I am fully aware that this website is being “wasted” in some ways. No content plan. No overall theme. The design is unattractive. I seldom use imagery, AND I’m incredibly longwinded. Who has the time or energy to read these long, rambling paragraphs that lead to nowhere? Add to this that there’s no telling when I’ll publish next, what it will be about, or how useful it will be. In other words, there’s no hook. There’s no reason for you to come back. That’s OK.

Half of the time, writing here is just a way to console myself with the game of words. I never edit, and I ramble needlessly (to an outsider, anyway). But I need this, and I need it to be this way, and so I’ll keep it for awhile longer.

I’ve been doing Morning Pages in accordance with The Artist’s Way for the last six weeks or so. I didn’t write them yesterday, and I was angry all day (not necessarily about that, but it is an interesting coincidence). I didn’t do them today, and now I’m here, vomiting up nonsense for strangers. This should probably be a lesson. Get the bullshit down in the 5-subject binder, then move on to clarity online. Something like that, anyway.

What I really want to say today is that I’m thinking a lot about what I’m being called to do. I don’t know how to accomplish it, but I somehow still have faith that it’s within reach. That’s new for me, faith.

Starting to sing again opened me up to the knowledge that my mind-body connection was broken long ago. I have an idea of the big initial trauma, but honestly, it could be any of a number of things that happened around the same time. Either way, I’ve been training in classical voice with an exceptional teacher for a year and a half now, and though I have blocks that are keeping me from releasing my voice properly, I’ve learned more important things about myself, my capabilities, where I need to apply pressure, what dark crevices of my soul must be peered into if I’m going to move into my power. I’m sorry I can’t give you greater clarity on this; at the moment, everything is intuitive. (Which is pretty ironic, given my end goals.)

Instead, let me tell you a ghost story…

During my sophomore year in college, about twenty-four years ago (eek!), I lived in a three-bedroom apartment with four other girls. It was a cosy upstairs apartment in a two flat that was probably built around 1920 or so. Two of us shared a room, one girl slept on a converted sun porch, and the other two girls had their own rooms. I never went home between academic years, so I moved into the house when our freshman-year classes ended in May and lived there alone all summer. The other girls arrived at the start of the next school year. The place always made me a little uncomfortable, but it wasn’t anywhere near as bad as the haunted house I grew up in. I only remember one thing that happened to me, though I wonder if any of the other girls experienced more.

It was fall, and the weather outside was perfect, so the living room window was open to catch the cool evening air. I was the only person home. It was quiet outside, with barely any breeze. I was studying on the living room couch, and decided to lie down and rest my eyes for a bit. The living room was a long rectangle, and the couch was on an interior wall, probably 15 feet from the exterior wall (though I’m bad at judging distance, so it could have been closer to 20 feet). The open window was almost directly across from my feet. I was lying there, in that comfy spot you hit when you’re drowsy but not yet asleep, when something blew HARD into my right ear – the ear that was facing the couch. I immediately got up, grabbed my things, and headed for the library. Later, I tried to rationalize it as breeze coming in the window at a very specific angle and bouncing off of things, but that never made sense. Then something else happened to that ear.

Ten or eleven years ago, I was living in Chicago and going to Bikram yoga every day. I’d always show up ten minutes early to have time to lie in savasana and release my day while acclimating my body to the humid, 105-degree room. Some days, I would just lie there and try not to panic, but on other days I’d easily fall into a meditative state. I’d been following that same protocol at various yoga studios for years, and always felt that it did me good. But this day, as I lay there in that blissful in-between place, a woman’s voice, stern to the point of threatening, spoke directly in my right ear: “You’ll never get away from me!”

It was terrifying, but also so real that I honestly thought that another student must have crawled up quietly to play a prank. I opened my eyes and sat up; there were a few more students in the room, but they were all lying prone on their mats in savasana. Whatever I’d heard wasn’t a human. For years, the only thing my brain let me think was that it was a dark goddess. I think this was a way for me to feel somewhat held and protected, rather than like I was potentially in danger from some invisible angry lady. I never heard from her again (thank goodness), so I put that aside, as well. At the time, I didn’t connect the dots between this and the thing that had happened in college.

