going fallow

fog

The passing Imbolc, over a week ago, recognized our midway point between Winter and Spring.

The lack of cut off denims and sun-kissed thighs and family hikes will be coming to a close before we know it.

Restlessness naturally comes around as we reach this point in the seasonal wheel.

I’ve been thinking lately, when reflecting on my recent words and the discomfort of feeling so exposed in who I am, that I need a recharge.

I, all the sudden, understood that with my Winter months leading the LafanLuna Ladies Circle, I hadn’t taken the critical withdrawal from the online world that I usually do at this time. I’ve also realized that the act of descending is much harder when you are leading.

It seems Winter, the very month that calls us into our own hibernation, can quickly become a masculine, task-oriented time in order to soothe and glaze over the inner callings of ourselves.

I am shutting down for the next nearly two weeks (or so) to both recharge and to finish out the last of the Winter weeks internal work of clarifying and bringing forth what’s next in my life.

I am laying down my masculine tasks to immerse more fully into my feminine creative space.

I’ll be tending to my Luna Letters heart-stormed idea, so that I’ll be ready to mail the first one with the Vernal Equinox new moon, and making space to welcome in my next circle idea (a sexuality circle that keeps tapping on my door and scares the shit out of me), and recalibrating myself to the clarity of this growing tribe of women and my ever certain commitment to family first.

I’ll be chopping root veggies and drinking oodles of hot cocoa to lovingly embrace this seasons nourishment (because gosh am I ready for Spring greens).

I’ll be reading my half dozen stack of books…including the profound words of Nayyirah Waheed, inspiring erotica and the always resonating words of Tami Lynn Kent.

I’ll be decluttering, cleaning and ridding the sweet little simplicity heart of mine away.

I’ll be creating up some homeschool goodness with the kids.

I’ll be tending to my body, as it feels rather deprived in the less active days of Winter. Hello stretching, coconut oil, getting dressed each morning (what a brilliant idea!), painting my toenails red, braids in my hair, sticking my feet in the clay and imagining it’s the soft ocean sand, making love, meandering the mini trails of my backyard, making kitchen magic and nourishing the family with goodness and indulgences.

I’ll be journaling and making space to process the very space I’m offering myself.

I’ll be breaking from the universal sized internet world, remembering that email is never a priority and that true nourishment comes when we are honest with ourselves about what is needed and then give it to ourselves.

Mostly, I’ll be tending to my root. Going fallow to restore my own fertility.

I encourage you to carve out space (even a day) during these last weeks of Winter to fill your creative/nourishment/feminine well.

Thank you for being here. Thank you for reading.

With love,

falan sig

 

 

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Embarrassing thoughts, stories and layers of my root.

pc

Sometimes I feel rather embarrassed to admit I fantasize about how nice it’d be if life was tidy.

Sometimes I feel very embarrassed to admit that sometimes I ponder how simple the lives of singles must be. The lives of those without partners and/or children.

How uncluttered and uncomplicated and tidy it must be. How easy it must be to meet your own needs. How easy it must be to meet your dreams.

But I know this is all bullshit. Just a story I tell myself and a story I would never want.

The truth is we all have what we have because it is what we called in, what we asked for in some way, what we need, what we want, what we need to live and breathe and move through.

The truth is my path is everything I want.

The truth is my path is my path, and no path remains tidy.

It was one year ago, this week, that I fell ill and spent three months grieving identified and unidentified grief, and opening my heart to the newest of depths.

Playfulness, a familiar player in how I express myself, has become a magician who keeps appearing and then disappearing as I step into what feels like a new me in so many ways.

This past weekend a few situations (all the same really, just repeats) came about, and I reacted (fleetingly, thankfully) in a way that I haven’t in a long time. I responded like the old, closed off, controlling gal in me would.

I remembered with such freshness how that used to be me and how far I had come.

I came across the words “limited expression” recently and I keep rolling them around in my mind like marbles, wondering how to fully journey into the part of me that is asking to express myself more, in very new territory.

The other night, as the house slept, I shuffled my tarot cards and mulled over the lingering hurt of a long fed pain and out fell judgment before I had a chance to choose.

Rebirth. Forgiveness. Awakening.

