Alexandra Travels

The Holy Men of England

Longing. Wanting what is not present. I first faced it in Chile. High up on a mountain. Shivering in an unheated room. The howling wind shaking the windows as my heart quivered desperately for home or someone familiar to be with me. How lost I felt.

Longing has shown up in different outfits and been a fairly regular traveling companion. It was home-sickness in South America. Loneliness in France. Excess in Mexico. I've reached horizontally more times than I count for something or someone to escape feeling the fear and heart-ache that powers the illusion that I lack. It is powerful need that blinds me to resources available in the present. Unpacked, it is the belief that I am separate from creation and living in it makes what is happening right now insufficient and lacking.

Bonny 'ol England has gifted me a series of experiences with men who are apt mirrors of my masculine consciousness on this point. Two Pauls. Two Lukes. One Matthew AND a Mark. I'm surrounded by holy men. Good news. I need loads of help. Each of these men have come to me with their longing. Projecting that I hold some necessary acquisition that will improve their lives. Make it better. More whole. Some believe that I am their soul mates. That I complete them. Others can't identify what it is that they are seeking exactly.

I have stretched to meet them in sincerity. Honorably and honestly. Trusting that our connection holds purpose. I've asked for guidance. What would love do? Love answers every time, guiding me to turn them back to themselves. I am your reflection. What you see in me is your own beauty. Your divine feminine in her fullness. Your desire, your longing is your need to be reunited with your Queen. She is within you.

Some get it. With those that do, I continue on. Our relationship morphs into its appropriate form. Friendship. I offer my support and time while acknowledging the teaching I am receiving from them. I reward their courage with true love. And with those that aren't able to consider that the externalized fantasy that they've painted on my frame is just an illusion, I move on. It doesn't mean they won't get it. The will. It just means that I'm not the person they'll get it through.

One of my guides in Glastonbury explained it to me this way as we discussed the importance of the Pig Totem in Celtic Tradition. “This totem is about generosity and giving nourishment. The sow allows her piglets to be nourished by what she offers. But she is also Kali. A dark mother. She eats the ones who are weak.”

Although visceral and more than a bit disturbing, I'm getting nature's point. By taking care of my longing within, by taking it up vertically, I satisfy it with sustainable Source energy, my higher consciousness. The conditioned conditioning that seeks outside of itself for satisfaction and completion is diminishing. Horizontal grasping is dying. And just like that Mama pig, I am eating what weakens me by eating what's eating me.

These men are heroes. Evolving at a perfect pace. I am learning not to feed on their longing. Honor us both in our exchange. Our souls are seeking something more. How about intimate non-sexual connection? What kind of bridges will that build in our world? I align with these men as a lover of love and in a crucial teaching for us both. In my ownership and containment of my longing, I am available to them in a new way. We open a portal to heal a collective wound that has had me chasing after rainbows that disappear into the mist.

Two sets of dear friends are leaving British Columbia. Four people who are pillars in my life. Ones who I looked forward to being with again when I return to Vancouver in September. My need for their familiarity has brought with it this longing. A need for it to be different. I am alone. No one is there for me. Lack consciousness. I hold it in meditation. Bring it within. Rock it back and forth until it knows it isn't alone. That I am there for it. Within 24 hours I receive three emails from friends in Vancouver whom I haven't connected with in months. Each of them asking in essence, “When will you return home?” My outer mirrors my inner. A shift was made and so I manifest what I was longing for. But now, no longer need it.

One whole year later I am preparing to return to my home and native land. I have felt moments of seer joy and victory in the completion of one of the most difficult and glorious endeavors of my life. And I've noticed when my homecoming is fueled by longing. A need for solid ground. The carefully contrived illusion of familiarity and comfort.

When I set sail on Saturday in one hand I will carry a bag filled with new abilities to find home within wherever I am. In it will also be what I have learned on this journey and my hope that my homecoming will be joyous and abundant. In the other hand, I will carry my longing. My need and my expectations. I will carry my fear too, that which believes that I am incapable of fulfillment without the bells and whistles I have restlessly pursued.

I'll carry both bags with equal appreciation and care, praying as I walk. Asking for help to attain a greater ability to live in the balance point between the two. It is this place of needlessness that inspires me. It comes without seeking. Peace. Immeasurable grace. The freedom to love.

