This morning. Inhale.
Began with doing yoga for myself, seated meditation, and my writing practice.
Sipping lemon water. Tart and warm. Scent still clinging to my fingertips from squeezing the juice.
Making my breakfast of local eggs, spinach, yogurt, and starfruit I picked off a tree.
I go into work from my center, from a place of being, to help others find their center.
Yesterday, my friend asked me in the afternoon if I wanted to come over for dinner. I said yes. I was able to say yes. I cried, overwhelmed with emotion that “yes” was my response.
I’m not in fairy land, I’m still exhausted; the residue of a doing life still breathes through my cells.  
 
Flashback. Exhale.
Try to inhale, but it gets stuck. Ache in my liver and spleen. That’s good information, I need to slow down. Let me look at iCal later and see when I can do that.
Obligated, fulfilled, can’t let anyone down, exhausted.
Go into work, barely ground myself at the last moment, support other people.
Try to find that one little place inside of me that is calm at the eye of the storm and operate from there. Work to find the good. Work to reframe.
Friend asks me if I want to grab a bite after work, in my head I laugh at the absurdity. I’m booking out dinner with people a month from now. Who can say yes to dinner that same night, ridiculous! I feel the longing and jealously.
 
As my dad says, my life depends on me getting out of my cycle that’s killing me. So, here I am in Hawaii. Inhale.
 
It sounds idyllic. I am set up for success here in almost every way, to heal, to exhale, this hectic, perfectionistic, exhausting lifestyle. Except for the neural pattern in my mind, and the imprint on my body of an entire lifetime that wonders: is this safe? Inhale. Can I slow down? Inhale. What are my beliefs about that, and the identity of outwardly visibly achieving, and who am I if that is stripped away? Gasp, inhale.. Not to mention, feeling scared to be healthy if that means loosing my feedback loop of liver pain which tells me to slow down… will the toxicity just creep in again? INHALE.
 
It’s scary and unfamiliar. So I do the best thing I know, I EXHALE. I breathe through the discomfort of slowing down, of trusting my body and my internal wisdom that knows this is crucial. I stretch, sip, breathe, connect. It’s okay, I’m okay.
 
It’s hard to redefine health for ourselves. I continue to battle with the sensation that slowing down means collapsing, I’m sick, I’m broken, I can't take a breath. That there is an active way to slow down and Yield, and come back to my essence which is held, restful, and okay, that the breath will come on its own. That this is my health. That I don’t have to prove anything to anyone. That I can just know I’m okay because this is the essential way that I was born into this world.
 
Our conditioning says to do shit…move fast, gasp for air, accomplish, show everyone our capacity, to get love.
Our essence says to be ourselves… move slower, healthfully, allow ourselves to be breathed, in the present, conscious of this precious life as it passes, to be love.
 
Our only job: Let it in. Trust. Recalibrate. Breathe.
 
From doing to being… my continual process as I ask myself: who am I now?

With your constrictive, boring, brown shell, one awkward foot, and waving antennae
I had no interest in knowing you
In fact, I don’t think I ever paused long enough to know you were there
Or had value
And now, here we are.
I’m moving in, and this isn’t going to be pretty.
 
The thrill of going fast
My former home is more like the flea-circus
Seeing the world whip by
Adrenaline
Faster, faster, faster I spin in my circle
Absolutely convinced I am going somewhere
Even though I’m imaginary
Until I fly off the ride and get thrown into myself.
 
My speed numbed me out to the present moment
Suddenly a lifetime is gone
Only I actually lost it one second at a time all along the way
Life is intimately connected to that present moment I was numbing to.
 
And guess what?
The snail has been patiently waiting for me there all along
I mean, it’s a snail, what else does it have to do?
With a little sign: for sale by owner.
 
So I move in.
Thinking that downsizing is the way to go. More economical, right?
Let me tell you, the process of moving into snail-dom is painful.
 