I know I am closing the door of a very old story, but for some reason my foot is still wedged there, holding it open because I am comforted in some fucked up way (why are we so hard on ourselves?) by the old story…and even though what lives beyond that door is more beautiful and liberating than anything I’ve lived, it isn’t familiar.

Or perhaps it is familiar. Just to the parts of me that know only truth.

But so many of us live our lives through lies and habits and familiarities and comforts.

I keep sitting with the stories I tell myself. About how things are.

And for some reason I keep noticing that they are just stories. Stories. Not truth. Not non-fiction in any sense but the sense of my heart. They are my stories even if the characters in each story would write it a completely different way.

My intact place would write it differently too.

The full moon brought me my next step. Telling the stories I hold in my womb. Asking for guidance in the new stories of myself.

But, but, but…no matter how much I want to, am called to, it never feels the time has come to fully work in the next layer of my root.

It asks of a courage I haven’t yet met.

This has been my uphill climb for a long time now, and for some reason I know I am nearing the top ready to trek the edgiest parts.

Ready to take my foot from the door and move into the next room.

Sincere warmth,

falan sig

 

 

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Grief, love and apples.

lifewillbreakyou

This quote has been ruminating inside of me for weeks now.

It doesn’t matter how content, how happy, how blissful and how silly I can feel, I can always step inside grief.

A grief that is brief and fleeting. A grief that comes from the place inside of me that knows we don’t survive nor live life without it.

For me grief feels like a room I walk into occasionally, slowly and mindfully. A quiet room, where I remove my robe and feel the ache and beauty on my bare chest that grief is.

Where I feel the love that feeds the grief.

I grieve in the future for the past and for the today I live now.

Time isn’t real, and it is borrowed and quick and slow and transient.

Sometimes I find myself in this room when I catch a glimpse of her small hand and know its bigness is coming, or when I see the coming-of-age in him, or when I watch the shape of her face change.

Sometimes I find myself in this room when see the passage of time since I found love in him, and then them, and then finally myself.

Sometimes I find myself in this room when I look ahead and see the days when the wrinkles around, and the story within, our eyes are deeper than the color.

I carry grief because I love. Because the fear that stood guard of my love has melted and melted and melted, and revealed to me that my fear would not protect me from the grief that comes with love.

That love is my risk.

That love is the apples I have eaten.

 

xx,

falan sig

 

 

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I want to tell you

bench

I have no idea where this post will go.

I feel a lot on my mind right now.

I wish to say so many things and wonder why one topic can’t summarize the oceans of thoughts that tell me to write about them.

waterfall

I want to tell you that a new year is not a starting place of resolutions, summaries or plans of the 8,765 hours that fill our precious year. That you can start new or start over in any moment, in any hour, in any day. That you can begin a year with nothing but an empty basket and your dearest belongings inside.

I want to tell you about the village I don’t have. This one scares me and is a blog post waiting to happen. These words will come soon.

candlelight

I want to tell you that I feel lighter than I have in a long time.

I want to tell you that this year I haven’t laughed as much as I’m known to laugh. This year was rich in the dark work of spirit. The laughter is returning. I’m so glad. I’ve missed it.

jeans

I want to tell you I feel so ready for this year because I have so few expectations. I feel grounded in the fact that we never have any fucking idea of certainty. We choose and we create and we live, and we are left with a life that looks surprisingly like everything we asked for; yet, that shapes us with the curveballs and edges that only spirit in body can bring.

I want to tell you that the internet turns me off a lot sometimes. Though, I love and appreciate it for the tool that it is, it often feels like a distraction of the deepness life calls us to live. This coupled with the fact that it facilitates a different and beautiful kind of connection.

hotchoc

I want to tell you that I always intend to be honest and vulnerable here. To show you how human I really am. To bravely tell my stories. This year, I hope I have the courage to tell the ones waiting to be told.

I want to tell you that I miss snail mail, I think we need more of it, and that I’ve been harboring inspiration to share letters with you. Stay tuned and I’ll tell you more about that real soon.

windowwriting

I want to tell you that I sincerely believe that to love and to be loved in return is richest human experience. I think I’ve told you this before. Maybe a few times. I want to tell you again.

