Dance, Magic, Dance!

I've been having a hard time coming up with posts lately. I just looked at the last one and it's been over a month! Yikes! Not the way I prefer to handle things.

In pondering why this might be the case, I discovered that I kinda dropped out of my life.

Yes, I've been revamping the business and the website, and yes, it's been unexpectedly on-hold for about a month. Branding complications. Ugh!

And it's also true that I've been studying and taking classes like mad; the last two months have felt like constant mid-terms, and the feeling is going to probably last for a while. I'm devouring new knowledge that I hope to bring to the table soon. Fun, but consuming.

And yes, I've been working hard on purging my heart's basement. Clearing brush. Digging for diamonds in what feels like miles of rubble, and that has been no mean task, I assure you.

And then my husband got sick for, like, a month and with him down-for-the-count with no real energy to spare for me. Plus, it was playoffs; I had the final excuse to go on absolute check-out. No connection anywhere.

I dropped out of my life.

I told myself I had too much to do to focus on writing - to focus on much of anything besides focusing. I focused so hard I pretty much didn't know what day it was.

And here's what I'm noticing: I give myself these deadlines. I get hooked into some astrological shift I've read about and decide that EVERYTHING has to be done by June 4th or whatever because that's when I lose all this Jupiter action, etc, etc.

Um, what?

What clued me in finally, was that I was doing all this hard work and learning and experimenting and Writing Copy and Landing Pages and all the businessy-business stuff. And doing the therapy stuff and going in brand new, uncharted circles around my health. And learning new skills and trying to hone them at the same time as I was trying to market them.

And if all this is so cool, then where exactly do I show up in all of it?

I felt like the scene in Labyrinth where the trash lady is heaping all of Sarah's toys on her, reminding her of all the trappings of her fantasy world, but she is suddenly shaken out of her trance by a real urgency about the work she's been called to do - to save her baby brother from the clutches of the Goblin King.

I had forgotten all about David Bowie in the Tina Turner wig and drag-queen makeup up in the castle on the hill and had to get buried in stuffed unicorns and snow globes before I woke up and smelled the Bog of Eternal Stench...

I apologize sincerely to those of you who haven't seen the film.

Suffice it to say, I was distracted by my own brain. It happens sometimes.

Does this happen to you? When you get so wrapped up in being wrapped up that you get caught talking to yourself in fake conversations in the kitchen by a four-year-old looking for milk, when you thought the kids were still watching TV?

You forget to watch the last minute of playoffs because you're searching for just the right font for the new logo?

Spend so much time wondering what your triggers are about eating foods you're allergic to all the time that you forget to clean the catbox for, like, four days?

You get the picture, anyway. And I hope I'm not totally alone. If I am, let this be a cautionary tale...

This weekend was gorgeous. The husband was feeling much better. I snapped out of it. He mowed the lawn and then I went out with my hula-hoop while he weeded (didn't even feel guilty about that) and got scrappy. Did some stuff. Listened to my husband play some music with some friends at an outdoor party. Opened the windows!

Good grief. I've got to get over myself and start living again! It's way better than what goes on in my freaking head!

So anyway, that's where I've been. I've been here, in my mind all along.

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To learn more about Darcy Molloy, visit www.namahahealingarts.com.

Rant on Getting Well

While at a recent gathering for a spiritual community, I was offered an exquisite specimen of a homemade cinnamon roll, big as my head, baked by a church elder. She handed me a plate, expectantly. I shrank.

"Oh, thank you! I can't have them," I apologized.

She glared at me. Full-on Stink Eye. "Oh. You're one of those."

"I - I'm sorry," I stammered. "I'm allergic. And...I can't eat sugar. I'm really sorry." Because it was my fault somehow that I couldn't eat her manna on a paper plate? Who was losing out here?

I've got dietary issues. Seriously.

This is not meant to be a "poor-me" story, though, so just read through for a little bit and you'll see what I'm getting at.

I'll explain to you what I've explained to countless others.

Because of some parasitic "guests" in my system I can't eat starches (except for four types of grain, soaked and sprouted), sugars of ANY kind including fruits, no rice no bread, none of that. Not even beans. And because these guests (and by this I mean single-celled organisms that have no good business in the human body) have caused leaks in my intestinal wall I can't eat gluten, soy, dairy, nuts, seeds, chocolate and probably a lot of other things.

