Tuesday, February 23, 2016


It is a fine line we walk, but there are times when we need get personal, down and dirty. Time to be heard with a steady tone, a balanced voice and open up our truth (even when our ego is desperately fighting us) because there is a huge difference between emotion and being emotional, being personal and taking things to heart “personally”.

I love the premise behind Don Miguel Ruiz, the Four Agreements.
– I really do. It gave me a bigger picture into my ego, my insecurities and self-control…  BUT, “Don’t take anything Personally” can hold a dark side –
Stay with me, if you will.

If we stop taking things “personally”, there is a tendency to become “Spock-like” robotic, and indifferent. This indifference can be used as a shield but the air around it can be misconstrued as cold and uncaring and as we all know, we are what we think, feel and do - detached and Unemotional.

And knowing that detachment is not about losing emotion, it is discerning the emotional value of our soul, so when it comes to matters of the heart; it is almost an impossibility not to be “personal.”

Our pride takes on so many faces, but one that is never easily masked is the deep seeded, heart felt incision that often comes out of no-where (sideswipes us) to remind us we in fact… are human.

And this isn’t an excuse to sidestep our feelings to make us look like we don’t give a damn, because there are plenty of times when we really do, yet we don’t say anything and that is a one-way ticket to internal hell. This about coming clean and real to the marrow when some inner damage has been done; it is about paying attention a wound that has been reopened - seeping, oozing and needing a bit of attention (like - major stitches, not a band-aide to stop the bleeding).

"Many people, especially ignorant people, want to punish you for speaking the truth,  for being correct, for being you. Never apologize for being correct, or for being years ahead of your  time. If you’re right and you know it, speak your mind. Even if you are a minority of one, the truth is  still the truth."
~ Mahatma Gandhi

 I am speaking to the smallest part of our past that clings to unresolved and painful issues. The ones that seem to be the minutia of our “triggers” and can really unleash the badass in us all.

And contrary to turning away (as our halo is slipping, and our backs are up against a wall) the last thing we need to do is to pretend we are unscathed. What might need to happen is to tear a hole through that fa├žade, step through the energy of the bullshit, and stand tall. 

I want it all to be personal – and I will tell you when you have crossed the line.

We don’t need to invoke the unconscious dirt being thrown in our face; we must use the intelligence of our higher vibration – strong, sold, and intuitive. And there is never shame in being in our truth, walking and talking our truth. That is action light years ahead of any hidden agenda that pretends to be unaffected by nasty thoughts words or deeds we absorb. 

Just own it, don’t wear it but it is Ok to acknowledge where we hurt.

The thing about “not taking it personally” is: No matter what we do, when the hammer comes down, there is noise. This noise vibrates to the core. We never have to re-act, but to say we were not touched by it is impossible; it’s a lie. We are changed in some way – and we must process it. That change will definitely have an effect from that moment on.  To act as if it didn’t leave a mark is pure denial.

Touch the wound, feel it the scar, and take it all personally! It is personal.

Be impeccable with your word, pull it all in, roll around in it and let it be the catalyst for your best.  Assumptions are indeed dangerous: don’t make them - but it is totally safe to assume that when we hurt, if we don’t break it down, it will eventually break us.

Make agreements that align with your totality and don’t forget the commitment, the agreement to being up close and personal – and to being human. A human that has taken things personally, but worked with it, through it and moved on.   (dl)


Saturday, February 13, 2016


This holiday (for many) is the single most destructive bone marrow crushing day on the calendar; and it is coined a celebration of love?

That idea is twisted.
The expectations are high and disappointment brings us low. It is a day of, “Will he, will she, simply follow through”? And the overly dramatized letdown rears its nasty little head -
Oh that fairy tale usually doesn’t end well.

…..and the velvet rose still has thorns.

Quietly awaiting
for a tiny gesture of affection
wrapped in red.
Red, the color of love
the color of blood,
the color anger
and the velvet petal rose still has thorns.

Once upon a time
glistening objects of adoration
were seen through
the heart,
not a dollar value
not ice,
not a card
with sticky words draped in script

The gentleness
of a ribbon-wrapped token
is a lie,
is alive,
is the keeper of commitment
and the velvet petal rose still has thorns

To take our emotion
and compact it into a single moment,
a single hour
a single day
is too explosive
too twisted
too much

This so-called day of “love” rips the dignity out of our soul.
An unsanctioned devotion - we don’t need approval or decree. We can actually have love everyday. A love without pink ribbons attached to a make-believe heartache when we retell love lost over the forgotten ritual.
Leave that ritual alone for the world that lives inside their box.
We don’t need to be a fool for ceremony.

