I had a moment of reckoning at 3 am on Sunday morning. I'd gone out to dinner with a close friend and then we went to get a little mezcal at a bar on Polk Street. I came home and had a piece of cannabis chocolate to help me go to bed. I fell asleep but woke up at a witching hour feeling crazy. Angry at myself for turning to vices as a coping mechanism for my grief and sorrow. I had gone from working really hard to being super high vibes all the time, to letting myself fall into a dark depression while going through this psychological cleanse, and then finally waking up in the middle of the night and realizing that I'm done feeling sorry for myself and self-medicating with things that do not serve. This is not me. I apologized to myself, my body, the Universe, and all the loved ones who have been supporting me. I did some self-reiki and read It Didn't Start With You — a book about inherited family trauma to see if I could get some clues into my own crazy — the recurring anxiety and depression that seems to cycle back.
Another close friend came at 7:30am the next morning to pick me up and go to Alameda Flea market. I'm so grateful she swooped in to pick me up. The last time I had been at this market was to get stuff for my cottage with my partner and now I had moved out and left all my things. Now I didn't need for cute rugs, poufs, coffee tables, or art. I was searching for inspiration. Looking for ideas for God's Eyes. I collected pins, gold chains, beads from Kenya, crystals from old chandeliers, keychains, and old keys.
"Am I crazy for buying all this stuff for this project, wondered one voice in my head. "No, this project is your lifeline propelling you forward," said the voice of deeper knowing.
We stopped by one last stand on the way out of the market. My friend bought a sheepskin for her van. I was drawn to wooden circles. "Those were from a curtain from the 1930s," the seller told me. She was selling them at a $1 a piece and I decided to buy all of them.
"Are you in school?" she asked me when I said I was doing a project. No, not in school although it feels like maybe I never graduated from design school. Or that now I'm in a different kind of school with assignments that come from other world. But I told her I was making 1,111 God's Eyes and she said, "You need to go out into nature."
"She was a spirit guide," my friend said as we left. "She totally saw us.
I came home from the flea market and immediately started working with my new materials. It was so fun to play and create. Hands-on making is so important, especially in this digital age. When I was growing up I transformed our basement into a workshop and would spend hours down there collaging and crafting. When I finally allowed myself to drop my Econ minor in college and take up art classes my senior year, my whole world changed. Instead of looking at the clock and making myself study, I would show up at the studio early and stay late. I would forget to eat and sleep because I was so in flow, captivated by creation.
Writing and talking is a powerful way of processing, but something happens when we let the intelligence of our hands drive the creative process. It's the making of the God's Eyes that is leading me. I am listening to the materials, working with them, and learning from them.
This morning, I decided to take the cue from the flea market spirit guide and go to nature. I brought a big basket backpack to collect sticks. I also found some beautiful feathers. It felt so good to have a clear purpose for my walk in the woods. Collect sticks. Simple and focused. It kept my mind cool, calm, and collected. Present. In awe. I even started singing my gratitudes to the Earth, Sky, Sun, and Wind. I started making up songs and shouting and twirling. Home at last. Back in my natural state.
On the way home, I stopped by a cabin the Redwoods that is for rent. I kept looking at photos of it on Craigslist and it looked really dreamy — built in 1990 with a loft bed on three acres. Something about it called to me but it didn't feel practical. Still I showed it to a friend as a dream and he said, "Why not? You could swing it!" And started to make a financial plan for me. Maybe he is right.
After a few weeks in the city at my parents' house, I'm ready to find my next home. The woman renting the cabin had held an open house yesterday but she said she was still looking for the right tenant. I drove back through Mill Valley, the town I had just left a few weeks ago, feeling partly nostalgic but also remembering all the things that weren't working. I drove along a narrow windy road through a canyon and up a steep driveway to the cabin. It was unlocked and I stepped inside.
The craftsmanship was perfect. There was a loft for a bed, like I've always dreamed about. I could imagine turning it into my temple and also hosting forest baths and dinners there. But something also felt creepy. Lonely, dark, and cold.
"Why am I here?" I wondered. I don't feel totally ready to move in to a home and am still figuring out what I want and where I want to be. But I knew I had to follow this ping and visit this cabin. Feeling totally consumed by the mystery of it all, I lay down on the wood floor and said aloud to no one, "I'm here. I surrender. Show me the way."