My dad died in March of 2019. In October of 2021, I decided to have a Dia de los Muertos altar in my house, and put photos up of all our beloved dead – relatives, friends, and pets. As part of the effort, I was looking for picture frames, and I needed a specific size of frame to suit the only photo I had of me and my dad together. I’d been looking for weeks with no luck. One day, I was in Target, happily bopping along, looking at throw pillows (what can I say, I’m a nester!), when I heard my dad say, “That one’s neat!” in my right ear. I turned in the direction of his voice, and directly in my line of vision was a carved wooden frame with the exact size of opening I needed for his photo.

A few things about that, since you won’t know anything about my dad:

1. He was a talented woodworker who loved hand-carved wooden objects and sought them out at yard sales and Ebay. The frame was exactly something he would have picked out.
2. I don’t know if it was a technique he used just with me, or maybe he used it with every kid he taught (he was a shop teacher and a Boy Scout leader), but saying “this is neat” was kind of a catchphrase. Said in a gentle, lilting tone, it was always an invitation to take a closer look at the thing he was holding or pointing out. I’d actually forgotten that by 2021. We didn’t have a great relationship in his last few years, and I’ve lived on the other side of the country for 20+ years now. Hearing him say that in my ear was a shock, but also exactly the thing I’d need to hear to take a look in that direction instead of running away.
3. I want to reiterate that this was a voice speaking in my ear, not a voice in my thoughts (I’m actually one of those weirdos who doesn’t have an internal monologue). Picture someone putting their mouth about an inch from your ear and speaking.
4. This was a powerful moment of connection. It told me that he was OK and that he was paying attention. It told me that he wasn’t mad at me (something I’ve grappled with since his death), and it reminded me of the things that we shared – a love of handmade things, the thrill of hunting down just the right item, and best of all, ghosts. When I was a kid, we bonded over our interest in the paranormal. Or maybe he created that interest for me. However you might want to say it.

Either way, this moment helped me focus in on how various things I’d experienced over the years might fit together. I’m wondering if there were other times throughout my life that I’ve experienced clairaudience without knowing it. I’m also wondering if it is really only my right ear, and if so, if there’s a reason for that in our brain wiring. Since hearing that voice in the yoga studio all those years ago, I’ve actively avoided meditating, but so many signs are pointing me back in that direction. I know that it will be healthy for me as I try to get my mind and body back in sync. I wonder what that will mean for me down the line.

OK, time to get to work. Thanks for slogging through this with me. Maybe one day I’ll learn to keep it short and sweet 🙂

Trigger Warning: This post contains a graphic description of an animal’s death.

Do not read this. I wish I didn’t even have to write it, but it has to go somewhere.

I’m going to tell you the story of something awful. Maybe you’re the kind of person who will read it and think that I’m ridiculous. Maybe you’re the kind of person who will read it and grieve. Hopefully you’re the kind of person who isn’t at all curious, so you stopped reading when I told you to (which means you’re not reading this, so no clue why I’m still talking to you). But there’s always the possibility that you’ll read this and notice some parallels to the world outside of my backyard, as I have. Fuck it, maybe do read this.

For context, I live in a suburban neighborhood on a single-block street. The houses are a mix of mid-century brick and mid-pandemic bland. The neighbors are a mix of young/old, Black/white, nice enough/total shitheads. There’s nothing special about this street, except for the cats.

Our town has a preponderance of feral cats. There’s a great organization that’s working hard to trap/neuter/release, but they can’t catch them all, and for some reason it seems like all of the pregnant ones end up living in the backyard of an abandoned house not too far from ours.

Last year, I found an abandoned newborn kitten in the front yard of that house. I was able to keep her alive for a few days, but I couldn’t find a rescue to take her. She was a tiny calico cat, and her name was Agnes. She’s buried under the spiral ginger in my backyard.

A couple of months ago, I found an older kitten in my front yard. He was lethargic, so I put him in my bathroom until I could figure out what to do with him. Within a few minutes, he had a seizure. We went to the vet. He had another seizure in the car, then another in the waiting room. The vet advised me that the most merciful choice would be to euthanize him. We’d known each other for less than an hour, and now I was being asked to murder him. When I told the vet tech that I’d stay in the room with him as he fell asleep, she commended me for my kindness. I didn’t know what she was talking about. It wasn’t kindness. It was the very least I could do. He was a baby. Of course I stayed with him.