Trapped in my shell, pushing outwards, in a space that feels cramped, tight, not my size.
I have too much furniture, too many thoughts.
This shell is exerting pressure on me to just be me.
Slowing down feels like suffocating,
Being strangled.
There must have been a mistake.
This clearly isn’t my shell.
Somehow I was given a tiny house, when I’m pretty sure I was supposed to have a mansion.
 
How could this be what my body and life want me to do?
Slow down.
Is this really the "lesson" that seems to keep showing up?
 
My body is desperately trying to live out my souls work, and teach my mind.
It says, listen mind, it’s okay to:
Take a breath
Then breathe into relationship, with yourself, and the people you love.
Slow down enough to feel every part of your environment impeccably
Attuning, sensing, being.
Suction to the present moment so that it can be felt intimately
Move in, and take time to discover the inner world that you’re inhabiting
Realize that there is a mansion in this tiny house…
 
I just didn’t know it because I happened to be swinging on a little flea-sized trapeze at the time.
 
Although I’ve had a sneaking suspicion for a while
I’m suddenly realizing that going so fast maybe isn’t the way to go about life.
Brilliant insight, I know.
 
Am I trapped?
What am I trying to put on a fantastical circus act to get away from?
 
What could it look like to consider accepting that I’ve already put a sizeable down-payment on this this shell?
Could feeling trapped turn into support?
The relief of simplifying.
Space and time to explore the magic of what is here, and who I am.
So much scenery potentially missed.
A breath taken right now.
 
I want to trust.
I’m still going somewhere, but the path is guided by this shell.
It has gravity and weight as opposed to death-defying feats.
It’s a recalibration, and that takes time.
And it can be painful and uncomfortable for us, and those around us to get used to.
 
It’s brave to downsize so we can appreciate the preciousness of what we already have,
Finding the intricacies of Self in our snailshells. 

Yesterday one of my closest friends told me I’d betrayed her by making choices to move a different direction in my life, which would forever affect our relationship. It hurt deeply to hear this.  We were both being a bit reactive and intense, but the sentiment is true: my thoughts and choices lead me to becoming a different person.
 
Sometimes I feel like I’m letting everyone else down by asking the question Who am I now?  Because I continue to come up with new answers, and those answers continue to lead me away from who I once was.  And sometimes away from the people my older self was closest to.  For me, on a good day, it feels like the phoenix of my identity is rising! But, here’s the problem, as I try to continually shed my old identity (because every moment we are a new version of ourselves) it can feel like some people I love dearly try to grasp and cling to it. 
 
Here’s an example.  My parents are amazingly supportive, and have been my sounding board as I continue to ask these questions of who I’m becoming.  But then in some moments like this, right now, they are watching old video clips of me in a show I did and was interviewed for… actually my last show I did before I got sick.  I hear it playing in the background and it’s like someone punched me in my stomach. “That was such a great show, wasn’t it Zina?” I hear my mom say from their living room. “Yes mom.”  Yes it was. 
 
Could I be that person again right now, just for a moment?  Black lashes, red lipstick, heels, and dreams?  Before I knew about liver enzyme levels, and blood panel numbers that all have negatives next to them.  Before I knew about what mortality feels like in your cells battling each other.  Before I woke up.  Just right now for a moment- I promise I won’t tell anyone you let me step into my old life for a big inhale, to soak it in, how light and sparkly it was. 
 
Yes, I can take a trip in my memory, but it’s just not the same.  Which I grieve. It’s like looking through underwater, or frosted glass. I could cry right now for the weight and sorrow of it all.  I feel the heaviness in the back of my throat, the clenching. I realize I’m holding my breath, and I sigh out.  Ahh, relief. Big breath in, big breath out.  Look around. Oddly enough, the colors in this room right now are brighter than the ones in my memory.  Much more vibrant.  My breath is real.  The weight is real, but so is the color.  The past is past.  The present moment beckons.
 