So what is the batting average of these Holy Men of England? Who has chosen to take the chance and source within? One Paul. Two Lukes. One Matthew AND a Mark. Five out of six willing men have come through for themselves. I am blessed and humbled at this. I have new friends and we're starting with a strong foundation. It is a sign that inspires me to celebrate men everywhere. As well as own these great happenings as a reflection of the integration of my own need. They are getting it. I am getting it. We are allies in a partnership that exists to dismantle a consciousness that has kept us chasing those rainbows. And now, it seems I've finally caught one.

In the beginning...

Four months ago I woke up from a dream that I still don't remember. When I woke up from that dream it was clear that I would be putting my life in storage and taking an extended journey around the world.

I am a student of life. I am a healer and spiritual teacher. I am taking this walk-about to fulfill my highest possible destiny.

The purpose of this journey is to follow my inner guidance to places and people that will teach me how to strengthen my ability to allow the pure consciousness that is my nature to experience the truth of itself MORE.

I intend to vastly deepen my understanding of our natures and the natural laws that govern our existence.

I welcome you to join me in testing the theory that I am, and you are pure love of source and that WE are infinitely able to create powerful experiences that are beautifully potent, harmonious and incredibly joyful.

This consciousness adventure is a collective co-creation. I will share with you from my heart and welcome you to do the same. I hold intention that together we will exponential increase our capacities to be more active, aware and empowered creators of our reality. I invite you to subscribe to my blog to be notified of postings.

I have sold everything I have and with this abundance I begin in Costa Rica.

Happily and with love and trust in all that is...

Alexandra

The Malaria Mosquito

Samasati Nature Retreat, Puerto Viejo, Costa Rica

I am in the jungle on the Caribbean side of Costa Rica during the rainy season. The humidity is intense and nature is ALIVE all around me. I am surrounded by toucans, macaws, Blue Morpho butterflies, hummingbirds, red frogs, armadillos AND LOTS AND LOTS OF BUGS! The largest, fastest and biggest variety of insects I've ever seen. There are spiders as big as my hand that jump and move at astonishingly fast speeds, praying mantis, massive cockroaches and even a bug affectionately nicknamed 'The Bullet'. The Bullet hurtles its large body directly at its target (that being me) with such ferocious speed and strength its like getting hit by, you guessed it, a bullet.

Years ago I attended a workshop with the intention of working through my fear of nature. The seed that was planted in that experience inspired me to explore my fear of insects. In the past I had responded to them as many of us do, with irritation or fear. I would often run away or attack. As part of my spiritual discipline I began to consider that there must be a way to live more harmoniously with these creators. I began to allow them to be closer to me. Here in Costa Rica, the opportunities to practice this are plentiful.

Last night on my balcony I was enjoying the serenade of a jungle symphony until my mind said, "If I sit out here I will be bitten by a mosquito with malaria and I'll get sick." On queue, the Malaria Mosquito showed up, buzzing about my face. Panic shot through my body as the mosquito took residence on the very tip of my nose. I heard a different voice in my mind guide me with calm, "This is a test and an opportunity for you to digest your fear and prove a natural law in action. Use your tools. Do not swat the mosquito away."

And so I breathed. I grounded myself and focused on staying present in the moment while attending to the feeling of tightness in my belly. It began to loosen. I said a silent prayer and I noticed how the mosquito felt on my nose. I could not sense any threat or danger from this tiny creator. The very tip of my noise began to vibrate with a hum and this sensation spread throughout my face. I felt joyful celebration, gratitude and calm. Then the mosquito peacefully flew away. That sweet little mosquito sat on my nose for five minutes to help me to learn and grow.

The day before I left on this journey, I was witnessed by friends in allowing a wasp to explore my upper lip and mouth for a number of long moments. The discipline and trust it took to remain open to the highest possibility in that situation were worth the effort.

We are powerful creators of our experience. Fear attracts fear. Harmony attracts harmony. We have the ability to create within ourselves states of consciousness that immediately and directly affect our reality and experiences.

In gratitude for nature as my teacher...

Alexandra

P.S. - Now, I need to figure out how to work this out with that bullet bug!

Hummingbird Wisdom

Cusco, Peru

Puma Quispe Singona is the name of a “Chacaruna” or “bridge-person” who is leading our group of ten on a spiritual journey in Peru. He is called a “Chacaruna” because he was secretly trained by his Grandfather since he was a child to assists others to bridge or cross-over to higher levels of consciousness. Puma is younger than one might expect given his stature and his smile emanates an inner joy that is inspiring. His life is dedicated to serving with love and he imparts ancient wisdom with a playful twinkle in his eyes and compassion in his heart.