A couple of summers ago, one of the grown neighborhood cats started visiting our yard on a regular basis. She was sleek black, a lanky little panther. She didn’t trust humans, but she’d sun herself on our back patio sometimes, and I think she slept on our patio furniture every now and then, too. Her home base was the house across the street, but she was in our yard somewhat regularly. Often at night, the dogs would beg to go outdoors, then chase something around the yard to the space under our garden shed. I never saw what they were chasing, but I assumed it was an opposum. Now I wonder if it was the cat.

A week or two ago, I caught the black cat unawares as I walked out of our side door into the carport. She paused and looked at me in fear, then scurried across the street. Her belly looked bigger than usual, and I wondered if she might be pregnant with spring kittens. I sighed as I thought about the work it would entail to safely catch them once they’d grown. I also thought briefly about the space under the shed, and how it would make the perfect spot for a pregnant mama to hide her babies. I made a mental note to buy chicken wire, lest we end up with a litter of kittens in the backyard.

Last Thursday started strangely. I woke up in a panic. My alarm hadn’t gone off, and it was an hour later than I’d intended to wake up. I rushed to the kitchen to make coffee, then fed the dogs and let them out to the backyard while I sat down to start work.

A few minutes later, the dogs started barking. That’s nothing new; our nextdoor neighbors have four or five scrappy little dogs in their backyard, and our dogs and theirs get into shouting matches daily. Typically, as soon as the barking starts, I call them back inside with the bribe of a cookie. With that in mind, I got up to walk to the back door. Before I could get there, I heard my little dog yelping in pain (which also isn’t new–he’s a total drama queen). Even so, I ran outside to check.

From where I was standing, the dogs were blocked from view by my raised garden beds, but the little dog wasn’t yelping anymore, and the big dog was barking up a storm. I called them to me, and they came running over. As soon as they started in my direction, I saw the source of the commotion: the black cat. She raced out from around the garden beds and along the back of the fenceline to the back of the garden shed. I knew she’d be safe there; there’s no room for the dogs. I turned to get them back inside and leave her in peace. Then I heard the unmistakeable sound of quick footsteps crossing over the pile of scrap wood at the side of the shed, and my heart sank. Sure enough, a black streak flew down the side of our yard.

In an instant, I knew she was trying to make a break for our garden gate. The gate hangs high enough for a cat to squeeze under, and I’d watched her do it before. I called the dogs to stay with me, but the thrill of the chase was too much, and they ran in her direction. I ran after them and rounded the corner in time to see her turning back from the door and facing off with my big dog. She took a step and toppled over, and the big dog stood over her, deeply sniffing her fur (that’s his thing–he loves to smell his cat friends indoors, too). The black cat didn’t like that (of course), and she swatted him in the nose and scrambled away awkwardly.

This gave me enough time to grab the big dog by the scruff and drag him back to the porch. The little dog followed. By then, my partner had come out to the back porch to see what all the commotion was about. Of course, as soon as their dad opened the door, the dogs ran back inside. As far as they were concerned, they’d had a fun adventure and now it was time for a snack.

Chaos contained, I walked back around to the side of the house, expecting the black cat to have escaped under the fence in the meantime. She was standing where I’d left her, beside the garden hose reel, backed into a corner. Her tail was still puffed out. She took a step to escape, but her legs didn’t move together and she toppled over. I called for my partner to bring me a towel so I could safely pick her up and go to the vet. He ran back inside. The black cat panted and tilted her head back at me, eyes wide. She didn’t look scared so much as confused, like she was asking me why this was happening. For a second I thought that maybe she was OK, just in shock. Then she coughed up blood. Her head tilted toward the ground, mouth open, eyes wide. She was dead before my partner came back with the towel.

What do you call what came next? Anguished sobs? Wracking, primal howl? The sound of the emptiness punching its way out of your guts? However you cut it, I freaked the fuck out, buckled over, wailing, struggling to breathe, unable to stop shaking. My partner didn’t know what to do. He held me and made soft cooing noises until I calmed down. Then he went into the house to get a box.

While he was inside, my neighbor called to me from the other side of the gate. She’d heard me from inside her house and had come over in her pajamas. I stood beside the dead cat and tried to explain to my neighbor, a woman whose child died in a gun accident a few years ago, that I was crying for a stray cat. I apologized for disturbing her peace, and she said something banal and hurried back inside. I looked down at the black fur and started crying again. Later I wondered if maybe it would have made more sense if I’d explained the part about the cat being pregnant. Somehow I doubt it.