This is a drastic example involving 6 years of time, illness, and change in who I am. In a smaller simpler way, though, this is happening every moment of every day, as our past selves fade from the moment, and a new reality appears.  We are constantly growing, changing, evolving.
 
I am trying to make this moment okay.  Sometimes that’s exhausting, but honestly, most of the time, it is okay.  And it’s much more exciting than the past, because this moment is still unfolding into mystery, whereas the past has already been known.  Not so exciting when I think about the past that way, it’s more like old news.  This present has potential for discovery.  For new things.  In the present we actually feel.  Feel it all.  Which can be overwhelming, but vital. .
 
It continues to feel sad to let go of our former selves, our former lives that we will be forever shedding like snake skin.  It is so hard to make choices, or to have them made for us, that make us feel like we’re disappointing the people around us that we love the most.  By becoming more yourself, in the most authentic and present moment version, it can feel like we’re hurting others who need or want us to be who we once were.
 
When I worry, I remember that everyone else around me is stronger than I can imagine, they’ll get through it too without me protecting them, and they’re growing into their present and next selves in the same way I am.  It goes both ways: I don’t want to treat them like their past selves either.  There’s space for us all to continuing to grow into the next version of ourselves.  Truly there is no one else we can be, and we’re in this evolution together.
 
And suddenly I hear myself on that video in the background and giggle, oh how naïve I was.  How sweet.  How frozen in time.  And I stretch, because right now I can actually move freely, and with choice, and am not trapped in a video box. 
 
There are some people we will let down as we change.  We just will. But we can’t take responsibility for it all, or be too afraid to take a breath and step into now.  Wishing you the continued space and courage to be who you are becoming, and to allow your relationships to shift with you.

Noun.

• Marrow- the fatty network of connective tissue that fills the cavities of bones
• Marrow- the most essential or most vital part of some idea or experience

 
Bone marrow biopsy
Bore out my vitality in a thread
Cherry red on the petri dish
The pain is excruciating
I don’t want you to see my most essential part
Taking a microscope to look at my essence
 
One more “first”
Anticipation of pain
A needle to my center
Owwww!
Sucks the heart
Leaves an absence
Deep aching left in the wake
 
It is a violation.
Perhaps the cavities of my bones will reveal
my pith to be altered
Maybe you will see
That I’m not at my core who you think I am
All pretenses and projections will be blown
 
The truth will be revealed
Perhaps it will be a relief, I don’t have to act any longer
You’ll see I’m broken, less-than, deformed, mutated, or otherwise not normal
And I’ll have to stop pretending.
Perhaps it will be my next greatest challenge, and I’ll have to show up even more
You’ll see I’m clear, resilient, scaffolded, filled with super-cells ready for action
And I’ll have to stop pretending.
 
Relief has many forms.
The line between positive and negative degrades to truth
This is more complex than results on paper
Because it is comprised of experience
 
The results will mean nothing/everything
They tell me and everyone else who I am
Yet say nothing about my hopes, desires, and capacity to love.
A life lived anchored in marrow.
 
I often wonder if I am strong enough for what I want to accomplish in this life
And now some of that strength will be removed
And then it will grow back fiercer
With renewed vigor
Intensely recommitted to being vital
To living out it’s impact and purpose
Perhaps I should say thank you
Thank you for removing a burdened cross-section
So that resolved vitality can replace it
 
 
With one more part of me removed… who am I now? 

This past week I had the great fortune to go to Las Vegas and witness the ending of an era as the show Jubilee, which has run in Las Vegas for the past 35 years, had it’s final show. I was a performer in Jubilee for almost 2 years.  
 
My identity as a performer, dancer, and showgirl is something I have grieved repeatedly since I became sick. Unable to walk up a flight of stairs, I remembered walking up and down thousands of stairs a night, with 4 inch heels and a headdress on in Jubilee.  I cried and cried in my bed, night after night, feeling like I didn’t even know who I was without performing. It’s all I ever wanted to do. It was my identity. And now what? Goodbye rhinestones.
 