The starches and sugars cause discomfort due to the propagation of said "guests", and all the other stuff just plain hurts. Refined oils, including canola and palm, just exacerbate whatever's going on.

This means I can't eat out, and I can't travel. Not easily. Not without a ridiculous amount of complication and drama. Not to mention depression.

Every time we go out and I sit across from someone with my glass of water watching others down nachos and fries and beet salad with gorgonzola and candied pecans, I'm almost always stuck rehashing my woes, listing everything I can't eat and then comforting my table mates while they process their own feelings of horror and guilt at eating in front of me. "It's okay," I assure them, "I'm used to it by now..."

And nothing I've done so far has come close to getting rid of them.

Now, I've been told by other professionals in my line of work whose health issues have begun to assert themselves as part of their own lives, that this is just what we all signed up for. Or that ill heath and physical pain is just the natural result of spiritual evolution. That somehow these 3D bodies weren't meant to hold all this light. "Oh, you're just a sensitive soul." I get that a lot.

Honey, there's a lot of times I'd rather be an insensitive boor and have a piece of pizza.

And what happened to the teaching of all the energy-healers in workshops and marketing materials all over the globe that every symptom that occurs in the physical body is a manifestation of some leftover crap in the energy field? Stuff we're not necessarily even aware of or immediately responsible for? So what happens to that argument when we start talking about "Oh woe is me! My vibration is just too high for this world!"

See this argument holds no water for me. How does it work, exactly? Or is it really some leftover programming from a culture that teaches us of a punitive God? Dear sister, this just isn't true!

Of course, I'm one to talk; it's how I react to the situation. Every time I fall off the wagon of meat, vegetables, and sprouted amaranth for barely a mouthful and start to have a symptom, the interior beatings begin. What did you expect, idiot? Really, I catch these things going on in my head. You're totally out of control. You just got what you deserve...

But what does dessert have to do with it? We're here, aren't we? We're here, and we're here to serve and to reflect the qualities of the divine to one another, so God can look at herself in seven billion mirrors and wink and say "Hey! Check me out!"

So why on earth would we be built to be in pain and ill health, just for trying to do what we came here to do? Doesn't make sense to me.

Sure, sometimes there are wonderful lessons to be learned from this kind of struggle. But here we also get free will. We get to choose how we learn our lessons. And we get to change our minds.

Me, I finally said whoa. This isn't my fault, no matter what pat little story I like to tell myself about how terrible I am. I want to go to hoop camp for a week, and I want to eat the vegan food they serve for that whole week and not be miserable and not hate myself and call myself foul names for not feeling good while I'm there. Is that too much to ask? Let me know, because I'm asking.

I finally threw down cash money to get some real, deep help from a practitioner who believes, like I do, that this illness is actually something that can be directly addressed and integrated into my being for my benefit. I asked for help to get this thing by the roots, look it in the eye, learn what's there to learn, and then walk away, renewed, healthy and vibrant. Whole.

Today we did some work that tells me that this is absolutely possible. I can see the light at the end of the proverbial tunnel. I've got a ways to go, but I see that there is a very real end to it. I've seen a place where my physical being can fully reflect my divine essence clearly and beautifully in comfort and joy.

And what the other suffering healers express is true, in that the light can make things pinch a bit at first.

What I think happens is that the brighter the light, the easier it is to see all the debris and error in perception and action that linger in the field. Which can hurt, and cause things like disease and chronic pain to show up, so that we can stop resisting it, digest it, and harmonize it with our own divine light. This isn't a comfy thing sometimes, and sometimes it takes a physical commitment, like, say, asking for help, or even paying for that help just to state to ourselves that we mean business.

It's like combing out tangles in your hair. A whole lotta light is like when you yank on it from the top it's just going to turn into a knotted mess, and it's gonna hurt. That's when the symptoms get worse.

But when we get some help to gently hold space for our process, and tease the tangle out from the bottom, bit by bit, eventually we find the central knot, and the rest of the snarl can fall away. All that emotional detritus and thought goo and the suffering we SO love to coddle and nurture just gets washed away with grace and compassion.

