Conversations with a Human Heart.

Tag: heart song.

what love is.

love is

love is the thing that keeps us safe. it’s the thing we remember the longest and feel the deepest and try the hardest for.

love keeps us spinning—a revolving top at the eye of calm and joy and fear and grief and ecstasy.

it’s grit and velvet.

love is recalling a first touch with every touch. it’s releasing the torments—lies we’ve fed ourselves and wounds we’ve endured at the hands of others—because we know the promise of more exists within us and around us, an electric static in the ether.

it’s trying when you’ve got less than nothing left.

love is celebrating the inhale with a gracious exhale. it’s stillness wrapped in overload and falling as we rise.

love is evolution; a good-intentioned revolt against a self who hasn’t lived.

love is a ceremonious risk of hearts and bodies in a world that sometimes forgets to nurture. it’s a gamble between the comfort of existing in the safety of what is—with all its intricate inadequacies—and what might be.

love is imperfect words melding with mismatched tempos for a song indescribably pure. it’s the explosion of time contained in a single kiss; the recollection of a moment you call home.

artwork: “danced out of existence” by vanitylife


this post was grown on the gram 


authenticity will save you.


“We have to dare to be ourselves, however frightening or strange that self may prove to be.” ― May Sarton

There comes a time in our lives when the activities of others should fall away into the recesses of our yesterdays. That time is now.

There comes a day when our past should be made to stay there; when we should leave others to be as they wish to be; when we should honor the version of us that is so eager to emerge. That day is today.

We can not accomplish great things—be it career, be it health, be it love—without a deep bow of farewell to the pieces of our past, no matter how alluring or accessible those pieces may remain.

Embrace who you are by ignoring what you are not—you are not the girlfriend of the ex, you are not the old job you kept, the cruel words you slung, the mistakes, the triumphs, the disappointments, the celebrations.

You are not your yesterday.

You are not me.

You are you.

You are the you that is living a life completely unique to every other life that spins around you. Don’t you squander that. Don’t you dare diminish the magic of that rarity by trying to recreate a life that is not yours.

Authenticity: the most extraordinary magic in the universe—magic of the heart, ripe with honesty and love.

So I challenge you to break away from everything you want to be and listen to the whispers of who you are.

Be authentic, even when it scares the life out of you; because the life it scares away will be the weird, recycled bits that you attached, like decoupage, in fear. And the layers that melt away will resemble sticky, lacquered clumps of paper—awkward attempts of a former skin you tried to wear.

Authenticity is naked; it is raw and honest and free. Authenticity is the flesh of a bare ass and unkempt pubic hair; it is a laugh so fierce it sings and a voice so proud it inspires.

Authenticity is who you are when no one is watching.

And to remember that “you,” you must only recall the forever-moments—moments that have been carved into the walls of your heart.

You will know forever-moments; they will fill you with heat, a fierce magic that spins wildly in your chest. You’ll crack open when they happen, and you’ll crack open again when you recall them—a Fabergé ribcage, split open and filled with light, pouring from your center like a beacon.

When you find those moments, you must stop.

Stop to offer yourself completely to everything that swirls around you. Let the feeling settle into your skin, become intimately acquainted with the sensation of a forever-moment—for this is the sensation of purpose, and purpose is the bedmate of authenticity. Let the two tangle in the sheets together—let them have their sexy fling, then watch in awe as a the fire sparks in your soul. Let their limbs twist together in a mass unrecognizable; let their sweat pool and their breaths dance and their voices bellow out together: yes, yes.. yes!

Embrace the sacred romance. Bottle the passion in your heart.

Be fearlessly authentic, child.

Be unapologetically you.


we’re moon dwellers, little darling.


“Woman is the most superstitious animal beneath the moon. When a woman has a premonition that Tuesday will be a disaster, to which a man pays no heed, he will very likely lose his fortune then. This is not meant to be an occult or mystic remark. The female body is a vessel, and the universe drops its secrets into her far more quickly than it communicates them to the male.” ― Edward Dahlberg

It’s been a long time, little darling, hasn’t it? Or perhaps no time has passed at all.