Peru, her people and the Andes vibrate with a fine spiritual energy. It is an essence that is alive in her ancient temples, a wisdom that was consciously planted in the rock formations by the Inca civilization. Its purpose is to assist all who come here throughout the ages in the transformational process of evolution.

Yesterday we visited an Inca temple dedicated to the Divine Feminine. We created ritual together and Puma called on “Mama Coca” to guide us. He read the coca leaves for us in the traditional way and brought through powerful teachings about this potent time in our history.

One of our group asked about what would happen to the garbage and millions of plastic bags we have put into the Pacific Ocean. Mama Coca answered that “Pachamama” (Mother Earth) would take care of everything in due time. That this waste would not be there unless cosmic will allowed it to be so. Puma conveyed that Mother Earth will adjust itself to right this wrong and that there will likely be significant cost to humankind when she does. Essentially, the law of cause and effect will come full circle.

Through Puma, Mama Coca also told us to take responsibility as individuals and find alternative living practices that are in balance with the earth. She encouraged us to believe that every better choice we make today will alter and soften the consequences of the neglectful choices of our history. I felt a sense of awe at this, concern for humanity and a recognition of how much I have under-estimated the power of Pachamama.

Puma then shared this story told to him by his grandfather:

A great fire came to the jungle in the Amazon. The animals were terrified and decided that they could not save their homes. They crossed the Amazon river just in time. As the animals congratulated one another for making it out alive, they realized that Hummingbird was missing. Just then they saw Hummingbird coming like a bullet out of the fire. Hummingbird dove down into the river, filled its little beak with water and flew right back into the fire. The animals were astonished. They ridiculed Hummingbird saying, “Look at that stupid bird! He will never put out that fire and will surely die!” Hummingbird made as many trips as his tiny body could bare. Exhausted he fell to the shore with the other animals. They gathered around him and asked, “Why did you do this Hummingbird, you had no chance in putting out that fire?” With Hummingbird's dying breath he said,”I was not trying to put out the fire. I was just doing my part.” The animals felt this in their hearts, turned to the river and the fire and charged across with intention to put it out and save their homes. Just as they did so an incredible storm of rain came and put the fire out.

Puma asked us, “What was necessary for this rain to come and save their home? ”

I answered softly, “Collective will.”

Emerging in Mexico

Some of you have noticed, that I haven't been diligent posting updates on my travel blog. I have been avoiding this task for months now. My resistance growing daily towards what was initially created as a vehicle of social communication that has become a nagging sore-spot of personal failure, self-judgment and inner criticism.

As days pass and my passport fills with stamps from countries throughout the western hemisphere, I am inquiring within as to why I have created this perplexing and uncomfortable situation. What stands between me and my ability to share with you the exhilarating ups and downs of this adventure? Is it fear? Is it insecurity? Is it too personal? Useless? Boring?

The unwrapping of this riddle brings me to the challenging truth that my process is, above all things, messy.

As a recovering perfectionist, the thought of sharing something incomplete and “wrong” paralyzes me with terror; a fear that has prevented me from communicating anything at all. According to this critical and controlling aspect of my lower self, EVERYTHING that I share must demonstrate a masterful epiphany of conscious awareness all tied up in a pretty white bow. I am Blog Challenged. And now, it is through the sharing of this sticky, icky, ucky incomplete messiness of what is that I find my freedom and voice to speak.

I am stretching to share my experiences in their imperfect perfection as a means of integrating a new level of self-acceptance for my path with less judgment, hesitation and resistance.

I am tenderly releasing myself from the expectation of sharing with you a “perfect” story from each of the countries I have been. I am softly giggling as I acknowledge my urges to relentlessly spell-check and scan and re-scan my grammar. I am allowing myself to finger paint blindfolded and by getting my fingers nice and dirty I am finding a new ability and commitment to keeping it REAL.

Recently I have noticed how upon arriving to a new place, I am allowing my luggage to explode in every direction. I am taking a mischievous delight in seeing my belongings crumpled up, thrown and strewn about in haphazard disorderliness. My habit of hanging, pressing, folding and organizing my things as a means of feeling secure and acceptable is letting go and surrendering to an exhilarating freedom in being undone.

Most importantly, I am holding gently the aspect of my consciousness that suffers in miserable self-criticism and objectification with love and understanding. I have found in this a small child that has an inexhaustible list of right and wrong, built on the premise that if she follows the rules exactly that she will be “right” and therefore safe. She feels unacceptable and it is through my acceptance of her in this place that I am cultivating the gift she brings me... the ability to flow in a way that is honest and true to what and who I am.

