Women

July 21, 2014 — 3 Comments

Women Women Women Women Women Women Women Women Women Women Women Women Women Women Women Women Women Women Women Women Women Women Women Women Women Women Women Women Women Women Women Women Women Women Women Women Women Women Women Women Women Women Women Women Women Women Women Women Women Women Women Women Women Women Women Women Women Women Women Women Women Women Women Women Women Women IMG_9094Women Women Women Women Women Women Women Women Women Women Women Women Women Women Women Women Women Women Women Women Women Women Women Women Women Women Women Women Women Women Women Women Women Women Women Women Women Women Women Women Women Women Women Women Women Women Women Women Women Women Women Women Women Women Women Women Women Women Women Women Women Women Women Women Women Women Women Women Women Women Women Women Women Women Women Women Women Women Women Women Women Women Women Women Women Women Women Women Women Women Women Women Women Women Women Women Women Women Women Women Women Women Women Women Women Women Women Women Women Women Women Women Women Women Women Women Women Women Women Women Women Women Women Women Women Women Women Women Women Women Women Women Women Women Women Women Women Women Women Women Women Women Women Women Women Women Women Women Women Women Women Women Women Women Women Women Women Women Women Women Women Women Women Women Women Women.

For all you women out there gettin’ er’ done today;

Good work.

Thank you.

You rule.

It helps.

Love the Bitch

July 15, 2014 — 4 Comments

Pilobolus3For 15 years I’ve been working collectively making theatre; and 80% of the time I’m in the room I can’t shut up.

I’m bossy, loud, opinionated and passionate.

Basically I fucking care; a lot.

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I’m sure it’s annoying as fuck.

I tell my collaborators when I think they’re off the mark. I fight for my ideas. I’m fine getting into conflict and hashing out shit. I also like being challenged and stood up to.

But it’s exhausting.

Being the one in the room who knows the best way to do everything.

So, about half way through every creative process I’m in I start feeling shame. I shut my mouth and sit on my hands and my mantra becomes “be good Emelia, try to be good…”

But I can’t.

My pressurized neutrality never lasts more than 15 minutes and soon I blow up even bigger than if I had let it out in a slow leak.

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Do I really think I’m going to change after 36 years? My first ever report card said that I “needed to learn to listen more and talk less.” I’ve been a loud-mouth since the day I was born.

But you know what, I make good stuff.

I give a shit.

I get things done.

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So love the bitch.

Because she’s you and she always has been; and she’s not going to change.

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Ever.

No matter how much you try and squish and push and cram her into a crack, she will bloom out like an indestructible fungus of light.

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And that’s the best news you’re going to get all day.

IMG_2553I lay on my bed and stare out the window sometimes. From my view I get the perfect shot of two pigeons sitting on the roof across from me; preening each other for hours. I assume they are lovers, the way they’re so attentive and as the weeks go on the story in my mind grows.

His name is Bryan and she’s Debby and they had been together since childhood. They were from the other side of town but a few years ago, the black sheep that they are, they decided to leave their friends and family and fly over to this up and coming neighborhood full of immigrant families, artists and new parents. They fit right in on a social level, but as we all find in Vancouver, new acquaintences are always friendly at first but sometimes flakey in the long run. Instead of being disappointed that no one came to their BBQ or had the time to check out their reno’s; they learned to keep to themselves and enjoy each others company. And they did. Immensely.

When they questioned why they moved away from what they knew Bryan would ask “Do you want to live a boring life?” and Deb would smile and say “Of course not hon” and she’d ruffle her feathers and just get on with it. They aged well together, with not too many creaks to complain about and were content with this roof to preen on during the day and the cozy attic they slept in at night. They were proud when their two baby pigeons moved out of the nest and they privately enjoyed being back to just the two of them again. They didn’t have the  food sourcing stresses they had come to think of as normal in their earlier days of marriage and they were weirdly content with just each other. They saw other couples mate for a single season, sometimes making it to two, but like the rest of their species, all their neighbors were polyamorous, and preferred the more fluid lifestyle of nesting with more than one bird, so this pigeon pair always felt like the odd ducks out.

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Every night, just as the sun set, they’d fly off the roof together and land on the house next door. They’d crawl through a hole on our third floor balcony into our attic and every night we’d hear them cooing each other to sleep.

And then the gutter guys came, noticed we had pigeons in our attic, told us that was not only structurally dangerous but also a health hazard and we realized how stupid we had been to allow sky rats to live and defecate piles of shit a few feet about our newborn baby’s head every night, so the gutter fellows tacked up some flash paper over the hole one afternoon and locked them out of their house.

Except Debby wasn’t feeling well that morning and didn’t join Bryan on the roof like normal so that particular morning she decided to stay in the attic for a few more hours of sleep.

Night fell and Bryan came back to the hole in the attic and saw the flash paper blocking his entry. He pecked at it, he pulled at it with his claws. He couldn’t get inside. She was directly on the other side of the thin barrier cooing to her beloved.

I know this because I saw it happen.

