every damn day for this.
  5. Both of us are homebodies by nature but I still want to be out IN nature. We are BUMMED that National Parks and State Parks are closed. That being said I am not bummed about no longer having to fake like I’m enjoying those long ass sweaty hikes. Now we take short walks around nearby trees and this one returns to her home for a glass of wine within the hour. Like a lady should. 💁🏾‍♀️
  6. Yes, we’re still traveling! If we still lived in Miami, we would need to ride our elevator 3 times a day to walk our dog. We would pass dozens of people in the mailrooms and parking garages. Not to mention trips to the store. Right now, outside of John, I walk past people 1 time per month when we run errands. Outside of that there are always other busses and RVs parked in the same campgrounds as us. We wave and are grateful to see a smiling face but that’s as close as we get. I feel safer in the bus than I would have in my condo. The fact that the view changes is what I believe is keeping us sane.
  7. This is seriously testing my spiritual practice. I speak often, in my classes, about Yoga off the mat. The poses are just a vehicle for you to sit in mediation. The practice is about cultivating kindness, patience, humility and recognizing the divinity in yourself and others. When it’s hot in the bus and I’m tired of working and John leaves a dish in the sink it takes a lot of Om’s to find kindness and patience. I am quickly pushed to be more humble when I dare to complain about my situation and I remember how many are without jobs and are stuck with people they don’t like in homes they don’t love. And damn if I don’t struggle seeing anything Divine in my husband, or myself, when he asks me for something that I know he could find if he bothered to use his peripheral vision. 🥴 But I keep coming back to the practice. Some days I fail, badly. Some days I’m like Mother Theresa in this bitch! Some days I just drink wine and decide that adulting is for the birds. It’s a reminder that I am forever a student of this Universe and that it’s during times like this that you see the true Yogi in you. Not when you squeeze into Lululemon. 

Watch the words you say this week. Let this be a “virus” outside of your home if you must. But inside your walls, inside your mind, let it be your Reset. Let it be where you finally give yourself permission to be Mother Theresa or Cardi B and you don’t give yourself shit if Cardi B is more fun right now. Let this be where you find patience for yourself and however long it’s taking you to get to where you want to be. Let it be the space where you practice kindness by talking kinder to yourself. And PLEASE let the Reset allow you to start to see and act on your own Divinity. You. Are. Special. 

It’s 12:00pm here and we’re in Needles CA waiting on a solar shower from Amazon. Mondays are my ME days so I think it’s time for a glass of wine and Netflix! Who else is watching #BlackAF?!? I’ve brushed my teeth and written this. That’s enough adulting for right now.

Pay attention to your own bandwidth today and sign off when necessary!

RESET


					


	
	


			
				


	


		
Kindness Aint That Hard

					

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Throughout life there have been a number of things I’ve been self conscious about. My weight has never been one of them. My mother never talked about hers. Diets weren’t something that was discussed in our home. She was gorgeous, and she knew its though was never egotistical about it. She always made me feel pretty, no matter what weird adolescent stage I was going through at the time. And when I did come into my own, she was quick to tell me when my inside was shining uglier than my outside. She would also let me know when I was looking fly and who doesn’t appreciate that 🙂 My nickname was Moosie in my home, as a nod to my thick thighs, and it was ALWAYS said with love. 





Nickname aside, I was tiny most of my life. And didn’t care. I gained the normal amount in college. And didn’t care. As my mom got sicker, and died, I began to cook like a chef (and eat like one) and 5 years ago weighed 190lbs at 5 foot 8. Thicker than a snicker. And didn’t care. Weight looked good on me.





What I DO care about is my health. From fibroids to vertigo, excema and vitiligo, my body was screaming at me to get my shit together by the time I was 32 and at 35 I almost landed in the hospital. Again. Who cared what I looked like!? I didn’t FEEL good. I was working in Wellness, but I had never paid special attention to what certain foods were doing to my body and it showed.