I wrapped the black cat in a gauze curtain that I’d used to protect my vegetable bed from frost earlier this year. I put her in the Amazon box my partner brought me. It was just big enough, but she couldn’t fold up her paws for me, so I had to do it for her. I tried to be gentle. It felt rude to hold her. I couldn’t bring myself to touch her fur with my bare hand, but I could still feel how silky it was through her curtain shroud. She was heavy. Her kittens were heavy. I folded up the box top and handed her over to my partner, who dug a hole for her at our back fence line.

Over the course of that day, I cycled things through over and over. To an outsider, it would be easy to believe that the dogs had killed her. That’s what I assumed at first, too. But the narrative didn’t fit what I’d seen. Something was missing. The dogs get excited about cats, yes, but they also live with three of them. It’s also true that they chase things that run, but it’s always to sniff them (as I’d seen the big dog doing). I knew that the cat wasn’t bitten or shaken. So what had happened?

She was fine when she ran around the yard, and she was fine when she ran out from the side of the shed. She could possibly have been injured and moving solely on adrenaline, but I think if that had been the case, she’d have stopped and taken cover at the shed. That left the 20 or 30 seconds between when I saw her run toward the gate and when I cleared the corner of the house and had an unobstructed view. When I rounded the corner, I saw her standing with her back to the gate, facing off against the big dog. Then she fell. I’d thought it was fright, but what if it was some other kind of impairment?

Wait. She ran to the gate because she knew she could squeeze under it. So why hadn’t she? Had the dogs blocked her path? No, she was in front of them. It didn’t make sense.

I mulled it over all day and slept on it that night. Yesterday morning I woke up with an idea, so I went back to the gate to see if I could find clues. I did.

The black cat was pregnant. She was scared. She was being chased by stupid dogs that just wanted to sniff her, but all she knew was that her babies were in danger. She ran for a familiar point of safety: the garden gate. She’d squeezed under this fence before.

But she wasn’t pregnant then.

There were multiple deep grooves from her back claws in the dirt under the gate. They were in two different spots under the gate, and they faced multiple directions, like she’d been kicking wildly. Some of her fur was caught in the wood of the gate, and a piece of plywood that was partially under the gate was broken and smashed down. She’d been trying as hard as she could to squeeze through, shoving herself at the too-small space over and over. It was primal instinct. She was fighting for her life and the lives of her children. But there just wasn’t room for her babies and her organs to fit through the available space. Something inside her ruptured, and she began bleeding internally. By the time she gave up and turned around, she was dying. We just didn’t know it yet.

There were two dried blood patches on the pavers beside the hose reel. I’d only seen her spit blood once. I wondered if the second spot had happened because her mouth was open when she died. Then I remembered that I didn’t close her eyes when I put her in the box, and felt sad that it hadn’t occurred to me. I wondered if there was anything that could have been done for the kittens; an emergency C-section, maybe? I imagined her body going into labor, and the kittens being born and dying in a box underground. I imagined her returning to haunt our garden gate and look at us in disdain. We’d deserve it.

Last night, I considered lighting a candle where she’d fallen.

Tonight I hosed the spot down.

Week 1 in The Artist’s Way is all about feeling safe to practice your art. It’s called “Recovering a Sense of Safety.” Basically, it’s an exploration of all of the subtle ways we were told over the years that we couldn’t be artists. This includes negative messaging from others (parents, teachers, peers, society at large) and ourselves. Sometimes the message wasn’t intentional, and other times it was. Either way, your brain absorbs that information and anticipates the ways in which practicing art could make you unsafe. Eventually, you begin choosing other activities that involve less risk (real or imagined) and over time, your inner artist is locked away.

One concept that really rang true to me was that of the shadow artist, someone who lives art vicariously through others. These are people that once had an artistic dream, but were told that the dream wasn’t practical or achievable. They often end up moving into support positions for practicing artists: a muse, a doting spouse, a benefactor, or someone who uses a little creativity in their professional life, but doesn’t necessarily follow their wildest art dreams. Two examples given in the book are of talented writers who become lawyers and painters who become art therapists.

It’s easy to see myself as a shadow artist. I can definitely see the effects of fear on my own career choices over the years. I started writing short stories as a kid, pretty much as soon as I could hold a pencil, and for years I assumed that I’d be a fantasy author one day. But somewhere in my late teens or early 20s, I suddenly “knew” that wanting to write fiction was a total waste of time.