I want to tell you that rage lives in me and I think it lives in all women. That only some of us let it out.

candletea
I want to tell you that guilt is such a wasted emotion. That I don’t want to do guilt anymore. That I do it too often.

I want to tell you that you’ll never figure anything out until after you’ve lived it, that you know all you need to know, that you are exactly where you’re meant to be.

I want to tell you thank you for being here. Always, thank you.

With love,

falan sig

 

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What really matters?

Deep sensitive
I circle the moon with ease
Warm womb rising truths
I slide down the crescent
and hit the edge
I dangle
Waiting wanting wondering
I stand
and step
as she and I wane.

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This was my Thursday.

Friday, we woke for early morning love making.

We finished just as the sun rose and decided quietly, alone, and then together, that we should just stay up and began our day.

Quiet beginnings before the kids awoke.

A rarity.

We peeked at the pink sky, and then shared hot chocolate in bed while watching Love Actually.

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Sometimes I feel the worst parts of myself rise to the surface, begging for air, for life, for the center of attention.

I feel harried, irritated, bitter at “stuff”. Literally, stuff. Things, material stuff.

I fantasize about single suitcases and getting lost in the whispers of wanderlust.

I think of more love making and less worrying.

More laughter and less internet.

More playfulness and less planning.

More adventure and less maintaining.

More and more and more love, because nothing matters more than the love.

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After the Friday beginnings of love making-hot chocolate-movie watching, I floated on the waters of awareness, presence, playfulness and joy.

I spent the day in alignment with the truth of what matters to me.

I let everything else wait.

Some days I fall asleep with the lingering remains of falling short.

It’s like being in a hot air balloon, hovering over what matters, but never looking over the edge of the basket and taking it in.

I don’t like these days.

I fully know and understand that as women (humans) we ebb and flow, rise and fall, wax and wane.

Yet, I scheme and wonder and plan and seek ways that I can always wax in the awareness, presence, playfulness and joy.

I’m captivated by what matters to me.

I wonder why I can’t stay in that place (even when I know why).

I wonder how even though I protect my life and my space, and this precious time I have to live this life in the vibration of what matters to me, I always wander off.

Always.

But I always come back too.

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Friday evening, following the day of all that mattered to me, we went in to town to run a couple errands.

At a stoplight, as I neared a turn, we were nearly hit by an oncoming car, as they swerved to miss the person who turned in front of them.

In the brief seconds between everything is fine and relaxed and normal and we are about to (possibly) die, I had time to think of so much.

These are the moments why I live for what matters.

********

As we close out 2014 and welcome in 2015, really know what matters to you.

Put what matters in your basket.

Promise yourself that 2015 will be abundant in what matters and scarce in what doesn’t.

That you’ll understand life is full of too much mysteriousness to coast in the lane of “only what matters”, but that you’ll aim to stay in that lane as much as you can.

xxoo,

falan sig

 

 

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The (Empty) Basket Year

basket

With the year coming to a close and the new year fresh on our heels, it’s begun.

The guiding books are coming out, the new planners, the word of the year tools, the recycled new years resolutions (“I’m gonna’ do it this year dammit!”)…

All the hype that we can be more, do more, accomplish more vibrates at a whole new level when December shows up.

I’m done with it all.

Well, I haven’t set a new years resolution since I was 20.

I have done the reflection and planning thing quite well the last few years, and early this year I chose my first word of the year.

Yet, you see, I’m a simple girl.

Really simple.

So much so, it was just a handful of years ago that everything my family owned fit in a 5×5 foot storage shed.

So much so, we recently bought a 640 square foot home. For five people.

Stuff disappears from our house as if a burgler stuffs himself in the empty space and sneaks out at night to gather.

“I don’t know what happened to that, darling…” “You gave it to Goodwill, didn’t you Mom?”

This simplicity floods over the container of tangible things into my view of life and time too.

I’m hung up (in what I hope is a good way) on making this life matter. On not losing focus of the primal and simple things that matter in the end.

A week or so ago, I choked on my tears as I tried to express the pain that I have a dollop over six years left ’til my son will be an adult.

That hurts so much.

