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Jeanette LeBlanc Quotes

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Famous Jeanette LeBlanc Quotes

“Has someone made you feel shame for taking selfies? For daring to believe so much in your beauty, in your style, in your badassery, in your joy, in your body, in your sensuality, in your humanity that you'd be so audacious, so bold, so (insert judgmental word of choice here) to want to witness and be witnessed for who and what you are. ⠀ ⠀ Has someone out there sold you their own truth that this is conceited or narcissistic or superficial? How dare you think so much of yourself that you stop to take a photo?⠀ ⠀ Forget. those. people. ⠀ ⠀ Seriously. You are worthy of capture. Of celebration. Of admiration. You are worthy of being seen and witnessed. Of being looked at with awe and with joy. Just as you are, right now. All made up and wearing the outfit that makes you feel like you can take on the world or just waking up in bed, bare skin and messy hair and eyes hazy with dreams. ⠀ ⠀ Here's the thing. Self-portraiture in art is as old as time. We are fascinated with the visible proof of our own existence, our own reality, and for damn good reason. We are infinite and complex and ever changing. We are majestic and mundane. Self-portraits, regardless of the medium, offer us a way to capture ourselves at a specific moment in time. ⠀ ⠀ For me, this is an act of self-love. Of self-honoring. Of owning myself as beautiful and sovereign. It is the way I learned to look at myself without needing to look away. It is how I learned to trace the lines of my own being with the sort of admiration I used to reserve for others, for those I loved or for rarified celebrities I never thought I could live up to. ⠀ ⠀ When I stop to take a photo of myself, it is a way to say that I am here. I have something to say that can't be spoken in words. It might be deep and poetic, or maybe I just damn well love my outfit and think you should see it. And that yes, it is a way to say I want to be seen and I no longer hold shame in that wanting.”

“Today, take a moment to celebrate you. Your beauty. Your style. Your sense of inner mischief. The way you glow in the sunlight. Your strut in those badass boots. The way the dress hugs your soft curves. The gleam in your eye. The curve of your irrepressible smile. The line of your collarbone. The way you know, underneath all the doubts and insecurities and demons that you are, in fact, magic. And what’s more? You always have been. You don’t need someone else to say so. This isn’t for likes or comments. You don’t need to book a photoshoot for this celebration. This is between you and you. For you to take the time to see yourself. To smile at your own beauty. Find a spot where you feel the energy. Where the sun hits just so. Where the colors or textures make you feel more alive, more you. Find somewhere to prop your phone and set the timer on your camera. You don’t need special equipment. And then just see what happens. Be open and curious about what wants to be seen. If someone sees you and stares or laughs or has the nerve to judge, you just ground down and rise up even more. They are just missing out on how good it can feel to see and know your own magic and beauty. And yes. If you want, and it feels good, you should share it. Because we want to see you and celebrate you too.”

“Last night I undressed for bed. But instead of crawling between the sheets I decided to stand, naked, in front of the large full-length mirror that is propped against the wall next to my bed. ⠀ ⠀ I turned off the bright lights, and found a song that spoke to the energy I could feel under my skin. For a while I just stood there. And I looked at myself. Bare skin. Open Heart. Clear truth. ⠀ ⠀ It's a wonder, after 42 years on earth, to allow it to fully land, this knowing that I can stop, and look at myself and think things other than unkind words. ⠀ ⠀ Don't get me wrong. I don't want to paint you a pretty social media picture that doesn't play out in real life. I'm not suddenly completely fine with all that is. I'm human and I'm a woman in the midst of this particular culture, and so of course I'd love to be tighter and firmer and lifted. I'd love to have the skin and metabolism I did in my twenties. I wish, often, that my stomach were flatter. I wear makeup and I dye away my gray hair. I worry about these things too, of course I do. ⠀ ⠀ But finally, and fully - I can stand and look at myself and be filled, completely, with love. I can look at myself entirely bare and think, yes, I like myself now. Just as I am. Even if nothing changes. This me. She is good. And she is beautiful. ⠀ ⠀ And even in the space of allowing myself to be human, and annoyed with those things I view as imperfections, I honor and celebrate this shift. ⠀ ⠀ And so last night I was able to stand there. Naked and unashamed and run my own hands gently along my own skin. To offer the tenderness of the deepest seduction. To practice being my own best lover, to romance my own soul. To light the candles and buy the flowers. To hold space for my own knowing. ⠀ ⠀ And to touch my own skin while the music played. Gently. Lightly. With reverence. My thighs, my arms, my breasts, my belly, the points where my pulse makes visible that faint movement that proves me alive. To trace the translucent blue veins, the scars, the ink that tells stories. To whisper to the home of my own desire. ⠀ ⠀ I love you. ⠀ I respect your knowing. ⠀ Thank you for waiting for me to get here. ⠀ I finally see that you are holy.”