Similarly, the earliest I remember wanting to sing on stage was when I was six or seven years old. The memory that really sticks out to me is singing the harmony of a Dolly Parton song to my mom, and having her tell me that I didn’t sound good. I was confident at the time that I wasn’t singing out of tune, so I didn’t understand the negative reaction. Years later, I found out that she is sensitive to high notes, and absolutely loathes sopranos. (For the record, I’m a coloratura soprano, and can sing up to A above high C. My natural singing voice is torture to my mom.)

I didn’t give up on singing then, but that was the first of a series of small cuts that eventually caused me to lose faith in myself. Several poor auditions in middle school. A musician boyfriend who told me that the voice wasn’t a real instrument. But I managed to keep the faith for a good while. I got the guts to try out for an a cappella group in college, and went on to sing solos in front of large, appreciative crowds. I sang in multiple small bands after college, and though they were mostly unsuccessful endeavors, I can still remember a handful of nights where people stopped me after the show to say how much they liked my voice. I’ve been singing in the crowd at concerts and had people compliment me after the show. Bottom line, I don’t sound like shit. And now, after years of only singing in the shower, I’m training in classical voice. One day, maybe I’ll sing in front of people again. I hope that these writing exercises will get me there.

Which leads me to other forms of art, things made by hand like pottery, metalsmithing, and drawing. It’s a long story, but I didn’t take art classes as a kid. The first and last time I took an art class was in 7th grade. I still remember this project that we worked on where we had to paint a landscape on cotton board. I really enjoyed that project, and I remember the teacher pulling me aside and telling me that I should continue working at this, that I had promise. Unfortunately, the next time I took an actual art class was about 20 years later, when I signed up for beginner pottery on a whim. I still can’t draw, which means that I can’t paint the things that I want to. But just writing about this is making it very clear that the problem isn’t that I can’t do the thing. The problem is that it takes years of training – just like singing, just like writing – to get decent. Of course I can’t draw. I don’t have the mental toolbox yet.

I have continued somewhat with pottery, though. In fact, I start a new course on handbuilding next week. For some reason (maybe because I’m literally playing with mud), working with clay makes me feel safe. The sky is the limit, and nothing is wrong. I know that I personally like all kinds of weird pottery pieces, so I don’t feel compelled to make something delicate and beautiful. I’m hopeful that pottery will be like voice, a thing that I’m willing to go to battle for.

It’s hard to feel safe in this world. Being too honest can leave us feeling exposed. But we all have gifts that make it possible to expand our world and bring beauty and wonder into the lives of those around us. The least we can give ourselves is the room to play and explore those hidden parts of ourselves. I’m not willing to be a shadow any longer.

Things aren’t going well. I wish I could say that they were. I wish I could say that I am happy, healthy, thriving, hopeful for everything to come. The truth is that I have always felt like a failure, and nothing has changed. I want a way out of this feeling, but I don’t think there’s going to be one.

So now I play the mind games to hang on, to try to unravel these feelings, to try to find my way out of the labyrinth. I’m afraid that I’m fucking it all up. I quit my dependable job because I didn’t have enough freedom, but now I have no money and also am not free. I am so scared, and the fear is changing my personality. I can see that my fiance looks at me differently now. I think he’s hiding things about his business (successes? failures?) from me to save me pain, but I’m also hiding things from him, and that’s a dangerous path to start down.

My secret is small: I’ve started donating plasma. I was desperate for money, and it’s the only thing I could think to do. I’ve also been delivering food for DoorDash and UberEats, grocery shopping with Shipt, and doing part time AI training with Data Annotation. I start a part-time job as an executive assistant next week. I’ll be making $16/hour for 16 hours a week. I used to make $80k/year. What the fuck am I thinking? What am I doing? I don’t know who I am anymore. I don’t know what I’m accomplishing.