Since the last time you felt that rush of heat, that pang of discontent. We’re conflicted today, little darling. Changing like the moon.

Words are stuck somewhere between your frantic beats and this paralyzed tongue; in-the-moment was never our strength. No.

Time to feel every little inch of what went so terribly wrong; rehearse the should-have-saids one by one. Time to hold the space again, open wide to the walls and listen as they retell the story of what happened here today.

We were lost again—spinningdancingdrifting—in a sacred space called happiness.

And that’s where circumstances went awry. Strange, I know.

But sometimes, when we relish the view from above, when we disappear for too long, we forget that there are others waiting. They stand on the surface of the planet, hanging hopes on our imminent descent. They check their invisible watches and gauge hours with the enduring reach of the sun.

The sun. The tattletale—he’s got tick-tock-tick-tock in his veins. Rays that stretch to forever, findingsnoopingseeking.

It’s why we’ve always loved the moon; she won’t spoil moments with matters of time-keeping. Won’t cast shadows across perfectly-imperfect moments. She would never dare burn. With her, the hours, they drift—but without consequence, without ugly retribution. Because night is night. The wrap of darkness: a constant in this ever-expanding space.

From our moon-dwelling seats we wait—fornothing.forsomething.foranything.

And while our rumps fill little craters, we change.

We grow impatient, coming quickly back to Earth; other times we sit peaceful, losing all working memory of the ‘real’ that waits below; in other moments still, we dance among the stars and allow our fingers and toes to reach to every untouchable corner of the universe—until we detach, limb by limb, laughing because everything’s amazing. So fucking amazing is this diamond-encrusted universe.

Because of that, it’s hard to hang hopes on us, little darling. We’re inconstant like our beloved moon.

But when we’re spilt wide open, the shimmering dust has time to settle in. And you’re coated in star-stuff as you beat with micro-tides, happy disruptions of a lunar pull.

It is in those moments that we are most alive.

We are mutable, little darling. Bliss can be torn away; because of this, we must garner those moments, however poorly-timed.

We’re a child of the universe—a dreamer who hangs hopes, like prayer flags, too. Only ours are draped across constellations.

It’s not the same for those who stay behind, we must face this. They may surf with technology, take flight with their machines, but they’ll never witness the glittering void beyond the safety of their little planet, they’ll never pass beyond her womb.

So don’t worry, little darling, should-have-saids can’t reach you in this vacuum. And stardust washes away terrible things.

Rest easy, for we’re moon dwellers—we’re exactly where we need to be. They can’t accuse us of having our head in the clouds when we’re eye-to-eye with the stars.


Life is Hard & Pretty F*cking Beautiful.


real artist

Things struggle to open today; pressure from the outside world—the looming grand cross, perhaps—to remain resilient in the face of dishonesty. To remain focused in the face of turmoil.

I have dreams. I have dreams and ambition and plans to change the world. Through words. Through love. Through partnership and sisterhood and creativity and trust.

But there are forces set in motion to change our paths, to make us doubt the viability of our dreams. And I’ve felt those today. Pieces of trust cleave away to expose raw, misunderstanding flesh. Nerves that recoil from the April air—and I’m left wondering, how do I use this sting?

Because when our hearts feel young and inexperienced, there is blind faith to fuel us. We can listen to the beats and step in sync with the music we hear inside our happy heads. We can trust fearlessly, because the world invites us into its arms—and we’re unabashed and sure-footed and we smile wickedly in the face grey things, because we don’t feel they serve us.

As we encroach on “grownup” years our hearts and steps and confidences shift to a place of safety. And I wonder which serves us more. Safety? Protecting yourself from harm, from trusting too much, from feeling too fiercely. Or youthful abandon? To release fear, to bare our hearts, to reject the hard lessons life so violently presses against our throats.

Because some friendships aren’t rooted in friendship. And some love is dishonest. Some truths are only found-out through lies. And sometimes trust betrays us.

These are difficult lessons to learn.

In these moments, when trust eludes us, it shifts from ideal to paramount—a subtle movement, but one that will change our lives in the most dramatic, spectacular way.