I slowly began to realize that there were other things that I could do, such as become a Dance/Movement Therapist, which incorporated many of my interests. I began graduate school, but still felt a hole… the nagging feeling that it wasn’t the same as performing. There is always that comparison. 25 years in my performer identity, and only a couple years in grad school not yet fully owning a therapist identity didn’t outweigh each other yet.
 
And then an odd thing happened. I began to feel better, and stronger, and, wait … maybe I could perform again? I think that time was maybe even worse, in that it was so confusing. Like a carrot being dangled in front of my nose, while I was already moving down another path. So I thought, maybe I could go back to Vegas one day, and be a showgirl again, because now I was feeling better. The previous identity was rearing it’s head again.
 
And then I got sick again. Damnit! There is no way that I could rely on my body to dance through 12 shows a week again consistently for years. So, I began to grieve again. Goodbye rhinestones, and feathers, and lashes.
 
Was I at the mercy of my identities? Where did I get to take the responsibility to choose… but what do I choose? It seemed like there were only two options:
1.  Don’t give up- be the person that goes back to their prior identity, doesn’t let things get them down, fights for it, and becomes greater at it than ever before. Plus has a physical illness… impressive! Or:
2. Brave new world- become the person who grieves, lets go, and chooses the new scarier unknown path, and shines brighter than she could have ever in her prior identity. And, PS, she did this all after an illness… also impressive!
 
Either or, either or, either or.
 
Then I got quiet enough to get out of my own way, and see what was already happening. The truth is, performing/old identity is known, this new career is not. Do I want to spend my life doing what I already do, or growing to what is unexplored and create that? And most of all, how can these maybe, actually, work together. News flash: de-compartmentalize!  These are both threads (and contain many other threads) to who I am… how do I integrate them? Is there space for the past to become present again, in a whole new way? Can rhinestones live in therapy?
 
Seeing Jubilee I felt nothing but proud, and excited, and grateful to be part of an amazing lineage. I was reminded by someone I love dearly that no matter what I am doing in life I will always be a performer, a dancer, and showgirl. So for the first time this was not an experience filled with grief. It was an experience filled with deep reverence for the part of myself that is still me. And brought up a lot of questions around how this part of me still gets to shine, sparkle, and be in the spotlight today.
 
We all have parts of ourselves and our identities that seemingly die with illness or other set-backs, and we have to try to make sense of who we are now. Now that we’re not who we once were, but we aren’t someone new yet either. Instead we’re in the very uncomfortable and messy in-between.  We may not get to choose what happened to us that made us sick, but we do get to choose how the threads of our past identities get to live in the present.  It may be a rough road of realization, but with support, creativity, and (for me) glitter, we can “figure it out.”   
 
So, does this feel true for you?

I reach into my purse and pull out a piece of paper. It’s a remnant from my doctor’s appointment yesterday, my most recent check-up.  White, crisp, data. Simple numbers distributed on a page in an orderly fashion.  It is so clear to me that these numbers and letters don’t possess feelings. My name is at the top, my birthdate, my age: 34 years. 34 years. I feel like I’ve lived several lifetimes in these years. In the last five alone. It’s dizzying. I notice sorrow creep into my belly. I sigh.
 
It’s just a piece of inked paper, but for me it is a constellation of cycles of diagnosis and recovery. What’s in a diagnosis? How is a diagnosis acted upon by time? Five years of time.
 
It’s about to be solstice. The day with the least amount of sunlight, and most darkness. I’ve allowed in both the darkness and the light, because it’s all true.  To try to deny any part would be futile. I believe it’s all part of me, stardust, the Universe, trying to experience itself in this unique embodied form, in this lifetime, in this human body.  This seemingly broken body that I’ve painstakingly put back together again, one tear and laugh at a time.  The white paper says: today’s clinical visit summary.
 