But it offers power too.

Imagine, for one minute that it’s 100 years from now. You and everyone you love in this moment is gone. The world still exists (and maybe you do in a different incarnation), but you are gone in the form you now live.

Did you live the life you wanted?

That’s all you need to think about for 2015.

Eff new years resolutions, guiding words, or pages and pages of stuff to accomplish.

What matters to YOU? (if those things above matter to you, then they are welcome ;))

You see, time doesn’t really exist, but we need time to guide our lives.

As you age, and especially when you have children who seem to reshape overnight during dreams, life becomes a great longing to not wait, to live now.

Now is the time.

The time to quit with the more and pursue what matters.

Here’s a New Year suggestion for you and me.

The empty basket. (inspired by “The Empty Container” by Leo Babauta)

Get a little basket. A wee tiny one. Or a little medicine pouch, an itty bitty treasure box, a matchbox, a little jar…

Then, sit with your life. Really look at it.

Think of all the things you want to do. All the things that you already do.

Connection with loved ones. People. Family. Husband. Children. Parents.

Work and business goals. Travel. Financial goals.

Health. Home. Healing.

Write them down.

Fill a page or pages or a whole darn notebook of all the things you want to do. Big stuff, little stuff, medium stuff. Get specific.

Now, take a break. Watch a movie that ignites a truth in you. Take a walk. Snuggle a loved one.

Then come back and look at your list.

Circle all the things that are important to you. Truly important.

Not important because you think they should be. Not important because they are important to someone else.

Truly important because there is a calling in you that pulls you there.

Because when you leap 100 years from now you want those clichéd, and very real, blood, sweat and tears to have come from what truly matters to you.

Honor what season of your life you are in, knowing that if you live beyond this season you can choose different things. But if you don’t live beyond this season then you still lived fully.

Then choose five. Just five.

If you are the hard core type, choose three.

That is your 2015. Put them in your basket.

That is what comes first. Every thing else second.

Warmth,

falan sig

 

 

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Why Journal? Five reasons.

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Pen and paper have always been alluring to me.

I spent my childhood funds on journals, notebooks, pens and the like.

My Dad and I would spend chunks of time roaming the aisles of office supply stores.

I always had a diary or journal of sorts.

I was always writing on something.

My Mom used to joke about the amount of trees I ate up with ink.

I am still the same.

I’ve always had a place to write the workings of my heart and mind on paper.

I’ve always made lists, logged tidbits and tracked my life with pen and paper.

I prefer this over any electronic, with no competition to ever be found.

It was just this year I decided to call myself a writer.

But writer was nothing I ever longed to be.

I write. I love to write.

I met my husband in a creative writing class.

If I could handwrite these blog posts to you, I’d adore it.

Not a day of my life passes that a pen doesn’t make home in my hand.

But it wasn’t until this year, when my journaling practice became so much more, that I realized the true importance of writing.

Here are five reasons (there are many more) writing in a journal can be important to us all.

Permission. To be all of you and as much of you as you are in any given moment. When others around you can’t hold space for what you’re going through, it gives you permission to hold space for yourself.

Heart access. The hand is led from the heart. When we write, long enough, we access our truth. Our intuition. Our inner knowing. Our heart space.

Release. Brain dump, heart dump. Letting go. It distributes the weight of life, so it no longer sits merely on your shoulders.

Housekeeping. Life can get crazy messy. Journaling lets you clean up the mess a bit. To find clarity and calm in the chaos.

Depth. There’s a depth in us all that we don’t reach in the busyness of life. That we can’t reach when we don’t sit with ourselves long enough to share what’s going on within. Journaling creates room to go deeper.

There are no rules. Just begin. Simply show up. Write what’s on your mind. Write until you are empty.

All answers are within us. Writing gives you new ears. Simply start.

With tremendous love,

falan sig

 

 

 

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Radiating Joy, crapping on complaining and becoming a recklessly rich woman

anaisninnomorewalls

I am radiating joy.

Radiating joy because I have given up am giving up complaints and am giving myself what I need.

Such an obvious path to joy, but one I was walking right by.

At 2 o’clock today we will receive some news.

News that should diminish my joy and tailspin me into worry.