So just know you don't have to settle for illness, chronic pain, disease or any of it. There's help to be had.

And you are a perfect child of God who deserves that help.

I will keep you posted on my progress. And I would LOVE to hear your feedback!

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To learn more about Darcy Molloy, visit www.namahahealingarts.com.

Boots Off to My Sisters

I know this isn't usually a fashion column, but I love wearing my black boots.

When I'm in a sassy, no-nonsense, go-get-'em mood, I wear my black boots.

When I don't feel quite up to a challenge, but I have to show up anyway, I wear my black, knee-high boots.

When I want to make a statement, but don't think I have anything of value to say, I pick out a skirt and some leggings and the boots do the rest.

My knees can't take heels anymore, so they're flat-soled, with a buckle at the top. They zip up the middle.

They're my super-hero costume! I can walk a mile in them without a blister, they're not too tight for my fat calves, and they go with just about everything, although they say the most with a skirt. They're warmer than socks and keep the wind out. I can wear them casually and to dress up something frumpy. They're my all-out wardrobe (and attitude) lifesaver.

Today I walked into a classroom full of women, all of us prepared to talk about our scariest selves. To write about our darkest, shadowed shames and to let them be dissected, trusting strangers. We came to celebrate together.

About half of the room was wearing knee-high black boots.

I surreptitiously sized up my booted sisters to decide whether we did indeed belong to the same tribe. All writers. All women. I noticed that the teacher had on her black boots too. I knew her to be a clear, confident and gutsy writer who was well respected for going-all-the-way with her literary career. I secretly thanked my boots for gaining me admission to this club of accomplished and self assured women, and hoped I wasn't just a lot of black vinyl when the time came to share my stuff.

As we went around the room, unloading our fears, our whos and hows and whys, our tales of grief and sorrow and broken and reclaimed dreams I knew that I was not the only one who expects the Super Hero to show up even when I feel less than super. And my membership card was not revoked.

And yes, I do belong to the fancy footwear club. As do all the other women I know, boots or sneakers or crocs, who show up when they'd rather hide out. Who have the courage to take a good look at themselves just for the opportunity to grow, and learn, and maybe share something that can help another sister. Who acknowledge the unspeakable alongside the angelic in themselves and (even if for just a second) see that marriage as a work of art. Who are willing to learn to say "yes" and "no" for themselves, knowing that that is what makes the world a better place.

On further reflection, I think I wear the boots to set the bar. I know I'm bootworthy, and that's my Truth. When I wear them, costume or not, I know that somewhere in there there's the sassy, fearless, woman unafraid to express her opinions and stand firm in her convictions, even if I feel more like sweats and shapeless sweatshirts of uncertainty and self-doubt.

Today I wear my boots for you.

Peace,
Darcy
Namaha Healing Arts

The Bigger Picture

It's not the whole image. I can see the dog balancing the ball on his nose and the teenagers fighting over the magazine in the background, and the car running the stop sign. In high color I observe the flower vendor on the corner and the crab apples that have spilled from his basket and the toddler scurrying after one into the cobbled street.

I can savor each intricate detail. The broken thread in the pin-stripe on the elderly gentleman's lapel. He appears forlorn; I can see the tear collecting at the corner of his eye. I can even see the torn binding of the book he is reading, which obscures its title. As I get closer, I can make out the name on the cat's collar - "Hermione." I can almost pick out the texture of her tongue as she grooms her downy breast. I notice the broken spoke in the adult-sized tricycle as it narrowly misses the toddler in the street. I can practically smell the popcorn popping in the wagon on the paved path along the top of the bridge.

Every detail, every brush stroke.

And yet, in the back of it all lurks a menacing alleyway, incongruous to my impression of the scene. It's purple-green walls surely conceal evils secreted from this innocent urban event. Despite all the gaiety of the day lit square, my eyes are repeatedly drawn to its depths.

Upon closer inspection, I notice this grotesque emptiness blots out a great deal of the canvas, a netherworld where unimagined and unsavory elements pace, menacing and patient.

With respect to the antics of the sunlit crowd, I conjure that what is ominous in the darkness is treacherous, to be avoided at all costs, the brightly-lit scenario a safe haven from its questioning shadow.