Let’s try to explain it to ourselves and see if it makes sense:

Before COVID, I worked 60-hour weeks at an event management job that was physically and mentally exhausting. I was good at my job, but I had to pretend to be someone that I wasn’t, and my schedule was so hectic that it meant I seldom got to do any extracurricular things. Then COVID hit, and I was out of work. My partner started a company, and I helped guide and support him in small ways. I did the bulk of the housework. I cared for the things he couldn’t remember. I let him use my shoulder to cry on after a hard day. I advised on marketing, HR, and office management issues. I delivered groceries and made candles and soap to make just enough money to scrape by on. After nearly a year, I was offered a very low-paying job with the state, and I took it, even though it wasn’t anything I had experience with or cared about, really. I worked for the state for another few years. Sometimes I was inspired. Most of the time I was disheartened to see how much money was going to waste and how little work was getting done. I kept coming up with ideas for how to help, then being shot down. My spirit was dying, bit by bit. I was burnt out, my ADHD was worse than ever, and my depression was getting worse, too. My boss was fired for rocking the boat, and I went back to school to be a copyeditor. I studied for a year and passed with flying colors. I quit my day job, knowing that between my savings and my part-time job, I’d be OK long enough to find a contract position. That was in June. In July, my part-time copyediting job fired me for making three mistakes out of 11,000 edits in one report. That’s FAR below the acceptable mistake rate. I know that it has nothing to do with my ability and everything to do with their unrealistic expectations, but it fucking crushed me. CRUSHED. It’s January, and I’ve yet to find another paying copyediting job. I don’t know that I will. Every time I try to work on my portfolio, all I can do is think of what a failure I am. I’ve done several volunteer gigs, and I was hired to help rebrand a local small business, so that’s a little bit of money. But I don’t want to do any of these things. I am scared. I am tired. I don’t have the mental stamina to endure feast or famine in this way. I don’t want to do this anymore. I desperately need guidance, and I can’t find any. I’ve asked in several Facebook groups. I’ve bought courses. I’ve reached out to coaches on LinkedIn. The advice is always the same: just do the thing. But I can’t. So here I am.

There’s also this weird issue with my fiance. He really wants to travel this summer. He wants to take a month off and go hiking and camping. I love that idea. However, to do that, I can’t take a full-time job until after our summer trip. Which means that I’ll be in this state of utter panic until at least August. I can see the logical response to that: “You don’t have to panic; maybe you can find a job that will give you the month off.” I did. I found a part-time, $16/hour position that’s going to pay me roughly $250/week before taxes. I’m freaking the fuck out. What the fuck am I doing? I feel trapped. I can’t get a full-time job because it won’t let me travel. But I also can’t get any freelance jobs because I’m a failure. But if I don’t travel, my relationship will be in jeopardy. But if I remain underemployed, I’m proving what a failure I am, and my relationship will still be in jeopardy. Not to mention that I am growing to resent my fiance for being in this position. I know it’s not his fault. It’s my fault for not being able to ever get my shit together. But I seriously don’t know what to do now.

Then there’s the other thing. My fiance gave me money to get me through the lean times while I was trying to find a job. I didn’t want to take the money, but I didn’t have any other options if I wanted to keep paying my bills. Then at one point, he needed money to pay his marketing person, so I let him use my emergency credit card. Now I could really use that money back, but I also feel terrible for asking him to repay money that he would have had if he hadn’t given me money to begin with. But I’m about to have -$7 in my bank account, so I don’t have a choice. I’ve been trying to not ask him. I really want to be able to not be such a drain on us. But I am, and that’s that.

So here’s what I’m going to do today:
1) I’m going to see if I have all of the paperwork to complete my taxes, and if I do, I’m going to do that. My hope is that I’m due a refund, instead of needing to pay additional taxes. Fingers crossed.
2) I have a huge stack of books that I could sell on Amazon. I’m going to list them all today.
3) I’m going to work at least two hours for Data Annotation. That’s $40.
4) I’m going to contact my client and see when she can meet this week.
5) I’m going to put my plants back outside. They’ve been clogging up the dining room table all week due to freezing temperatures.
6) I’m going to ask my fiance if he has time to talk to me tonight about the money, the travel, the jobs, everything.
7) I’m going to get up and take my meds as soon as I’ve finished this blog post.
8) I’m going to pray for guidance. I don’t know what else to do.

I am sexy.
I am attractive.
I am creative.
I am powerful.
I am confident.
I know my worth.
I don’t accept less than I deserve.
I demand connection and truth from those around me.
I am attracting wealth.
I have time to rest and care for myself.
I am making big, beautiful, impactful art.
I am changing lives.
I am sharing my joy with the world.
I am sharing my vision without fear.
I am growing food.
I am growing beautiful flowers.
I am a writer.
I am a singer.
I am listening to my intuition.
My guides are talking to me and I am listening.
I am working to listen more.
I am surrounding myself with people who can get me to the next step.
I am not afraid.
I am not afraid.
I am not afraid.
I am not afraid.
I am free.