Alexandra

From Bright Lights to Bliss

Bonjour from France. Since my last blog I've been to NYC, India and Thailand. It hasn't been the paralyzing fear of perfectionism that has kept me from posting sooner. I've been absorbed in my travels and in the writing of a book about my experiences. Here is an excerpt from that book from my time in India.

February 16. On a bus. Somewhere in south India.

Transitioning into a new grid can be a turbulent business. Forty-eight hours ago I was standing ankle-deep in sleet in the middle of Times Square following a snow storm that shut down the UN for the first time in 15 years. I was there with my ex-husband Daniel. He and I had indulged in much of what NYC has to offer. We ate sushi and drank sake. We had expensive cocktails in trendy bars. We smoked grass and Marlboro cigarettes. I ate a whole double-sized Snickers bar at “Wicked,” one of the best musicals I've ever seen. We drank red wine and ate pasta. We went to The David Letterman Show and witnessed this master of entertainment work his magic with a hat trick of talented celebs. We laughed out load with Jennifer Garner, Sports Illustrated swimsuit cover model Brookly Decker and Sade who performed her new hit 'Soldier of Love.' It was a tightly-packed whirlwind visit that was the epitome of modern entertainment. I was ready for a respite by the time Daniel dropped me at the airport.

Major scene change. Chennai, India. There are WAY more people here than in Times Square. I come out of the airport on to streets of chaos and garbage. Reeling. Can these two places be on the same planet?Within days I am sick. I mean BIG sick. I spend the first day in denial. “It's just a little sniffle. So what if I'm using eight tissues an hour?” By day three its full on. My brain is melting from the inside out. Can't swallow. I'm in an altered state. Delirious as the landscape of India floats by me in the window of our tour bus. It's a swirling blend of beggars, saris, garbage, cars, starving dogs, turbans, cows and motorcycles sporting entire families. Where exactly am I and when will the spinning stop?

We arrive at a resort. Marigolds and salty ocean air. My skin drinks and my head pounds. The hot knife embedded in my throat twists deeper. My back aches from the bed springs of my paper-thin mattress that seems more for decoration than support. Yoga helps. I do my best to stay an observer of the process that my body is enduring. India has demanded that I purify before I go any further.

The resort hosts an Ayurvedic Spa and there is space for me to have a treatment. On the night of the apex of my illness, Mother India arrives for me through the hands of a Pachamama-like healer with kind eyes and skilled hands. I give myself over to this Mother of Ganges with a feverish hope that her care will tender my weary body into wellness.

She pours generous handfuls of a blend of 16 oils on my aching bones and works with a matter-of-fact focus and dexterity that reminds me of a mother Bengal tiger tending her cub. Is she actually purring or just humming along to the sound of her hands as they wring out my bones? Her touch communicates love. She is earnest in her desire for me to be well. Her service touches me. I let go. The ice of New York City melts out of my pours and evaporates leaving my ears open to hear the joyful sound of chirping crickets. She smacks oil with loud thumps onto my crown chakra and uses her pinky fingers to work my nostrils open. The little girl within me gasps. I breathe. Oxygen floods my blood stream and Prana flows again. And what is this wonderful smell? Jasmine, floating in on the warm breeze to welcome me, officially, to India.

Mirror, Mirror...

I am exploring the spiritual law, “As within, so without.” I am renovating inwardly when my outer world is disharmonious. Here is a story from India sharing some of my findings.

February 21. On route to Periyar, South India

Inequality. The cast system. Cultural taboos. Lists of do's and don'ts that challenge my independence. India is pushing me. The systems of the wounded patriarch are alive and well in restaurants, hotels and stores. A not-so-subtle pecking order steeped in the duality of “superior” and “inferior.” Value assigned based on birth, beliefs and rules rooted in tradition and ignorance. Of course it is the same as it is in the west, but less subtle. More vivid. Easier to be triggered by. The only place where equality appears to reign is in the streets. Our guide put it this way, “You never know who you're standing next to in India.”

Oppression brings out the rebel in me. Not being able to walk where I want, when I want and wearing what I like stimulates urges to buck. At times, our tour guide morphs into a self-projected finger wagging father-figure whose well-founded guidance is less than gratefully received by me. “You MUST not walk alone. You MUST stay with the group. I MUST pay for what you want from street vendors. You MUST cover your shoulders and knees when we come to the temple...”