It’s about to be the new year. New Year. As if things change in a day… I guess sometimes they do. On New Years five years ago I was flying to India, intuitively knowing I had to go to shift my life.  I was seeking and finding no answers here. So what do privileged people from Boulder do when that happens? Go to India. Go somewhere else to find yourself, to find the part of yourself you already know to be true, but you’re terrified about accepting, so you give yourself a glamorous and culturally-appropriated intervention.  Thus, I went to India, because I had an intuitive hit from my future self that I needed help to shift.  And I sat in temples and meditated and frivolously stated that I was open to whatever help I would receive.  “I’m open.” Just help.  Guess I should have been more specific.  I started feeling ill two weeks later on the flight home. The white paper says: trip to India is seemingly unrelated.
 
Now, it’s about to be my birthday. 35. I’m a crone. I’m not trying to be funny here, archetypically I feel like a crone. Metaphorically, I’ve spent the last five years contracted in Winter, and am just now crawling out to feel the rays of sunshine pierce my inner seed. I’ve been under a blanket of snow while my purpose has been working on me.  On the outside it looks like I’ve been sparkling, like I’m the model patient, like I’ve triumphed over incredible illness.  True.  In my past life as an actress I painted on the face, as a patient I added the smile.  Underneath the surface I went from professional seeker of the silver lining to professional griever.  I’ve grieved, and grieved, and grieved. I’ve lost, and let go: of my past that I didn’t want, of my past that I didn’t get, of my future that can’t be my future anymore, of my future that will be but I’m scared to own. The white paper says: next check-up in 3 months.
 
So on this upcoming birthday, as with every birthday, I will have gratitude to be taking another breath, because it is precious.  And I will have fear, as with every birthday, of what I will become in this year. Both the potential for another shattering, and the potential for stepping more fully into my expansion. I feel exhausted by the freedom of choice and responsibility that comes with being authentically human.  And my specific version of human- to burn brightly but not burn out.  More accurately, to not burn out again.  So what will I become this year as I continue to step into my purpose?  
 
Let’s not forget this piece of paper with scattered data in my hand.  This paper tells the tale. Of diagnosis, of feeling fragmented, of it not being fair, of slow improvement yet continual destruction over time.  It says Autoimmune Hepatitis, Pancytopenia, enlarged spleen.  It says to: continue Prograf.  I feel my doctor’s thoughts pour through the page as he typed the numbers: “you haven’t let your liver disease define you. That’s as rare as your disorder.” The prescription he stapled to the back for a new blood test to see the level of my liver damage. The word “cirrhosis” bleeds from the page and takes flight in the air, and my liver increases its weight in my abdomen. 
 
In the unspoken white of this paper are five years of heartache, pain, not being seen, acceptance, grasping, identity, new identity, discovery, joy.  Of who am I? But I don’t want to be that: sick.  But I don’t know how to be that: healthy.  And who am I now?  Of solstices, and New Years, and birthdays.  Of that which dies away and creates new space.  Of slowing down, feeling the anxious beating of my heart in my chest at night, because I don’t have time to waste, I could die at any moment. And then there’s another breath. Follow it.
 
I wonder, how does the seed know about gravity, of how to find the sun, of which way is up?  Where to put down roots and where to grow?  Where to hold true and where to expand? 
 
And I wonder, how do I write about this experience, own my experience, and continue to live my experience in a way that can inspire others who are in their own crisis?
 
I don’t know.  I guess I just continue to be.
 
So I neatly fold the prescription and the piece of paper, and place it delicately in my purse, with reverence, because it holds the last five years of my history. And I find my hand on my heart sensing for my next breath.  My cells, my family, my liver, my relationships, the earth beneath my feet, the stars over my head, the seed of my purpose, it all holds my history.   

Does this feel true for you? Like/comment below ~