Rocked into Rootedness

Nomad. Traveler. Wanderer. These titles have long formed the basis of my identity. The question of where I was from, or where I lived sparked a low-key boast about my vagabond nature. I puffed up my chest and waxed poetic about the winding path of my soul that led me to magical, awe-inspiring people and places the world over. I upheld the archetypal role of a meanderer and seeker, searching for answers and exploring the vast realms of consciousness, until the façade broke, smacked me in the face and brought me to the ground.

Even from the beginning of my traveling years, parts of me craved the energy I felt in those who led a deeply rooted lifestyle. The people who tended land, who watched the trees grow year after year, who noticed the smallest detail of their local ecosystem; they were solid, stable and assured. I pined for their slow pace, the way they seemed to fully occupy every ounce of their presence, and were aware of their absolute belongness in the world.

My curiosity, desire for fairy-tale worthy adventure, and unintegrated shadow got the better of me. I kept moving, taking flights to new places, testing out different communities, hoping that life would change and I would finally be safe to be my most authentic self, ignoring the inward calls for groundedness and the exhaustion that came from packing, moving, and unpacking. Instability and uncertainty ruled. Consciously, I told myself this was all teaching me flexibility, surrender and trust. Unconsciously, aspects that I did not want to understand or hear drove me to stay unsettled.

Most stories, I see now, are driven by fear or love.

Fear blocks, love allows. Oh, there were times when the call of love brought me to a space of magic and opened my soul to a powerful piece of remembrance. And there were plenty of examples where unexplored fears kept me on the road, relocating my life at the hint of upset or possibility of a better existence. Looking back, I see where I might have heard the call to stay still and learn the lessons there for me in the face of discomfort. I could have seen the effects of disempowerment, self-sabotage and desire for external approval, and chosen to do something different. I thought I was protecting myself by ignoring the clues, and so I stayed blind and deaf until they screamed and thrashed inside of me.

After the fall, no longer able to stay in blissful ignorance or pretend "okay-ness" with my chosen instability, I laid low and sorted out the damage. My nervous system was completely shot. The process of rebuilding felt slow, confusing and unsupported. I struggled to explain what had happened, both to myself and to people around me. I spoke a high-minded, jargon-filled language that did not seem to penetrate hearts or minds. I projected incredulity, shame and disgust onto the receivers of my story. It felt easier to lock away my truth.

I wrapped my secrets around my heart, held my arms tightly around my chest, and was careful to not breathe too loud.

Still unrooted in self, place or community, I tumbled like a stone, eventually landing in my family's home. My original human connections, and original sense of safety. Which, as it turned out, was not real safety at all. There was little emotional vulnerability, buckets of ancestral trauma and religious dogma, and reminders of why I chose to wander in the first place. I wanted a home, but I did not want to live in a city, surrounded by cell phone towers and consumption culture and corporate control. I wanted to be connected to the Earth, but I needed to be in a place where I felt inspired, seen and supported in my shadow, my strangeness and my specialness.

When I attempted to grow roots in toxic soil, shock rolled through my system. I contemplated suicide, entered a depressive phase, and reconnected with a substance (nicotine from hapé) that I had been sober from for almost a year. I felt like a piece of shit. I had been strong for months, confident that my addictive behavior was complete. Yet when that core wound was triggered, any walls I had built around my vice shattered. I needed to self soothe, and it seemed the only way was adding something from outside into my system to fill the gaping void.

At first, it felt great to have my powerful ally back. More quickly than I would like to admit, though, our relationship spiraled back into a pit of dependence, despair and a dejected feeling that I was not actually getting what I wanted. I was not focused. I was not thinking more clearly. I was not a grounded, fire-y, let's take action gal. It seemed as if I had taken a step back from my authentic expression.

Doors kept closing. People that I had considered friends betrayed me, cut off communication and left my life. My soul dog, Lila, who had been in my life for just 44 weeks, suddenly died after being kicked by a deer she was chasing.

Finally, in the grief, I caught on. I needed to make a change. I needed to meet a deeply hidden, dark-minded aspect of my self in order to do so.

Just as her death precipitated my breakdown, Lila was also the key to my breakthrough. Her name, the sanskrit word for divine play bathed me in a lived experience of joy, both in life and death, reminding me to stay attuned to the goodness available in every moment. In her transition, she was inviting me into her perspective of life, going for joy in every possible moment. Her entire life was enthusiastic, present, and moving toward more of what she wanted: treats, cuddles, naps and wildness.

Applied to my own life, I needed to choose a soothing, enriching and nourishing environment. A place where I could wake up with joy, feeling purposed and aligned with my most authentic nature. It was time to compost the identity of wanderer into the fertile soil of another years' garden. It was time to meet with the fears and doubts had led me into this place of shaken rootlessness, so they could be lovingly integrated or transmuted in order to align with my conscious desire of a home.

Facing and embracing the twisted ways we see, experience and create the world is an illuminating experience that asks for courage, commitment and continuous outpouring of loving acceptance. It can be excruciating, and it can be transformational. My willingness to see these patterns and do the work was enough to open the way. Within weeks, I had committed to a three-year caretaker position on a forty-acre retreat center.

Cradled by trees and water, caressed by wind and warmed by fire, my weary limbs and glitching nervous system found the space to rest. All the effort I put toward avoiding the rocks on my path, steering away from some external block on the way to my dreams could now be channeled toward turning those stones into diamonds. The heavy weights of shadow are meant to bring us inward, unveiling a deep sense of connection to the core of our beingness, and our most essential self. There is nothing to run from.

By going down and through, we move closer in and up.

We are in a portal of eclipse season, approaching a Piscean full moon and partial lunar eclipse this week. The fall equinox follows, and then an annular solar eclipse in early October. The cosmos are asking us to slow down, review our life, and re-align. The stars are our allies and guides, and there is a galactic wave available to ride into a more authentic version of self. Support is always available, you just need to ask.

As I continue to integrate all the aspects of my journey, I step into greater ability to hold space for others doing the same, and for that, I am grateful for the path.

I do not hold regrets. I do not see any of the forks I chose as "wrong" or "bad." I just see that I could have made it easier on my self at times. And I see how much it has allowed me to step into a space of empathy, loving curiosity and true compassion for all who struggle to fully love and accept the self.

The journey home, to the heart, is what we are here for.

Thanks to my dear friend Hari, who writes over at Free Birth for the title that inspired this piece <3