News that I expect to be the last big shift of the year.

Expected news in an intuitive, wind-carried-it-kind-of-way.

Feeling it coming. Calling it to come.

A delivery from life that you ordered in a heart touchstone kind of way.

It, coupled with the my changing relationship of motherhood, changing relationship to friends and family, and changing relationship to home and town, feels like the curtain is being closed on one act of my life and preparing to open for the next.

woodsybliss

I’ve been cutting and unraveling the threads of my life all year long.

These mornings of writing I have been giving gifting myself are doing something to me I can’t find a word to describe.

I feel every cell of me buffering its edges and preparing to hold space for everything that is changing and is coming.

I share so much of myself in this space.

We all long to be seen, and I think sharing here allows me to better see myself and what I am going through.

But we all have parts of ourselves we don’t see and we don’t share.

Journaling each and every morning is revealing myself to me. It’s reflecting my world and giving me space to see things as they are. It is showing me my inner tapestry and weaving it with the magic that life is. (I am so excited to welcome six ladies to join me in this work this winter…!)

My life feels pregnant with divine timing right now.

Life hands us what we’ve been asking for and preparing for, but are too scared to cross over to.

I feel my trust, playfulness and pleasure expanding. I am exploring the richness of myself.

With a skip in my step, and a strength to face what’s to come,

falan sig

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Self Care Supreme/Holding Space for my Loneliness

pinksky

I feel lonely for myself lately.

The whole family just drove away.

One quick errand and they’ll return in 20 minutes.

I open the computer to share my thoughts, balancing the teeter totter of freedom and uncomfortable.

Space always feels new to me.

I’ve shared, many times, my devotion to motherhood.

Quiet and space have not come easy, or often, in these past (nearly a) dozen years.

Quiet and space have always been intertwined with fear for me.

For example, as I type this, everyone who truly matters to me is in a car right now.

Running a simple errand.

Am I the only one who wonders what if they didn’t make it home?

Fear because I don’t want to miss out or fuck up the most important role my life will ever lead.

Guilt because my worth has been entangled, since the dawn of adulthood, with the role of ‘Mother’, and anytime I’m on my own I am not yet sure who I am.

tomscreekfalls

I feel lonely for myself lately.

I’m supposed to love alone time, right?

I do. I really do. I come alive in the quiet like a wolf travels the night.

My ritual for as long as my memory wanders is that I’ve found space nearly every night after the house has fallen asleep.

I think this longing for me is creeping in only as a natural loneliness unfolds in my life.

I moved recently and friend connection feels lost, as I navigate what energy a new home requires.

My relationship to my Mom feels lost, for now, and I carry the pain, anger and loss heavily.

My children are stretching their arms and legs wide to the seasons of life and I am no longer interwoven in a sticky web of breast milk, hormonal havoc and a need waiting to be filled every moment of my day. I feel very lost with this one, because I never imagined life beyond that most beautiful sticky web.

angeram

I am lonely for me lately because there is space to wonder who I am, with so much less reflecting or defining who I am.

I have recently found a way to touch that lonely me and give her space to find herself.

Sigh.

Space and the old clichéd need for self care.

You know, I kind of want to turn my nose up even using the words ‘self care’. It’s a bit used up like a dirty sock, eh?

But what else should I call it?

Rather than ride the waves of the late hours, I’ve been turning in a bit earlier and claiming space for myself upon waking.

I tell the kids that I’ll be out after I finish writing.

I close the door to my room and they (mostly) respect it. The older two, that is. The littlest one finds a half dozen reasons to talk to me. But that’s okay. I’m confident with time she’ll understand too.

I listen to them break out our newest board game, argue over who needs to take the dog out in the cold, or welcome the silence of their trio selves reading on the couch.

I eat up the time, logging my fertility, snipping my dreams onto paper and rambling out my heart faster than my hand can keep up.

Transforming while I drink hot herbal tea and tend to my womb and heart.

And bump up against guilt.

And ride the joy of showing my kids how to give yourself just what you need.

It has made ‘self care’ oh so sexy.

And it feels really naughty.

Lonely for myself and I am giving her space and time.

diary

Space calls to me like the waves of the sea.