…the velvet petal rose still has thorns. (dl)

Thursday, February 4, 2016


The edifice of a wish…

I closed my eyes and let institution take over, melting away the stream of conscious. My wish is that wishing wasn’t a place where we go to escape, and that it wasn’t associated with hope or magic….

Finding life inside the hope is like the unfulfilled prayer - a mystical, ethereal illusion that has led my heart to the depths of disappointment. I wagered everything I own on the roll of the dice, and the anesthetized position of nothingness. In this space, there is a sudden loss of accountability in a hopeful moment, as the stakes are high and the risk factor is huge.

I find the secret vein and tap in.

The initial thought of fruition is a rush. An injected adrenaline hit of the surreal.

It is the transcendental world of a fairy tale – and we all know that fairy tales can be violent and dark, not always the stuff dreams are made of yet, I wish.

The temptation is to get lost at sea, find the falling star and puff the magic dragon. It is the allure of my subconscious as it dangles like the proverbial carrot in my face, calling me out to reach the hungry desire.

That hunger is alive and must be fed.

I stand alone in my intimate wishes; it is hard to keep both feet on the ground. One of them planted firmly in inner logic, the other dancing in probability and I implore them to come together – but to no avail. For some reason, they won’t play nicely in the sand box, so the push-pull tries to separate my yen.

I know the beauty of being starved holds a deeper appreciation for the sustenance, so I load up on the intake but never without benediction. In grace and deed, there isn’t a wish to be had; it will remain in that delicate empty space, null and void, untouched and formless.

To make any want a reality, I click my heals three times and get to it. Igniting the source, putting source into purpose, and the karmic wheel goes round. I have taken it to the next level and now, and I begin my work.

Manifestation can happen; it really can and it is just cause for encouraging that inner rush again. It is desire, the ravenousness feeling without expectations, and nursing the obsession of possibility. It is knowing that the possibility is only found in truth because when desire is backed by the universe, it supersedes it all.

Mindful thoughts, clarity in my disillusion, no pain no gain as I reach for the falling star. This is stuff our dreams are made of but I don’t get to have them fulfilled until I am full.

So, filling up is why I do my thing.

Back to the surreal, the reality of a moment that needs no introduction. We are always (and never) given another chance to change what is – a wish upon a wish that needs a conscious mind to devour the improbable and create safety.

NO more running. NO more hiding and when we play the mind well, there is a wealth of security - Good to know, so trying to escape doesn’t need to be an option based on a wish… anymore. (dl)

Wednesday, February 3, 2016


Sometimes the immensity of what stands before me takes my breath away as I often question my ability.  And it isn’t that I am doing anything fantastic or extraordinary, I am simply taking an unknown path and that looms large overhead. This path can be ominous especially when unprepared and yet that is part of the draw, the challenge, and the allure. 

The fascination of the somewhat outlined idea of how life “should be” and the make-shit assumption that tomorrow I will indeed wake up, put my feet on the ground, and start the day has smacks of arrogant expectation  - things (life) has a way of shifting so I like to hold that shift in a simple vigil and say a little thank you around it. This keeps me humble, in gratitude and rooted.

However, the pull of the “other side” is always intriguing; it may be dangerous but it is very much alive not just in me, but in all of us.

In complete honesty I am pouring it all out, as I don’t really care what others think and that is a mountain of huge proportions.  It is about climbing over and out of my own shit and then cleaning my feet so I don’t track the dirt around.  It is about gentle and soft thinking, transforming those thoughts to purpose and strengthening the matrix of raw emotion - not emoting, but emotion. 

I feel that others don’t need to witness my stuff, there is enough out there already and we have become a society of drama queens all vying for the spotlight.  This perpetuates more drama and all the worlds a stage but for what?  Paying attention to the core is bigger than the theatrics we impose on our life and there is no peak high enough for that. 

The rest of the crap is the illusion, the delusion, the diversion; and it isn’t real.

There is always something more, infinitely more. So as I/we climb up one side of the mountain and come down the other side we have to know there will be another and another and even when we get better because of familiarity we have must be mindful because in familiarity there is comfort and comfort can be scary. 