“What are you knowing that you do not want to know"? I didn’t know it at the time. Could never have predicted all that would come to pass in the months to come. Would not have imagined the way the trajectory of a life could swing wildly on the power of 40 tiny, seemingly ordinary letters. But that is, in actual fact, what happened. And yet, it changed everything that was and everything that would be. We have this idea in life that we need to find the answers, discover the solutions, tie up the loose ends, and fill in the blanks. Leave no stone unturned in search of the truth. Sleuth out the mystery, solve the riddle, and find the treasure. I’m shaking my head even as I write these words. If this life has taught me anything, it is that answers are lovely, sure. But it is the questions that hold the power.”

“That thing you’re afraid of? That label you shy away from? That word that seems too bold? That audacious goal? The life you think you don’t deserve? Aren’t talented enough to have? Aren’t brave enough to claim? Fuck. That. Shit. None of that baggage you’ve been carrying around has a place this year. Kick to the the curb. Now. This year only has space for the bold and the audacious and the brave. Don’t try to convince me you are not those things. I know better and your excuses hold no weight here. You are brave and bold and audacious and one hell of a goddess. Always have been. Always will be. So fill every step you take with intention. Then remember that intention is worthless without action—so get a move on, sugar”

“Deal resistance a death blow and make sweet love to your art all night long. Put on your fishnet thigh highs and your patent leather stilettos and your special occasion lingerie. Seduce the hell out of your own creative soul. It’s time for an epic lap dance. Dance for your paint and canvas, for fingers tripping across keyboard, for the open arms of motherhood, for the layers of flavor in the meals you create. Wind your hips down for the click of the shutter, for the 3 a.m. bathroom poem, for the late night lesson planning”

“Yes, being human is a staggering act of near-impossible bravery. But you were born to be the hero of your own story. And true heroes do not try to do it alone. Lean all the way in. I promise, I’ll catch you if you fall. Or you’ll catch me. Either way - there are arms at the ready, Strong enough to hold us all.”

“Forgive yourself. So, you did a thing that you've named wrong, or the world has named wrong, or a loved one has named wrong. or some powerful dudes who compiled a book of parables and myths thousands of years ago named wrong. How entirely human of you. Own it all. Stand in the truth of it. Make the apology you need to make to close your own open wound. Do what you can to stanch the flow of blood in the others. And then be done. Listen to me, now.  Your atonement was never intended to be a full-time job.”

“More than anything I know we need each other. We need community and connection. We need to show up, in real time and in flesh and bone, and love on each other. We need hands on hearts and someone to sleep next to us and hold us on the darkest nights. We need to dismantle the division and heal the wounds. We need to show our children a different way and create for them a different world. I know so much and I know so little. I don't actually know anything at all. And I know sometimes, it still won't be enough. I return again and again to my simple promise, my most important commitment: to stay with myself. To fight for my own return. To whisper, "I am here now. I will not leave you." And to mean it.”

“Go now, and live. Experience. Dream. Risk. Close your eyes and jump. Enjoy the freefall. Choose exhilaration over comfort. Choose magic over predictability. Choose potential over safety. Wake up to the magic of everyday life. Make friends with your intuition. Trust your gut. Discover the beauty of uncertainty. Know yourself fully before you make promises to another. Make millions of mistakes so that you will know how to choose what you really need. Know when to hold on and when to let go. Love hard and often and without reservation. Seek knowledge. Open yourself to possibility. Keep your heart open, your head high and your spirit free. Embrace your darkness along with your light. Be wrong everyday once in a while, and don't be afraid to admit it. Awaken to the brilliance in ordinary moments. Tell the truth about yourself no matter what the cost. Own your reality without apology. See goodness in the world. Be Bold. Be Fierce. Be Grateful. Be Wild, Crazy and Gloriously Free. Be You. Go now, and live.”