He slept outside that night, under the eaves and she slept trapped inside with her body pressed up against the mesh.

This went on for two weeks. Bryan did not leave his watch. Not once did he visit the roof next door. Not once did he abandon his wife.

IMG_2461And we heard her. Bashing. Crashing. Flapping against the rafters. She wouldn’t let up. She had no food. I have no idea how she did it, but the bird would kamikaze fly from one end of our attic to the other, smashing into the walls, be still for hours on end and then with a rush of life force we’d hear her flap her wings, fall down, flutter again, crash and then (what sounded like) beat a dog with a stick. At one point she got stuck between the stairs and the wall and she spent a good few days there pounding with such vigor I thought that she may shatter the plaster and find herself in our kitchen.

I’d writhe when I heard her.

I’d leave the house for hours at a time.

I’d play loud music.

We discussed removing the flash paper but my husband reminded me it took three trained professionals with climbing gear on to scale the house with safety harnesses and he just didn’t feel comfortable risking his life without similar precautions.

So we waited.

A day would go by with no sound.

I’d say a prayer, glad she was finally at peace and then without warning in the middle of the night she’d be at it again, full force, rejuvenated with will.

And as the weeks wore on Bryan stayed where he was, under our eavestrough, waiting for his wife.

Finally, after three entire weeks, about three days after not hearing anything we assumed Debby had finally let go and we all breathed out a huge sigh of grief and relief.

But not Bryan, he’s still there. Right now he’s there. Every single night he’s there.  Our eavesthrough is piling up with shit.

IMG_1770On sunny days he sometimes comes back to perch on the neighbors roof and this change of scenery is a big step for Bryan, but at night, he always returns to the opening in the attic. He cuddles tight against the wall where the roof meets the gutter and he holds vigil for Debby, his one true love.

 

 

 

bam-logoWe all remember The Secret. I got deep into that shit. The idea of manifesting your dreams and creating your own reality is fucking awesome; and in my experience, it sometimes it works; I did rituals by the ocean when I was longing for a mate. I wrote the traits I wanted him to have on a piece of paper and placed it under my mattress for a year- and then I met my husband.

I believe in miracles. I think our thoughts are powerful and the universe is listening and there is truth to “if you want it, it will come.

law-of-attraction-basics-300x300Until it doesn’t.

People who’ve experienced great loss know that life isn’t always this clean and it’s actually dangerous to think it is; because then you are shutting down the critical, intuitive side of your brain and you become sheep.

I was on the book of faces recently and a friend posted this:

“Use whatever excuse you can to vibrate in harmony with those things you’ve been saying you want. And when you do, those things that are a vibrational equivalent flow into your experience in abundance. Not because you deserve it, not because you’ve earned it, but because it’s the natural consequence of the Law of Attraction. That which is like unto itself is drawn.”

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This was spoken by the famous entity “Abraham,” who was channeled through Jerry Hicks and then translated by his wife Ester Hicks. These people were the beginning of The Secret movement and wrote the bestseller The Law of Attraction along with many others. Abraham says that we attract what we think about. So, simplified this means that if we think of a gold house, we will manifest it and if we think of cancer, we’ll get that too. They also say it’s an orphan in Dubai’s karma to be poor and it’s our karma in North America to have abundance. Jerry died a few years ago of cancer and the PR team tried to cover it up as a spider bite to not ruin their credibiity and then Esther went on a motivational touring rampage declaring herself to be in direct communication with Buddha, Jesus and God all at the same time.

Even after this egoic train wreck they are still on the bestseller list because the sound bites from Abraham are so seductive and it’s tantalizing to imagine that we are worthy of our greatest desires.

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 But what if getting what you want is not the point?

 What if we CAN’T have it all and there ISN’T enough to go around and everything is NOT possible?

I find this incredibly liberating to believe.

I stayed up late one night and did some math to figure out how much we all could have. Granted, this is a really simplified equation but you’ll understand what I’m getting at.

If you take the population of the world at 6.6 billion and divide it by the GDP @ $48 Trillion (this is only including cash and property- not stocks, bonds etc as that’s imaginary money to begin with) you end up with about $7000 US per person or $16,000 US per worker per year.

That’s it. That’s all there is.

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Money is not energy, it’s not ever-expanding; it’s printed on paper and stamped on metal and if you have lots of it, someone else doesn’t.

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I know it’s inticing to imagine all your dreams coming true and being wealthy but is that the deepest reason you can come up with why we are here?

In some First Nations tribes, if a person begins acquiring too much land and possessions they are considered mentally ill and a shaman is called in to heal them.

Let’s not lie to ourselves about our addiction to wanting more by calling it “abundance.” When I take the concept to a global level it miserably fails. How’re the animals doing? Our oceans? If the more, more, more industry is not working on the macro scale why would more, more, more work for you?

And to everyone out there selling the cult of more, more more; please know that when you tell your students that they can have it all; you are lying to them. And when you tell your clients that they can manifest their wildest dreams, realize that you are inflicting the pain of wanting onto others.