To chase the highs and lows is the metaphor of the “life climb.”
Struggling, stretching and reaching for something better is my bane and yet when I fall, I very often forget that is part of the grand design. It has to be known that down is just as important as up. That low only has one way to go and every step we take to betterment has its own time and place.

And I repeat in my head, remember, remember, please remember.

My fairy tale is full of itself but the good news is…. I discovered the right to rewrite, edit and burn if I want and time marches on but I have to ask truthfully – what will I actually do if I make it to the top? Perhaps that is where the sabotage comes in because once there, it feels like it might be empty.  That is another hurdle attached and after all, the destination is nothing compared to the journey.

Veering off and around the messy, nasty and clouded perceptions is the challenge. To conquer the mundane and make it magnificent, purposeful and kind is the end-goal.  It is a lifelong pursuit of simple gratitude, inner peace and a handful of love - that is the mountain.

Let me know if you want to climb with me… (dl)


Tuesday, February 2, 2016


As I took the last curtsy, my head held high in grace, the curtain closed and the applause was bittersweet.

It was the last few minutes of a perfectly choreographed movement. The spotlight bathing my body and the sweat trickling down the nape of my neck was overriding the pain of my heart. This pain was trying to escape through my chest and…. in the blink of an eye, it was over.

I paused in my glory and I thought “I was fluid tonight.”

Backstage, unraveling my elegance, the satin brushes my skin. What softness, what shimmer, and what a fu*king lie it all is. Every toe on my foot is bleeding, every nail is cracked, my legs ache, and I am parched and so tired—so very, very tired.

Tonight, I am done.

The last performance—the last pas de duex—and the last time I would ever smell the resin on my toes shoes. The last time breathing in the stank of the musty theater or the overbearing odor of elitism coming from an audience—an audience that could never understand the angst, my pain and the darker side of ballet. (The Black swan has nothing on me).

We, the dancers of the night, weave. We bend, turn out, and we ask our bodies to do unthinkable things. It is torture laced in delicate pink. The lightness, the refinement and the lavender moments eventually give way to mutilated feet, a beaten down ego and a body that has been denied some very simple pleasures, like food. Drug abuse, eating disorders and all kinds of sexual preferences flit around the starved and deranged egos. Almost all have of us have huge arrogance of our craft in monstrous proportions.

It is like being in a silk laden loony bin and yet they are my closest of friends.

Creatures of the night, lost in classical music and taking direct hits of adrenaline just to get to class in the morning and do it all over, day after day. And as the realization that I will never be here ever again takes my hand I am seized with sorrow. I loved my movements, I loved to dance; it was all I knew for so long but time plays no favorites when we use and abuse our bodies to the edge.

Very few know and understand this tainted grace—it is so well hidden and denied as it stays in its crinoline-veiled mystique. And, those of us who know how much that crinoline itches, don’t really like to talk about it. We have an unsung pact to keep it as simple and pure as it appears to be: An accepted practice of silence in honor of the art, and to keep it preserved inside; it’s just what we do.

And like any other feat that surpasses good and moves into excellence, we train to be the best. We forfeit our normal routine, normal life, but what the hell is normal anyway? Our teachers become parents, our peers become our siblings and our home is under the fluorescent lights with a wooden floor. Seems normal.

We are disciplined, we are void, and we are always seeking betterment. We live with pain knowing the payoff is only a few moments of applause and appreciation, but it goes deeper than a curtain call.

It’s a lifestyle of perfection. Striving to become one with the music, to be the ethereal abstraction floating effortlessly note by note. It’s learning perseverance and the reward is only felt when ice is applied to the torn-up body-mind and soul.

It’s lingering in a cast of thousands and being singled out by one (or more) as special—but no one really is. It’s a dancer’s bane… one day special, the next day—not. Then body gives up, gives in and suddenly, years of training and practice are over.

My two worlds colliding (real and surreal), and then ending with a deep curtsy—my love, my art, and my life.

So what is next? I surrender to the bow, wipe the tear from my eyes, put my street clothes on and shut the back door.

I know it was a good run. I was lucky. I know I gained so much knowledge from living in a world only a handful get to see. I know I was blessed, had some bliss and nothing lasts forever.

I am no longer performing, but I can take it with me in my mind. Forever a dancer in my heart.