“This life? It is yours. Anyone who suggests that it is not or that it should not be is not here for you. You get to decide how you want to live it, what you want to call it, how and when and why you want to change it. No matter how many times you shift, no matter how often you adjust, no matter the experimentation or the wild exploration, no matter how many times you've been lost or how many times you've been found or any of the missteps you took along the way. Be willing to reinvent yourself fiercely, relentlessly, endlessly in the face of their anger, in response to their fear, in righteous rebellion. A holy(r)evolution. Take to the streets if you wish. Paint the protest sign with your own name. You are not required to stay who you were, or who you are, or even who you will be. You were made for metamorphosis. Designed for course correction. Built for shifting trajectories and smashing paradigms. You are here to become. And nobody can write the terms of your contract but you.”

“I know nothing about love. No, that’s not exactly true. I know nothing about love that comes with a map or guarantee or even a set of rudimentary instructions. Instead, what I know is kind of a collective unknowing. It is a wisdom that lies only in understanding the extent of my own lack of knowledge. An embrace of the mystery. Of the unpredictability. Of the way love defies capture or description or ownership. Of the way it refuses boxes or labels or limits. Of the way, we return to it again and again and again. Regardless of fear and walls and every sensible bone in our human bodies. No matter the hurt and the pain and the betrayal of our own integrity. Our hearts? They are always willing to deep dive one more, one more, just one more time...”

“No matter what controversy erupts, you'll find that artists just keep doing what artists have been doing since the beginning of time. Pushing the edges. Exploding the margins. Making something so compelling you can't look away even when it disturbs you, even when it awakens something dormant inside your being that threatens the status quo you depend on. We are here to rewire the rules of creation. Here to make work that refuses to be ignored. Writing and singing and dancing our way out of the closets and out of the churches and out of the pyres they built to burn us. It's our job as makers, as writers and singers and painters and dancers and actors and those born to act as mirrors to a world that sought to contain us inside a dogma meant only for the meek and compliant. It's the entire reason, full stop, the ending and the beginning of the story, of every story, Over and over and over again. So, the conservative talking heads, the hellfire and brimstone preachers, the right-wing bible thumpers, and those who have proclaimed themselves the bastions of moral superiority can keep clutching their pearls and beating their breasts. We'll just keep making art that moves you. You're welcome.”

“Take more selfies. Not because you need validation or likes or comments. but because you are here on this earth. Alive and holy and true. And yes, your beauty deserves to be seen and known, most especially by you. You are worthy of being the subject of your own art. It is okay to capture the process of your own becoming. To be your own kind and gentle and fierce witness. To learn the truth of your eyes and your skin and your bones. To choose to show what wants to be shown, to name what wishes to be named, to claim ownership of the story that is told about you by being the one to tell it. Dear girl. YOU are the greatest art you will ever create. The masterpiece. The magnum opus. You’re it. However you want to be. Look at yourself now, miracle that you are, look at yourself and soak in the wonder, until you no longer want to look away.”

“People stay all the time where we know they should not. Even more, they stay where THEY know they should not. Against reason. At the risk of their bodies. At the risk of their sovereignty. At the risk of their heart. We humans are nothing if not tenaciously obtuse in the face of a story that wants to end itself.”

“It's hard to find a hook to end a story when nothing much has changed since the beginning. But so it is, and so we are. Some stories are just like that, I think. The endings are soft, or maybe not endings at all. Just a continuation. Just a pause. Just a life, waiting for the right time to begin again.”