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Own it if you want to be rich. Claim it if money is important but don’t hide behind the word abundance, because it’s now just a fancy word for greed.

I’ve changed my thinking around “abundance” since my mom died. I used to think I had a poverty mentality and I needed to work harder at getting comfortable with money. But now, I’m just grateful for the small. Since being gutted, I see clearly the fragility of the earth and how little control I have over my day. I’m dedicated to my path, almost militantly sometimes but I don’t do what I do in hopes of making more money. I do what I do because it fills me to the brim. I’m so fucking abundant it’s hard to bear but this has nothing to do with my bank account.

And this doesn’t mean I don’t want to write a bestseller or for my art reaching millions of people. I just closed a theatre tour that was incredibly successful. We had a sold out run and had to add performances. The media was all over it and I got great reviews and you know what, I made very little money, I paid the babysitter more than I got but it was one still of the most alive months of my life because I didn’t connect my success to a dollar sign.

And this is the key to feeling really liberated.

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Just like money isn’t limitless, neither are you.

Nancy Reeves from the University of Victoria BC, is a researcher studying grief. She explains that we don’t have an ever-expanding well of life-force like we all hoped. Instead, we have a certain amount of energy to expend during a day and we need to be aware of how we use it. If too much of it is spent today, you’ll have to compensate for that loss tomorrow (or next year). We are not ever-increasing in our light bodies and we have to respect our natural limits.

Doesn’t this sound incredible to you!? You don’t have to continue at this pace, and in fact, if you do, you will burn out and die. Like money, our life energy is finite and we need to be careful how we spend it.

What a huge fucking relief.

So when you get those feelings of inferiority and inadequacy in the pit of your stomach when bright lights are being shined in your face take it as a warning sign. These lights only lead to wanting more lights and while there is nothing wrong with wanting there is also nothing wrong with never getting either.

In fact, it’s your best chance at being free.

I love pretty nails and lunch dates and vacations. I love me a new pair of yoga jeans. I indulge in all these things once in a while. But that’s what it is- an indulgence. It’s not normal to have a stranger rub my feet and put sparkles on my toenails and I never want it to be. I want treats like this to remain sacred in small quantities; like fine chocolate and port.

I don’t want to pig out on pleasure. I don’t want as much I want. Ya know? Because once I ate a whole pineapple and guess what happened. I puked.

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I don’t assume to know why we are here. But I do know that it’s not about being comfortable.

We are not in control of our destinies but we have been very blessed with options.

So I bow down to the great mystery.

And for my little piece, I’m deeply thankful.

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Every few days I sit down and write a bit until the pen trails off and…I’ve come up with a shit ton of great starts but for some reason coming to a conclusion with any of these essays seems ridiculous.

“How dare I assume I know what is right?”

“Who am I to have such a strong opinion?”

And another week passes on…

For a brief spell I thought it was possible I was having a spiritual awakening because I wasn’t attached to my own ego and ideas in a way that was foreign and liberating to me. But then I realized that having the thought that you might be having an awakening means most likely you’re not.

Here are a list of the titles of the half cooked essays I’ve written over the past month.

If You Call Someone a Hipster, You are Old and Lame: This essay was nixed as I have a lot of friends who use the term “hipster” and I didn’t want to hurt their feelings. Although, it’s absolutely true that if you call someone a hipster, all it means is that you have no idea about contemporary culture, you are out of date and you might as well be complaining about “beatniks.”

It’s Okay to be Depressed: This essay was left unfinished because I assumed that if I posted it, people would think I was depressed and in fact I’m really happy right now and I don’t want people to think I’m not- which then made me realize “I guess I don’t think it’s okay to be depressed” even though I totally do think that. So I got confused…

Abundance is Another Word for Greed: This is a dangerous topic because when I lay down my wrathful guts about the darkness of gluttony tearing at the insides of our spiritual communities- I challenge all the abundance teachers out there. I start a war against the light/bright/rainbow camp and these heartfelt fuckers are powerful and vast so I’m a bit scared, but holy shit, if I could rev up…this one would feel damn good to get out.

Pigeons. A Love Story: This is a true story about a couple of pigeons who lived in my rafters. They were married and very happy together. One got trapped inside the attic when the roofers fixed the hole and the other is STILL, like right this minute, outside the hole waiting for his mate to return six months later. It took her three weeks to die inside the walls of the house. It was a fucking horror show but also incredibly romantic. Is this the kind of story one wants to hear about while scrolling through my website on a coffee break?

How Deeply Can You Rest: That’s all I wrote. Then I took a nap.

It’s been quite lovely to have the “should” and “have to” and “it’ll be good for you” voices quiet for the first time in my life. I’ve been spending time:

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But I also want you to know that I really want to know what you want – so the game is- if any of these essay teasers make you want more- tell me in the comments and I will pick the most popular to extrapolate on further.

Mainly, I wanted you all to know that even though I haven’t been saying much lately.

I’m right here.

And it feels really good.

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Weakness

May 28, 2014 — 2 Comments

…is my superpower.

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