And so I’ve been working at it! It takes time but I now know juicing celery is the ONE thing that keeps me on track. All of my symptoms go away. I’ve figured out that dairy and meat make my skin and digestion crazy and that if I don’t eat a ton of fruit I have weird periods. Deciding to give up my amateur butter laden chef habit meant that I lost weight. Moving on to a School bus and traveling full time takes adjusting to and my eating habits fluctuate. I’m 131lbs right now. I FEEL amazing. I don’t care about my weight. But everyone else seems to!





Recent comments said right to my face??
I don’t think I’ve ever seen you this skinny. /  Oh My God!? / Are you eating/  John looks wonderful but you look so frail honey.





And the KICKER! That’s not how your man met you, you better be careful.





WOW! And what’s worse is that these all came from women. 





How very lucky that my mama raised the woman she did… That I don’t have an issue with my weight. That my health is more important than my bra size. That I LOVE my man and his opinions but I also LOVE myself. Because HOLY HELL women can be really mean to each other.





Do not ever comment on someone’s weight unless they’ve asked your opinion. Can you imagine what one of those comments could do to someone whose weight was connected to something emotional or distructive?
Can you imagine if this skinny person saw YOU and said I don’t think I’ve ever seen you this fat! Or You’re looking so old these days!





It’s mean. And unnecessary. And none of my business. 





Your job as a woman should be to make the women around you feel like Queens. Be aware of how your words land. We are all here to raise each other up and make each other feel beautiful.  Your lips are a doorway to feeding that or robbing from it…





The truth is these women love me. These comments were careless, not intentional. But maybe we should all work to be a bit more intentional. Become intentional about the energy a woman takes when she leaves your company.  Women are the world’s Caregivers. Imagine if everyone taking care of someone else felt as worthy as they should? Imagine the impact she would leave behind. We are all responsible for that.





Namaste Y’all. Take care of your women. Kindness aint so hard.

					


	
	


			
				


	


		
There’s Layers To This Thing

					

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I’m in Arizona, at Skooliepalooza, re-reading How To Heal Your Life by Louise Hay. I’ve read this book a thousand times but each time I come back to it, it’s a little different because I’m a little different… And every time, it helps me shed a layer that brings me a little closer to me.





They say that we earn those layers, or how to be adults, by the reactions that we received as children. And that part of our “work” here is unlearning the lessons taught to us by people who hadn’t yet healed themselves.






My mother was an amazing woman. She was so smart and so funny and she instilled in me a want to always be growing, which is my favorite part about who I am. She was also the daughter to parents who were immigrants, (one of them), alcoholics (maybe both of them) and not so forthcoming on the whole “I love you” thing. It’s not surprising that she didn’t like saying it to me. I can see now that it was her own childhood that would tell me I was “too sensitive” when she thought I was being “too nice” to people. But damn if being pushed away when you reach for a hug doesn’t shape a girl.






Now while she might not have been the softest of matriarchs, I can never take away how supportive she was. From the time I was little, she told me I could do anything and that I SHOULD try everything. She never let me believe I wasn’t talented or intelligent or that I wasn’t completely capable of whatever I set my mind to. It was the,  “She thinks she’s cute.”  and the “Who does she think she is?” , that I would hear from classmates as a child, that even now at 39 years old still rings in my head when I achieve something and don’t share it with my friends. Or when I think about reaching for a goal but then sit my “too cute” ass back down and talk myself out of it.






Layers. 






I have an ex that reads this blog. He sends me condescending messages on here, marked anonymous, and I’ll give it to him that the last one stumped me for a minute. In it, he wished me “well” on whatever I was constantly searching for in my life. His hope for me was that I finally find peace at the end of it.  His words made me sad… What a sad belief he holds, not just for me but for himself. And it made me wonder how many other people drink that Kool-Aid?  Because here is my truth. “Not all those who wander are lost” –J. R. R. Tolkien. To believe that you have nothing to heal, that will aid in the evolution of your own life, is absurd. To think that by looking for ways to grow you are also admitting that there is something wrong with you now is ridiculous. You can be standing in peace and enjoying it so fully that you feverishly crave more. When you start to find your own lane becoming more authentic becomes a passion. Those of us who yearn for more wander not because we’re lost. We wander because new roads shed old layers honey and we like what’s waiting underneath.