“They will try to cage us. Attempt to limit, constrain, make us compliant, take control. No, they may never stop coming for us & our bodies. Remember: we were made for changing times & battle lines. Born of the wombs of paradigm shifters & revolutionaries. We have evolved & changed & demanded what is ours since the beginning of time. We will not stop now. No matter how much the ground shifts beneath your feet, you must remember: You are no lone wolf. You were born for the hunt. Strong men will cower before you. If they come for you—as they have & will—draw yourself into the fullness of your feral power, look them in the eye & remember: The howl of you can never be contained. A message to those who would try: Know this. To tame a wild thing is never an act of love. It is an act of containment, of force. A call against nature and instinct and the primal force of the shadows. Consider this your warning: I am calling things forth now. I am claiming space & defining territory. I am declaring my own agency & ownership of my body. I am rooting in ritual & rising in power. If you come to me now—if you want to love me, or gain access to my holy body, to make art by my side, enter my circle, or gain my trust—you must first listen, & listen well. The rules of engagement are mine alone, to make and break and change at will. Do not try to quiet my voice. Do not attempt to soften my edges or tame my prowl. I am inhabiting my wild. I am encompassing the dance. I am no longer burning down. That time is over. I am the white-hot ignition. I am starting the fire. I am rising like flame. Want to come with me? Then step closer to the heat. Meet me in the sliver of space between passion and truth where all is red-hot, & even the shadows are dancing. Meet me there, in the heart of the wild. Come with your naked skin & your own hallowed heat. Leave behind your attempts to control a damn thing. If you intend to love a wolf, you'd best come ready to hear her howl.”

“The more I write openly into the space of sexual sovereignty, the more I hear from humans desperate for a safe space to share. Those who have nowhere to be fully honest and real about the whys and hows and whats and whos of their body and its desire. ⁠ What turns us on? What brings us pleasure? What completely normal and natural variation of human sexuality have we labeled deviant simply because it does not fit within the prescribed heteronormative, vanilla narrative for what we are permitted to experience? Where do we berate ourselves because we like what we like and we want what we want?⁠ It's a fucking shame that we've driven so much into the shadows. It's a travesty that we are forced to squeeze the entire spectrum of desire into such a tightly constructed box. ⁠ You've got 22 square feet of skin covering your holy human body—of course, there's a hell of a lot of different ways to make that skin feel good. ⁠ Coincidentally, 22 square feet is approximately the size of a standard closet door., and we all know a closet is a terrible place to live. When we force people into the closet, we cause harm. We create an experience of othering based on our own discomfort and unwillingness to expand our notions of acceptability.⁠ We NEED to start having way more honest, open, and raw conversations about sex, desire, and kink.⁠ We need to blow the remaining closets to smithereens. ⁠ We need to talk about how to embrace the power of full, enthusiastic consent and expand our sex-positivity and our ability to say 'that's so not for me, but GO YOU and your bad self feeling all that pleasure'. We need to start really thinking about how, as long as we bring no harm to others in the fulfillment of desire, we aren't fucking wrong for the wanting. ⁠ Embrace your queerness or your kink or your fetish in your journal or to your bestie or to an internet stranger. Hell, start by whispering it out loud in an empty room and then breathe the power of that back into your being. ⁠ You are human. You get to want. You get to feel good. Anything else is blasphemy.”

“We’ve all lived too damn long lugging around this puritanical notion that pleasure must be villainized to protect us from ourselves.⁠ Fuck that.⁠ Seriously.⁠ The only question you need to ask is this:⁠ Is everyone involved in full personal safety and enthusiastic consent?⁠ Ask it loudly and repeatedly if you need to.⁠ Yes?⁠ Then you go with your bad, brilliant, beautiful, pleasure-filled self.⁠ Our bodies are here to feel good.⁠ And what makes that happen isn’t for anyone else to decide.⁠ It doesn’t matter whether you’re outside the gender binary, into collars and restraints, love someone with the same parts, desire more than one human, or have a kinky turn on others think is weird.⁠ Monogamous, polyamorous, relationship anarchist, vanilla, kinky—whatever your flavor, it’s valid.⁠ We’ve all wasted way too much damn time in the closet.⁠ End of story.”

“You alone own your story. Do not let another tell it, and if you find yourself in the company of one determined to rewrite your words or own your narrative, fight like hell until you hold it again. There is little in life that is solely ours. Your story is one of those priceless few things. It is beyond precious. The people meant to be In your life will only strengthen your voice, not take it from you.”

