I want just the right amount of softness and sweetness, just the right rhythm and flow, to match my needs. Too slow or too fast, too big or too small, too tentative or too hard and I can’t relax at all. Ah but when that moment comes, when the essence and of the movement resonates with my body’s longings, how I cry out in joy. To be at last heard, seen, held, rocked in my own rhythm, honoured for who I truly am, I feel so loved and free.

At the end of a long tear lies joy. Between hurt’s pricking thorns nestles sensitivity’s sweet soft flower. Admitting fear leads you to courage’s door. Knowing you must die, makes you appreciate life. Out of pain and blood comes a river of love. It’s the very thing we fear and face, that turns our runaway tide, and brings sweet transformation.

The rain’s crying the tears I can’t quite shed. I’m too busy holding myself together. Yet beneath my prison of steely ribs my little child is weeping and trembling. I can keep locking her in her room, bribing her with numbing food, giving her a lecture on behaving like an adult. But how crazy is that? For she is my greatest heroine, the repository of my deepest feelings. I must build an altar to her, to her jeweled tears and open bleeding heart. She is both my tenderness and my strength.

I used to believe that feeling so much, I really felt and knew myself deeply: Being a feeling woman was my identity, my heart’s calling, my reason to be, But it was all a bit intense and tiring. One day when experiencing strong feelings I discovered, that while I might be living in my aura’s emotional level, I wasn’t present in my body or my aura’s physical level. Shock. Horror. I wasn’t connected at all; neither to the ground, or my centre and essence. My feelings, enjoying hanging out in the held breath of anticipation and over-excitement, were not actually