Beach Magic

We just returned from a trip to Punta Cana.  It was absolutely glorious.  White sandy beaches, turquoise ocean, waves lapping at my feet.  Absolute perfection.  And I fully experienced every single moment.  The ocean seemed more blue, the trees more lush, the sand more white.  And I wondered why.  I have travelled to many places over the years.  Why is it, that *this* time, it felt different?

And I realized that this was the first time that I went away and felt well.  I was not struggling through any physical ailment.  I was physically healthy.  I am physically healthy.  It happened while I wasn't looking.  It happened. 

Tears are steaming down my face as I write this because I realize that full and complete healing has happened without me looking.  I have worked so hard for this moment.  So hard.  And in the midst of the waves, the wind and the tropical flowers, something blossomed.

I have always been a believer.  I believe in miracles and magic.  I believe that anything is possible...for my clients, for my friends, for my loved ones.  But I realized that there was an old belief system playing in the background for my own healing.  I realized that I have believed that healing must be a struggle, that I must arduously, determinedly and diligently work through each step, layer, by layer of my wounding.  That healing must be treacherous.  That the miracles weren't available...for me.

Perhaps it was a feeling that I don't deserve healing.  Perhaps it was based on an ancestral wounding.  The struggle, the heartache, the trauma, the suffering of my people.

But then the ocean came.  And the ocean did what it was meant to do.  It washed away all of the pain.  And then the wind came.  And the wind did what it was meant to do.  It brought lightness and freedom.  And then the colour came.  The colour of my name sake.  Healing Rainbow Woman.

Healing Rainbow Woman.

And the violets and pinks surrounded me in love and magnificence.  And the turquoises and greens swirled around me in truth and vision.  And the oranges, golds and reds moved in to root and ground all of the healing.

And I breathed.  I breathed so deeply.  I breathed in miracles, magic and hope.  For my given name means hope.  Hope for a better way, hope for a healed outcome, hope for a healed body.

And so it is.

A. xo

Piano Musings...

When I was five, I begged my mom for piano lessons.  She tells me that after my first lesson I told that that it was not anything that I expected.  She said that I told her that I thought it would be all of these children sitting with mini pianos waiting for the teacher to instruct them.  Needless to say, I truly loved what had actually transpired.  I loved the piano.

As I matured, I changed teachers and the piano became a huge part of my life.  At times, it was a source of contention with my mother as there was so much damn practicing.  The shy child within, was pushed to engage in competitions and recitals and some of those experiences were the most beautiful memories of musical accomplishment. 

I was a lover of romantic pieces.  For those of you who played through the Conservatory, it was the List C and D pieces that I melted into.  The technical pieces were not my cup of tea as my sensitive nature wanted to be in my heart and allow my soul to flow. 

Because my mom wanted me to experience all forms of art, I was also heavily involved in dance and had an intense, committed schedule each year to competition and exams.  For some reason dance took over piano and I focused my energy there.

I took my Grade 8 exam and then never looked back. 

Throughout University I would come back to the piano whenever I came back home.  I would flip through all of my favourite pieces and just play from my heart.  I would watch my fingers remember the flow, remember the depth of emotion...just, remember.  I remember going through an intense break up from my first serious relationship.  To heal, I would play the piano.  I would always come back to the piano.

And then, I didn't.

When I got sick, really sick, my hands just stopped working.  I could not bend my fingers for  two years.  To write and admit this makes me feel so sad for my precious hands.  These were hands that helped to facilitate healing, yet outwardly, they appeared imperfect.

And I was ashamed.

Ashamed of the way they curled under, ashamed that I couldn't open a bottle of water, write, tie my shoes, put my socks on.  Ashamed.

I took remedies,  I meditated, did healings, contemplated and searched and dug so deep.  Why could I not heal these hands? 

And there was a whisper.  A whisper that would come in my dreams, a whisper that would come in my cell memory.  It would come when I listened to Chopin and Debussy and envisioned myself playing out my pain.

And then I remembered.  That is exactly what I used to do.  Piano was an outlet.  An outlet for joy.  An outlet for pain . An outlet for the tapestry of emotion that existed in my being.  And it has been stifled for many, many years.  And it was time to come out. 

And then the magic happened.  A dear friend and I were walking in the forest and she told me that her daughter was taking piano lessons from the very same teacher I had 18 years ago!  I was in awe, as I often am after a synchronicity connection. But then I realized that i
t was a calling, a sign.  To come back.  To re-connect.  To heal.

And two weeks ago, I did.  I went back and remembered.  It was one of the most joyful time of my week.  The piano is my medicine, it is a gift to my heart and soul.

In my first lesson back, after 18 years, I looked down at my beautiful crooked hands, with tears in my eyes, grateful.  Grateful for the courage to try again.  Stumbling through the notes, I felt my heart open so wide.  I was home again.  Free to express.  Free to be me.

A. xo