Spin trust on its fucking axis and believe in yourself—a novel, insane, rebellious chess move. Do it and laugh at the naysayers as they look at you with disbelieving, pitying eyes. Do it when the ones you held close are found-out—when the blade has been felt deep in your back. Do it when it isn’t practical or sane.

Hard lessons. They prove to us that life can be cold and others calculate, sometimes against us; we can lie naked and bruised, we can cry tears of betrayal or disbelief. And we can stay like this forever, wondering how life got so ugly and hard.

Or we can create a tiny space in the deepest chamber of our heart to remember that yes, that was unfair and it stung and I don’t want to feel that again. And then we can go back to our lives and unhinge our heads to laugh at the joyful sun as it heals our bruises and dries our tears and encourages us to stand up and walk sure-footed once again.

Life is hard. But life is pretty fucking beautiful, too.

Hope will evade when we place our entire store in others—don’t do that. The greatest reserves must reside in our own hearts. Insist on trust in yourself before you invest trust in another.

Because you are here to do magnificent things. And you will.

[photo source: here]

The View from Square One.

blank pages

Inspiration whispered early yesterday morning.

Standing over a pot of nearly-boiling water, I listened to my children as they built another semi-permanent fort/restaurant in the living room, pausing only once to run in to greet me with hugs and breakfast requests.

I poured coffee over pummeled grounds in the stainless steel press, soaking in the familiar, promising hiss.

I live for that hiss each morning.

And as my bare feet shuffled back and forth on the linoleum floor, the ‘thing’ that artists can’t ever adequately describe, the ‘thing’ that keeps their hearts in check, the ‘thing’ that makes them feel most human, it stirred and I thought: today I’ll step back into my book. 

For months now, I’ve been working on my most substantial piece of writing to-date; I still struggle with calling it by definitive terms like ‘book’ or ‘novel’ because a part of me still worries that it’s an unrealistic goal, one that ‘grownups’—which, surely I am not—can accomplish, a goal that only real writers know how to weave out of thin air.

Last month was busy. I started two new jobs: hired as the Managing Editor for MeetMindful as well as a Senior Editor with The Good Men Project. As a way to avoid complete overload and possible burn-out, I put my creative project on hold for an entire month. Though there were moments when I wished I had been writing, I knew to take care of my energetic self it was a necessary step.

Part of my self care as a writer also includes limiting (as best I possibly can) my editorial work to the Monday through Friday block. I need weekends to immerse myself in my own work, to recharge with my family, to get outside, to do all the things editors can lose sight off during working hours (which, in and of themselves maintain pretty blurry perimeters—the nature of the business).

Yesterday was the day to go back, a visceral certainty.

So as I sat down to my familiar desk to open my ‘write’ folder, I was overwhelmed to find my work missing.

Now, “missing’ to someone who has been consumed with panic may not be missing at all. In moments like these, it is in our human nature to jump to the worst conclusions.

I made desperate, silent pleas to the universe—it must be somewhere.

I sent messages to a trusted friend, the friend that everyone should have, the friend that reassures you that everything will be fine if you just keep your head.

I scoured every folder my laptop keeps. Missing.

I moved to my external drive to look through back up after back up after back up of my computer’s inner contents.


When my man walked into the kitchen for his own first-cup of coffee I met his gaze in the doorway and burst into tears.

It’s just gone. I don’t know how or why, but it is. Gone.

And so that’s where I’m at today: on the other side of missing.

Square One.

I must surrender months of ideas to someplace unknown; I must accept the deaths of thousands words, all selected with purpose, all edited down to their best selves, all polished and rearranged and intimately acquainted with their neighbors.

Thousands and thousands of words that came out of me—all gone.

I don’t have much faith that these words are going to reappear, whether by some technological miracle or through re-channeling a former muse; and I don’t have any grand lessons to offer, though I hope one will present itself in due time. I realize that even in writing this, my words feel clunky and without purpose or direction as though I’ve betrayed them somehow.

I didn’t want to be here today—with a clean slate—but I am. And so, today I will sit down to a blank screen and begin the writing process to what I will be an entirely different story, as my story was changed unexpectedly.

I will start again—I don’t know what else to do. I will start again, because it seems I have to.