What's down the dark alley?

As I now juxtapose the two visual impressions, the known chaos against the unformed, darkling way, I notice just how bright and lively are the images of light. As I penetrate even more closely the images become almost garish in their literality - their precision. A crumb stuck to a cheek. A skinned knee. A drop of saliva hanging from the lip of the expectant and obese hound. It all becomes a little too much. The unknown becomes almost a welcome flavor, bland, subtle, the delicacy of a lavendered salt, more scent than taste.

As I teeter on this precipice of known vs unknown I feel a battle for an unclaimed part of myself. At the pivot is the assumption of contrast, dissonance, and all moments have coalesced into this one. The conflux of utterly known, utterly described and experienced, and the pregnancy of what will be, what may be, what is not yet. The realized vs the potent.

To then unfocus my eyes, and gasping, take a further step backward, prepared to drink all in as one whole, and then, having breathed deeply, with purpose, to notice...

...My God! Not one image but a vast argument in triptych ever expanding, ever describing and ever questioning. The darkness and detail now but texture on a far greater landscape, stretching into infinity, or so I must conceive from the point in space and time where I reside.

And so how may I presume to guess what lurks in shadows, or the meanings of crumbs and crab apples? I reel and teeter and brace to topple. I remain barely balanced, then am poised, with nothing available to me but surrender to the Mystery. And I do not fall.

But I see, I breathe, and I wonder.

And finally I am borne up, soaring, to a position unprecarious, cradled.

Peace,
Darcy Molloy
Namaha Healing Arts

A Few Notes on a Quotation

This was just shared with me by an associate the other day:

"Until one is committed there is always hesitancy,
the chance to draw back, always ineffectiveness,
concerning all acts of initiative and creation.
There is one elementary truth,
the ignorance of which kills countless ideas and splendid plans:
The moment one definitely commits oneself,
then providence moves in too.
All sorts of things occur to help that would never otherwise have occurred.
A whole stream of events issues from the decision,
raising to one’s favor all manner of unforeseen accidents and meetings
and material assistance which no man could have dreamed would come his way.
Whatever you can do or dream you can, begin it.
Boldness has genius, power and magic in it."
-Goethe

Don't you just hate it when someone says something WAY better than you could ever have said it?

To sum up: It's really scary to ACT on a whim, even though you know you've got the support of All of Heaven because once you step down that path, it's all going to fall into place in ways you couldn't possibly imagine, and THEN where will you be? So then we just don't do ANYTHING, which is kind of a mess.
Okay, well it's not exactly subtext, but you can extrapolate. Humor me, okay?

It's really easy for me to listen to guidance, to listen for definitive Guidance. But often I get caught right up with worrying about hearing it right or interpreting the signs or doing what I'm "supposed" to be doing. The truth is, we decide what we want to do, and we must ACT on a decision, for better or for worse, in order for the Universe to act upon our behalf, not the other way around. I mean, half the time Guidance is just the Higher Self brainstorming anyway. It isn't just a manual for personal satisfaction, right? I've spent plenty of time acting (or not acting) on the misconception that I just wasn't receiving the proper instructions. Actually, nothing was happening because I wasn't actually doing anything...

Recently I've realized this about my practice. I'm sitting in the orchard waiting for my basket to fill up, when there are beautiful, ripe apples, pendulous, on every tree within my view. The ladder is unfolded to one side, inviting. And yet, I've been sitting very still, expectant, waiting for them all to leap from the branches. And all this time I've wondered why my basket is empty.

This new year I've rededicated myself to building my practice, to reaching out, to act on my dreams and visions instead of just waiting for my clients to decide what it is I want to be when I grow up. And the result has been astounding. Even my darkest moment, when I had just about thrown in the towel altogether (which was, I think, Monday), has now become a banquet table of options with a fountain of creativity at it's center; it's shaped like a swan!

My lesson this week reflects directly on Herr Goethe's verse: you can dream and scheme all you want, but when Harvest Time is here, all of Nature supports the commitment to make that apple pie, whatever it takes, and that includes setting one foot on the ladder and beginning to climb.


Peace,
Darcy Molloy,
Namaha Healing Arts