“I will not stop living my queerness out loud. I will not stop raining my good queer love down on the world until we all have a seat at the table. Until expressions of love and identity are met with the wonder with which we should meet all evidence of goodness in a world as harsh and lonely as this one can be. Until the glitter of generations of fragmented hearts just like mine are finally welcomed all the way home.”

“Grief doesn't answer to the rules of good sense, she doesn’t answer to any rules at all. Grief is a willful mother fucker who takes what she wants and spits us out where she will. She will not be rushed. Refuses to be contained. The body of you can sustain blow after blow after blow and remain standing, and then the smallest of breezes will bring the whole thing down. It took me a long time to make peace with this. To make friends with the raw, keening animal edge of it all. To understand that we all carry our grief differently, that it stacks and morphs and twists and hides—and then when it is ready, it rushes in, eager to finally have its say.”

“Dear Writer, Sometimes we treat the negative voices in your head - the ones who say we can’t do this writing thing, we’re not as good as so-and-so, nobody will read what we write - as if they are voices that deserve respect. As if they speak from some great authority & know what is true. As if they don’t take our silence as tacit acceptance of their whispers to hammer away at our deepest insecurities. To hell with that. You tell that voice that she’s had her turn, it’s no longer her time. It’s time to shut the hell up & be quiet for once. Life is too short - & your art too precious - to waste it on bullies. Make no mistake, she IS a bully. Ignoring bullies makes them louder, more insistent on getting in your face & shutting you down. No more. Fact. Bullies don’t speak truth from a place of power, but they are really good at convincing us that they do. They actually just hone in on our weaknesses with extraordinary precision and speak lies from a place of false bravado. They expect us not to talk back, gain their power by our acceptance of their words. When we don’t speak they take that as permission to get louder. Not this time. This time you stop & write down what the voice is saying. Then you cross that shit out with the biggest, blackest marker you can find and tell her she needs to listen. This time, you talk back, draw yourself up to the fullness of your power. Root down into the depth of your truth. Coax that flame in your belly until you feel it fire up your whole being. Then you tell her YOUR truth. In writing, so it won’t be forgotten. Tell her she’s wasting time. That you’ve got art to make. That you’re done with her lies & attempts to undermine your power & silence the stories that live inside you. Tell her whatever the hell you want, but do it with all of you. Be willing to go past what you even believe and have your own back this time. Write exactly the words you need to say, which also happen to be exactly the words that you need to hear. And then be done with it. And write. After all, that voice wouldn’t ever be this loud if she didn’t know you had something important to say. So say it, writer. The world is waiting for you.”

“Life can sometimes seem an endless experience in compromise, in bending into the break, in the give + take + lead + follow of interconnection. This is all so good and necessary to building a community of souls, trusting that we are not in this world on our own, learning the power of leaning into the collective good. And yet. There are spaces and places and ideals in my life that are not open to discussion, not up for negotiation, not an invitation to debate or argue or compromise. Leading this list are the terms of my own freedom, the ways I have learned to know and name my ownership of this one life I am living. I have come to name this sense of ownership my personal sovereignty. It is mine and mine alone. The container of this sovereignty—what it includes and leaves behind, the way it moves through the world, how it dances with others—all of this may change a million times over, but that is mine and mine alone to decide.”

“i. In the new version of my new story, the actor cast in the role of my heart will no longer be asked to play arsonist to crumbled ruins in order to collect on the insurance policy of all she risked in the name of love. ii. She will also no longer feel the need to erect skyscraper scaffolds to prop up walls too weary to hold the weight of their own aspirations. iii. Instead, she will plant riotous gardens of wildflowers, sing the shooting stars home to her chest, and discover that the secret to healing has been long naps and deep joy all along. iv. She will, of course, continue to risk it all for love. Why would she possibly do anything but that? v. Despite all the burning she has known, despite all the ways the ashes of her hopes have fallen ungracefully from great heights, she has always been born for the rise. vi. She remembers now that she has never fallen without being caught. My god, her people have such strong arms. vii. She knows that sometimes, it’s not so much rising as being lifted and held until the singed feathers grow back and the wings are strong enough to spread wide and fly again. viii. Hands at your back, her dearheart says. She feels them there and knows she is never alone. ix. Every story that dies gives birth to another. This has been the way of stories since the beginning of time. x. The actor newly cast in the role of my heart is ready for a new story to begin.”