2020 for me is about shedding. Being more sensitive, or “too nice” makes me a better wife, friend, teacher… It means my internal voice is kinder and my soul feels good. What if I am “too cute”?! I want to stop playing small and wondering if my peers will say to each other “Who does she think she is?”  In 2020 I’m answering!!l Let me introduce myself to you! My name is Iana Sundari Leufray. (Did I mention I got married last weekend?!) I want to see exactly who I am and what I can do! Imagine what I could create with a little less fear?






What’s 2020 for you? What are the reactions of your past that are shaping your future? What can YOU shed?






Keep Wandering Y’all. Keep searching. New roads baby. There’s layers to this thing…
Namaste






					


	
	

			



			
				


	


		
Things I’m Learning On The Road

					

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  • I haven’t had a mirror in the bus for 4 months. I broke the last one and we’ve just been too lazy to replace it. I wake up every morning, I brush my teeth and wash my face and I even manage to guess where my eyelid is as I apply eyeliner. I don’t usually get to a mirror until sometime after lunch. Turns out the world still turns and my face doesn’t change that much when I’m not checking on it every 20 seconds. Who knew?!? 
  • We’ve been living in Yogaville for the last month or so and they should stop telling people that Verizon works here because that is a damn lie. The bus is a total dead zone and my cell really only works in the areas where talking on them isn’t allowed. I spent the first week running around like a crazed hamster looking for just ONE bar so that I could chat and gossip my free time away and then alas…. Ashram life won. Aside from work, I’ve done no gossiping and very little chatting and I have to say it’s been AMAZING! Half the time I don’t even know where my phone is. I’ve spent the last few years attached to it, waiting on a mama to go into labor so that I could jump into action as her Doula. The years before that I was attached to it waiting on news about my mother or father as they died. My nervous system welcomes the shift and I’m kinda dreading returning to four bar status 🙂
  • Builder burnout and crappy weather have given me the time to A) actually finish a book! Read Eleanor Oliphant Is Completely Fine. It’s perfect. B) It’s allowed me hours of classes with new teachers here and my upcoming workshops are better for it.  C) A vegan diet means my tits have said “sayonara” (for NOW) BUT it helped me figure out what foods were making me sick and itchy and I feel healthier than I have in a decade. D) It also meant that when my world was turned upside with news of a new brother, I had the space to process it and manage it. I waited a bit… he didn’t deserve the anger that I was holding. He didn’t need to be hit with alllll of the family nonsense at once. But eventually I called. He sounds just like my or I guess our father… (not sure how to say that yet) He laughs like him and he called me his little sister and even as I write this I cry because well damn it’s a lot… I told him about all of the good things… we talked about how he liked to make eggs and play chess and how he sang like Luther and spent his Sundays dunking on dudes on the court in Harlem. We laughed about the ugly sneakers he wore and the good way he hugged and we danced around the lies he told because maybe that’s best for another time but damn. I have a brother and our talk forced me to talk about the pros of life with my father which I haven’t thought about in years. I’m not sure who needed the conversation more but it felt good and I’m looking forward to our next one…





I knew that slow living would mean a lot of things. I anticipated becoming less vain. No one needs a face full of makeup living in the woods. I could have guessed that I would freak out about access to Internet and that eventually I would realize it was a first world problem and calm the fuck down. What I didn’t see coming was how perfectly it would “feed” my Yoga practice. We don’t practice being peaceful so that we can walk around levitating. We “practice” peace so that peace becomes an automatic response when life hits us with otherwise. Slow living gives me the time and space to dedicate to my practice which helps me respond better to my life. It’s not always easy on the road but I’ve found that my life has always expanded when I figured out how to peacefully manage what was hard….





Welp! It’s raining again… and I have a new book! Healing Herbal Infusions to get into. I hope you take some time to do a little slow living yourself this week. Cut something out to make space for something better. Feed what helps you cope. You deserve it. 





Namaste Y’all