He delivered one particularly fiery monologue the morning after four of us made a break for it. Lead by yours truly, swaggering about with a "screw-you-Dad!" kind of defiance we went out for dinner on our own. His morning rant did little to assuage me.

Containment and self-inquiry are handy tools. What was my landscape mirroring to me? What demons of inequality live within? Why do I rebel? How do I oppress? Value and devalue? Objectify and cast out?

I explore inwardly to find my inner rebel and his twin brother the tyrant. My rebel needs an oppressor. My tyrant needs a subject to oppress. They are two sides of the same coin. Locked in battle. Always, a winner and a loser. Desperate in their angling for ways to be at “the top” and bottom. Endlessly trading positions on the imaginary ladder of false evolution and going no where.

In India, I am a winner. I have money. I am educated. I can buy my way to safety. I am more valuable because of my white skin. The attention I receive on the streets is a living testament to this belief. I am a global tyrant.

I am also loser and a rebel. I am a women. Less valued by gender. I must adhere to “their rules” if I am to be safe and deflect harassment, disapproval and judgment. I must kneel or suffer retaliation.

I hold these aspects in my awareness. Cultivate compassion for their fear and insecurity. Their struggle is for safety and there is safety in my heart. Peace emerges. I begin to surrender my “freedoms” with appreciation for my guide's wisdom and his masculine presence. Understanding comes as I reel in my projections of him as controlling, authoritative and dogmatic. He has mirrored my tyrant and I have played the role of his opposite, the rebel. I begin to see him as my brother, a man who cares for my welfare. His approach towards me softens. I aligned with him. Walk beside him instead of against him. An unspoken partnership emerges of mutual respect and understanding.

Veils continue to drop. My vision clearing. The more I integrate within, the less conflict I meet without. In a country where seats on the bus are divided by gender, I gave way to the way it is and access a grid within a grid to discover ease. I navigate the cobwebs of cultural and religious taboo with more grace. Attracting less of what I have been and more of what I am becoming.

I manifest a “Kurta” to wear, a mid to long-sleeved shirt that reaches down below the waistline to cover the buttocks. I feel like a little girl dressed up for church. There is something pleasing to me about wearing it.

As my similarly dressed roommate and I collect our shoes after visiting a 14^th century meditation temple, an elderly man, sitting in the shade notices us. He seems surprised at our outfits. “You look very nice ladies... very nice.” His eyes communicate appreciation. We beam at him. Our efforts of respect have attracted the same. We stand for moment. There is no struggle. No fight. Three people connect through a bridge of common ground birthed from within. It's a win-win all around.

Dancing God. Dancing Goddess.

February 28. Soma Palmshore Resort, Kovalam Beach, Trivandrum

The morning our group visited the Tirumala Nayak Palace in Tanjore my life changed. This palace-turned-museum displays 11^th to 15^th century Indian artifacts of Hindu Gods and Goddess. Apparently this religion revers hundreds of deities, all of whom are understood to embody the endless manifestations of divinity. For the most part museum-type places don't do it for me. But as I gazed at the lines of glass-encased statues something within me stirred.

There were animated sculptures depicting a lean-bodied figure known as “Nataraja”, a form of the ultimate masculine God Shiva. He is gingerly dancing on a rather squashed looking fellow who represents ignorance, the source of all suffering. There were many Natarajas. Dancing along the wall. All in pretty much the same posture. A few in particular drew me closer, emanating a lively energy. Almost startling. Nataraja was laughing. Enjoying himself immensely as he TKO'd his fat little under-foot opponent. There was joy. Victory. And sometimes more than a tad of mischievousness in his expression. It was as if he was saying, “Don't worry... be happy. Oh, and by the way, happiness comes from dancing and from cracking a few skulls like this silly ignoramus I'm working over.” I liked him very much. He was hopeful. And a far-cry from the anguish-stricken images of a slowly-dying crucified Jesus that were center stage in my upbringing. This guy was winning and he was no dancing-fool.

Not to be outdone and demonstrating a resoundingly equal resonance, turning the corner I found Parvati. Also a dancer, she is born of Shakti, the ultimate feminine expression of Hindu divinity. Jewels decorate her hands and feet. Her elaborate garb clings to her shapely and strong form, pronouncing her ample breasts, thin waist and muscular and voluptuous legs. I was awestruck. Mesmerized. Here was “God” in an exotic and sensuous female form. Sexual and holy. As confident in her godliness as she is in her beauty.