“If you’re going to love a poet you should know this. Our words are our truths. Our blood hums with verse. We break easily. Our words save us. Our stanzas keep us alive. If we loved you at all, we loved you truly. And you will never leave us but live under our skin and beneath the tips of our fingers and in the ink spill on blank page. Because poetry, like some love, is forever.”

“People often wondered what it was that made her so very compelling. Why she drew people in again and again? It wasn’t her beauty or her talent, though many, including myself, found those impossible to argue. I believe it was because she refused to deny the storm of her. She wasn’t all sunny days and brightness, and she knew it. Most people shy away from their own darkness, but she cast it across the sky without shame and it turns out none of us could resist the raw truth of that. - for women who harness the storm”

“I’m mesmerized by lipstick prints on coffee cups. By the lines of lips against white pottery. By the color chosen by the woman who sat and sipped and lived life. By the mark she leaves behind. Some people read tea leaves and others can tell your future through the lines on your palm. I think I’d like to read lipstick marks on coffee mugs. To learn how to differentiate yearning from satiation. To know the curve of a deep-rooted joy or the line of bottomless grief. To be able to say, this deep blue red you chose and how firmly you planted your lips, this speaks of love on the horizon. But, darling, you must be sure to stand in your own truth. That barely-there nude that circles the entire rim? You are exploding into lightness and possibilities beyond what you currently know. The way the gloss only shows when the light hits it and the coffee has sloshed all over the saucer? people need to take the time to see you whole but my god, you’re glorious and messy and wonderful and free. The deep purple bruise almost etched in a single spot and most of the cup left unconsumed? Oh love. Let me hold the depth of your ache. It is true. He’s not coming back. I know you already know this, but do you also know this is not the end? Love. This is not the end. I imagine that I can know entire stories by these marks on discarded mugs. Imagine that I know something intimate and true of the woman who left them. That I could take those mugs home one day and an entire novel worth of characters would pour out, just like that.”

“We were in Julie’s room one night, my eldest daughter and I, maybe a decade ago now. I wanted to show her how the canvas painting she had carefully labored over for her little sister's Christmas gift was framed and hung on the wall. I said, gazing at her masterpiece with no small amount of motherly pride, “Now it looks like a real work of art”. Bella looked at me quizzically, wondering yet again how her mother could possibly understand so little about the world. “Mama, every time you make something, or draw something, or paint something, it is already real art. There is no such thing as art that is not real” And so I said that she was right, and didn’t it look nice, and once again, daughter became guru and mother became willing student. Which is, I sometimes think, the way it was meant to be. ~~~~~ art is always real. all of it. even the stuff you don’t understand. even the stuff you don’t like. even the stuff that you made that you would be embarrassed to show your best friend that photo that you took when you first got your DSLR, when you captured her spirit perfectly but the focus landed on her shoulder? still art. the painting you did last year the first time you picked up a brush, the one your mentor critiqued to death? it’s art. the story you are holding in your heart and so desperately want to tell the world? definitely art. the scarf you knit for your son with the funky messed up rows? art. art. art. the poem scrawled on your dry cleaning receipt at the red light. the dress you want to sew. the song you want to sing. the clay you’ve not yet molded. everything you have made or will one day make or imagine making in your wildest dreams. it’s all real, every last bit. because there is no such thing as art that is not real.”

“Truth? Sometimes I question every last thing I’m doing. Truth? Right now, those questions swirl every damn day. Is this also true for you? Still, we keep moving forward, you and I. We try new things. We doggedly keep on doing the old things because though they may not have worked in the past it doesn’t feel like crazy to continue, it feels like the space of trusting some wild sort of knowing. We love, good and hard. We show up for life. In the midst of depression, insanely messy houses, and bank accounts sliding closer and closer to that fine red line, and panic attacks, and kids who won’t listen but who damn well know how to question and love. And we make stuff. My god, the way we keep on making stuff. Because we can and we have to. Because it’s the only damn thing that feels right when everything else feels a hundred kinds of wrong. We create. Defiant and determined and true. Weary hearts brought to blazing life if only for those wild moments we dance with the muse.”