And I am answering this calling a wee bit.

It’s as if, each morning, I am saying that I matter.

I matter and it is okay to decide to start my day with a slice of space for me.

My loneliness matters and it’s my job to greet the longing with the chance to really see myself through the pages of my journals.

We matter in ways we’d never give ourselves credit, recognition or gratitude for.

Our value is often lived through the love we give to others.

These morning minutes are lighting little fires of reminders about my worth and my well being.

It is rippling out into the rest of the day, when I am full and cared for.

It’s true that if we don’t hold space for ourselves, no one else will.

It is true that if we don’t meet our own needs we cannot lovingly meet the needs of those we love the most.

Reflect upon your space and see how much you have.

See what you need.

Find it.

Find it when the night turns dark and loved ones sleep.

Find it by honoring the growing of your littles who are now old enough to allow it.

Find it when your milk drunken wee one naps.

Find it upon waking or right before bed.

Find it because you are worth it.

Find it because befriending yourself means as we embrace self love (eh, another dirty sock word) we have more love to give.

buckets of love,

falan sig

 

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Creation over consumption & arousing your pelvis (with optional challenge)

laluna

Five years ago.

We lived real rural, I was plump with a nine plus pounder inside of me and spent each morning devouring handfuls of ripe berries that surrounded the little passive solar home we rented.

We had dial up internet, a prepaid cell phone and a landline phone.

The main sounds were the critters, the creeks, and the range of music that sound tracked our home.

This marked life, for me, before I really stepped into the online world.

Soon after, we moved back into town and welcomed high speed internet. A couple years later I surrendered to an iPhone

During this time, I welcomed the world of blogs and started my own.

You may be laughing, because quite clearing I am far behind the times.

Yet, it was all so intentional.

booksinbed

At this point, I fully embrace the incredible resource and profound capabilities that the internet is and offers.

At this point, I am back out in the country with the critters and wide sky, but I’ve kept the high speed internet and the iPhone.

Still, I am stinker for protecting our lives from too much consumption.

Still, I am a massive believer in the sacredness of simplicity and I live it as fully as I can.

We live in a tricky time, where we are saturated in consumption. With the flick of a finger you can peek into the lives of others, seek a recipe, find the answer to your kids crazy question, earn an income doing something you love, and Skype with someone miles and miles away.

That’s an amazing tool not to be reckoned with.

Or is it?

Because on the other side of that coin, with the flick of a finger, you can procrastinate your day away, ignore the warmth and love sitting next to you, miss the chance to lie in a hammock while the sun centers the sky, feed your lying unworthiness, and spend a whole day without creating.

elderberry

Create.

Creation happens when your hands move to express your heart.

Women are powerhouse creators, as their pelvis holds the creation of life and all the energy they need to create any ole thing.

Creativity activates this pelvic energy, arousing it & creating more of it.

Kind of like the more sex you have the more you want.

Creativity soothes overwhelm (as it nurtures your innate desire to create), puts you in touch with yourself , grows joy, and sends you to bed with a feeling of fullness.

deathfree

Consumption.

Consumption happens when we consume something.

Hungry for more we get addicted to ingesting the world outside of us.

Consumption often steals intuition (as you can lose touch with it when you never sit with it), promotes procrastination (where the hell did those three hours go?!), and breeds ‘not good enough’ (hello hot pool of comparison).

Obviously nothing is so black and white, and we all know consumption isn’t only bad.

However, the point I am making – in this very round about way – is to choose creation over consumption first.

Make something, do something. write something, cook something, paint something.

Always before you look at something, read something, reply to something or watch something.

roastedveggies

Want to challenge yourself?

For one week?

You must create before you consume, every day.

Wanna go hard core? Give up consumption entirely for one week.

See the magic of you reappear in a world that ice buckets you with the world of everyone else.

Facebook, Twitter, Instagram, Emails, Blogs, Podcasts, Magazine, Books, Newpapers, TV, Movies…

What about YOU?

When’s the last time you shut everyone and everything else out long enough to remember what it’s like to know yourself?

I promise, the world can (and will!) wait.

Loads and loads of love, and lingering full moon magic,

falan sig

 

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