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The Chocolate Donut Diaries 2

Yesterday I got a call from the universe that I didn't take. I was trying to be responsible. To do the right thing. To get work done and focus on money and my business and showing up when I say I am. I was being led to a gas station in what felt like the opposite direction of all of that. A coffee shop that was just north of where I was. I took the morning to collect my water and yoga mat at the previous site I was staying at (Yogananda). Another call. I took that one. When I got there Sasha, the owner of Yogananda recommended that I go to a specific coffee shop in the opposite direction from where I was heading. I thought perhaps that is the universe telling me to go there. Then, on my way out to the main road, I was hitching and a man on a 4-wheeler offered to give me a ride though he was heading in the opposite direction. To the gas station by the coffee shop the lady was recommending. The entire time I kept telling myself 'you know that is a sign right?' He was also the one that informed me that Nosara was in the opposite direction. It makes sense why I have struggled so much. I know when I am in flow that things work out. They just fall in place.

When I allow.

When I listen.

When I trust.

Like when I went to Santa Fe.

Part of my heart is still there.

I love that town.

St. Louis too.

Online I saw that the coffee shop by the gas station (Beach Blend Coffee) was only open until 2pm (it was already past noon) I balked. Then, I got really angry at myself as I walked in the opposite direction towards the town of Guiones. Three weeks ago, during a ceremony, I felt a strong calling to come to Nosara before I head back to the states. I am just now realizing that I have been in Guiones all this time. Interesting that their is a huge sign in Guionese along the main road that says Nosara in colorful human sized letters yet it is not Nosara. It is Guiones. Huh?

Meanwhile the direction I was being called in yesterday was actually Nosara. Insert more self hate and blame. Perhaps that is why things don't seem to be falling into place lately. I have been struggling since I arrived. I probably just haven't been listening. Then again perhaps it is just clearing the way for what is to come. Perhaps it is just my energy. I don't fucking know. The next 30 minutes I would spend cursing myself and walking in pain as the heat and the rocks in the road exacerbated my rage, self hate and frustration at myself as I repeatedly screamed "You just don't fucking listen! You don't fucking listen." l suspect in helped vibrationally create the rest of my day. Often when I get into these spaces I run into dogs. They quiet me. They remind me to love and that I am loved. That this is all play. Sure enough there was a puppy at the coffee shop named Quinoa. Another sign? They are everywhere.

All I seem to be doing is crying most of the time. I get inspired during the evening and especially at night when no one is around often pecking away until 3 or 4 in the morning before waking up in a state of panic, fear, anxiety and grief. This morning I just cried and walked around pacing like an anxious kid remembering my mother as I wrote about burdens in my writing workshop today. Though my mother isn't a burden. I love how much it is opening my heart. Yet what is it trying to tell me? Why is it coming up repeatedly. It reminds me of 40 day and 40 nights of rain. Rain from my soul that poured in to my hands, my food, my keyboard, my shirts, and the ground below. I love feeling her and that part of me though it feels paralyzing as hours can pass not knowing what to do with it. Yet I also love what is coming through my hands. This morning I wrote about all the meals she used to make for us before I decided to make pancakes again. Food was my mother's love language. She rotated through about 10 different meals and they were all amazing. Sandwiches too. I loved her cooking even though I took it for granted. She was really generous with letting us get whatever we wanted for cereals or treats. She was also really accommodating when, at age 11, I stopped eating sweets, soda, caffeine, and fattening foods. I think it was more challenging for my mother then it was for me. Especially around Easter. As you all know - she had a thing for chocolate. So this morning, as I was feeling my mother and writing about how much this has been affecting me, it got deleted. Twice. I lost it and I just cried, that's when I decided to make pancakes. my tears falling on to the table as my inner child repeatedly kept listing off all the meals she would make for us.

There is a song in Hamilton the Musical, called "Who lives who dies who tells your story" I realize that my mother didn't have anyone to tell her story. Like me, she would stay in her room, a box and read and write all the time while the television stayed on all night. She was much more of a reader then I am though. I'm just getting started. I only caught snippets of her life often the details hidden in her heart away from everyone. I suspect hidden on the endless pads of yellow legal paper she would write on virtually every day. She was a writer. One that wrote for herself and I suspect for help. Desperate to be heard yet not knowing who to talk to. Who would listen. There are moments when it is all we can do. I understand that now as I move through this myself uncertain what or how to share yet doing the best that I can as I unravel this in hopes of living again.