Although Parvati is married to Shiva, she is often portrayed alone. Dancing for no one in particular. No audience required. Her hips sway. Moving without apology for the sake of expressing her divine grace. Autonomous. Equal and just fine on her own. Did I hear the delicate jingle of her Indian jewelery? She smiled at me and whispered, “You are a God too. And we are all the One.”

This ecstatic Goddess reflected my feminine form with such eloquence and nobility it dissolved from my bones any remnants of doubt that I, as a woman am equal; that She is as powerful as He. Parvati challenged me to claim my independence and the rightness of knowing that the female in all of her expressions is sacred and divine. I wept. I hadn't realized that there was something missing in me before that day. I had longed to know that there was some culture, somewhere who at least at some point exalted the sexually ecstatic and magnetically attractive feminine. Parvati is revered. A deity prayed to by millions plus one. Real. Equal. Powerful and sexual. She is not hidden behind long robes. She does not carry a child. She is no virgin. She is what I am. And she is no less.

I'm going dancing and I'll wear that silver anklet I just bought that jingles when I move. I'll dance alone. For Nataraja and Parvati. Perhaps we will celebrate together. One more ignoramus down. How many to go?

Just cherries please.

Acknowledgment. I seek it. I need it. At best, I use it to build self-esteem. At worst, I use it as a barometer to measure worthiness, or more accurately affirm unworthiness. Using my environment to measure my value is easy. I've been doing it for years and each country I visit offers a “spécial du jour.”  

Getting attention from the opposite sex is a tried and true way to get my fix. In France, this isn't hard to do. Shall I tell you about the topless sun bathing incident where I was hit on by a lean and muscular 28-year old? My ego loves it. Acknowledgment upswing. But what if I told you about his bad breath and aggressive disposition? Down I go. Value minus ten points.

I've trolled for takers in the market and on the beach. Look elegant. Now demure. Straighten your posture. She scores. A hat trick no less. One lunch proposal. A foot massage from a fireman on the beach and a young warrior-type who loudly declared en français,“You are very beautiful. I love you.” What a circus.

The thing about assigning value based on external factors is that I create false highs and lows, a now-I-feel-it, now-I-don't roller coaster ride that leaves me empty. Still in need. I can't sustain the highs. The candy always runs out. White-knuckled, I hold on tight. Only to fall into a pit of unworthiness to commiserate all that I lack. What goes up, must come down. My pants are too tight. No one wants to read what I'm writing. That cute one didn't even notice me. It isn't true value. It's a self-created soul-shredding grind in which I assign merit based on what I revere and revile. 

I'm coming clean with my lower self's habit of using others to subsidize my lack of self-esteem. Containment and self-observation are handy tools. I notice when I get leaky. I focus on the need. Give it the acknowledgment it seeks. Take a closer look and learn about it.

It's a cruel and aggressive process of self-objectification. Shame its guardian. And the need for attention that powers it is breaking my heart wide open. Desperate. It has been calling my name all along. Asking for ME to assign value to it. And so I am. Slowly. Gently. With tears of compassion. I hold it precious and administer to its wounds.

As I nurture this little one home and deprogram its limiting beliefs, I explore what true worthiness is. Surfing my net in meditation. What does it look like? Feel like? I find it's beyond my mind's ability to comprehend. A felt sense. A knowing beyond reason. It is the experience of being valuable beyond measure. Priceless. Unique. And yes, needless of acknowledgment.

Last night I said “Au revoir” (goodbye) to France. I walked along the sea. Merci beaucoup. Thank you. The crickets shook their rattles and the bright pink sun dipped into the Mediterranean. Hot wind warmed my back, pushing me along. A symphony of nature said, “Bon voyage Alexandra. You are loved beyond measure.” It was an acknowledgment like no other. Unsolicited and one of the most meaningful ever.

Evolved recognition of self is a fearless state of celebration; a living-in-action awareness that I am a spark of divine source. In this, there is no need. I am secure in who and what I am. Precious. Perfect. Loved. I'll keep stretching to live my life in this truth as much as I can. With the recognition that my practice of prancing about for scraps of unsustainable attention is dying. All that I need is within and in accessing that I am changing.

I stopped at a fruit stand the other day. Four stocky handsome Frenchman were there too. I sensed their interest. Before my need for validation had a chance to spring, I held it. No. You're not allowed to play with them Missy. Get back into my heart where you belong. You are exclusively mine to love and cherish. Like magic, my need evaporated and so did the men. And the cherries never tasted so good.