“Drive us underground We will always surface Singing words you can never own Because you don’t have the range to hear them. Go ahead, take away our words, We will birth a whole new language You’ve been sending your armies for us since the beginning of time But we were born for battle. You wonder why we are still here? You made us this strong. Do you think getting rid of a word will silence us? You’d have to ban them all.”

“Perhaps all love affairs are nothing more than the projections of hopeful hearts looking for soft lodging in a world that would have them be hard. Perhaps. Perhaps love is always just this; the suspension of disbelief and the fierce welcoming of a shared and altered reality. Is not the impossible always made possible by love? The ridiculous transformed to serious? What was once only a stuff of dreams made real? If we are willing to allow it or admit it, are we not all altered by our loving?”

“This is the way of lovers, isn’t it - to overqualify their experience? Who, in the midst of rush and longing, thinks, well, this love is mundane, inconsequential, and utterly unoriginal? No. To those in the midst of falling, all love is great love. It would be insulting to suggest otherwise. But still, at the risk of appearing biased or overly sentimental, might I suggest that even in the truth of this, some loves are different. And this was one of them. It is commonly accepted that a love affair is only made great by time and history and by its discovery and retelling at a time long after the love has ended, by death or leaving. Hearts broken by distance or cruelty or the ultimate fallibility of the human heart. We believe that the greatness of a love affair can only be defined and named in retrospect—after it has been documented, proven, recognized by many. But normal rules of love do not apply here, because this was not an ordinary love.”

“Look at you, damn it. Hell, look at us. After all the things that could have taken us down, here we are, still standing. Still insisting on our own sovereignty, our own validity, the beauty of our journey. No matter how many times we wander, charting our course back to ourselves without anyone else holding the map or helping with the compass. Finding our way in the dark. Navigating with the help of the moon and the stars and by our insistence on hearing our own wild heartbeat. Honoring the wisdom, dancing in the in-between, resting in the silence, and soaking in the light. Make sure you stop today and breathe in your power. Even on the days you can’t see it, I promise you I can. It’s time to center yourself, love. Pull your focus inward—to the things you know you want and deserve. To respect and reciprocity and giving only to those who commit to the asking. Be discerning with your time and your energy and your tender heart. Be infinitely brave in your voice and speaking your needs and your truth. This work is hard and it is holy and it is so, so good. Because from your center, all there is left to do is expand. You have done this so many times before. You know what comes next. There's some serious power brewing here. You could say, 'Watch out, world'. But it doesn't really matter if they do or they don't. What comes next is just for you.”

“After a lifetime of contorting myself to fit into boxes never meant for the likes of me—it’s true. I got tired of feeling ashamed all the time. It is wildly subversive to say that I no longer feel ashamed—not in body, soul, beliefs, or movement through the world, not for who, what, or how I am. I do not hold an apology for the ways, hows, and whos of my work, my desire, and my love. There is an ownership of power in this simple fact that refuses to fit into words. But if you see me, you’ll know it. Sovereignty. That’s what I call it. Somehow, through all the twists and turns and fuckery of this life, I became a woman who is sovereign unto herself. Does this mean I’ve beaten all my demons and that I don’t give a fuck, and that everything is peachy keen all the time? Oh, hell no. Not even close. I am a woman who will forever be grappling with herself—pushing and growing and expanding and contracting, learning and unlearning, and tripping over the same lessons 50 times or more on the way to integration. It gets messy in this brain, heart, and body of mine. That’s just how I’m made. But the fact remains that no person, relationship, religion, belief system, or organization holds me to any agreement that negates my contract with myself. Fact: Your shame serves nobody. In fact, where there is shame, there is no pleasure. It is your pleasure that the universe spirals eternally toward. There comes a time in human evolution when a woman gets tired of asking permission to live, breathe, be, and love in the most honest and true way. When she stops looking outside of herself, she writes her own permission slip and doesn’t look back. A time when she is ready to own her story. Remove the masks. Shed the shame. Speak and write and live as a human sovereign unto herself. Are you ready to be subversive? How about revolutionary? Is this finally your time?”