She was so playful my mother. A born actress though I didn't realize it until the end. I was dumbfounded when I saw her play dress up and goof around with a ceramic frog and stuffed tiger. Also when I recorded her to help raise funds for her living situation she just turned no when the camera rolled. I was in awe. I remember saying to myself. "Wow. Who is this woman?"

The channel I work with always talks about creation. That we are designed to create. Though first and foremost we are designed to feel. Then play, then create and then share as it is released into the world to inspire others. I realize my mother didn't do that much and neither have I keeping most of my creations, writings, experiences and inspirations to myself. As much as I am feeling perhaps that is a sign. The sign. To collect those pages, feel them and her even more, play with them and create with it. AS well as my own. I feel like she is inside of me now. A production, a book, a film, poems, everything. It is where my heart feels most. Wanting so much to know her. To know myself and share that with the world in all of its colors. It feels like the least I could do. She deserves to have a voice. It feels like that is what I am here for. To empower, inspire and activate others be heard and share their dreams, their hearts and their voices while I live and discover my own. Yet I also need to do it for myself. I've been a hypocrite for most of my life.

Everything happens for a reason. There are no accidents. As I wake up every morning in a state of panic, terror, fear, confusion and love - because it is all love. What is it trying to tell me. A message that comes through every morning. These are the things that stories are made of and from. Behind this is a message that is desperately trying to tell me something. A story. Something that is trying to be heard and feels like it has wanted to be for eons. It reminds me of the film the Sixth Sense when Cole talks about hearing dead people and that they are not here to hurt him. They just want his help. I feel like that is part of what I do. I hear the stories that haven't been heard in people's bodies. In relationship to partners, parents, society, past relatives, trauma and disease. The story that couldn't be heard and help them free themselves by sharing them and seeing how love was holding the pen all along. By giving them a voice and as a consequence my own. To be able to celebrate and honor those epic stories. Stories that were so powerful and during which we felt so much that we decided to forget. To numb ourselves. To help people remember their dreams while I remember mine. I do the best I can. I have been admittedly reluctant. I guess my mother was too. She saw stuff. Now it is safe for her. I hope I can give her that and share hear heart with the world as I discover it for myself in hope that it will inspire others. And my father's too. They were good people. Magical people. As I was writing this I felt called to look up and include the clip from the Sixth Sense. As I revisit it tears steam down my face as Cole speaks to his mother reflecting back to her about the question she would ask to her mother at the place where they buried her. One I too have asked into the ethers of time both to my father and mother. I feel like I just got my answer. The only other question is can I allow it.

Thanks mom. I love you.

It is when I cook and write that I remember my mother most. I have been writing for days at the Burnt Toast Hostel where I have been this past week. I finally found a location where I have enough money to just stop and write. (Best deal in town. It's only $12 a night) I also signed up for Ann Randolph's one month long 'Unmute Yourself' writing workshop. A commitment to my craft. If you are looking for a vein to write and an incredible community to do it in, Ann Is absolutely Incredible. She has performed off-Broadway and taught all over including the Omega Institute and Esalen. You can find her at She offers a free (or donate if you can) workshop on Sundays in addition to her usual arsenal of love offerings. Intuitive, wise, funny, compassionate and unedited. I have been writing, through countless cups of coffee and rice, beans and pancakes for the past week. My system has felt so full I just want to empty my cup. Pour everything into another container so I can receive more. Keep moving forwards. Next step will be the channeling and developing my business. Rewriting my story with money while I rewrite my story with Costa Rica. So I have been writing often long into the night. Often with tears in my eyes as I continue to remember and celebrate my mother. And I love it. Regardless of the terror, the anxiety, the fear - especially if it is hers and I have been given the honor to help shift that. To move it so she can be heard. So so many can be heard.

Last night I walked home after a frustrating day. My friend canceled, the road was especially painful on my bare feet and the coffee shop I went to was challenging to focus at. So I went over to IO and had coffee there while taking care of as much business and my website as I could. It was what it was and its all my perspective. REgardless I was still beating myself up for not listening. On my way home, as I fluctuated between tears and rage my feet screaming at the pointed rocks in the road, I said to myself and the universe I know you love me. I know I am loved by the universe. I also know I'm ok. That everything is going to be okay as I let me emotions pour out of me with grief a taxi slowly came up beside me and offered me a free ride back to my hostel. I sobbed. His name was Luis and he was an angel. Thank you God. Universe. Yehwah. Love. Whatever you want to be called. I heard you. Thank you for hearing me and thanks for taking care of my mom. She's a good one.

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