A Meeting with Mary Magdalene
It’s early — or late — depending on how you view time.
I’ve been dealing with bronchitis a few short weeks after recovering from a sinus infection that turned into pneumonia. I’m tired of coughing. Tired of hearing the rattle within my chest. Just tired.
But I wake up coughing, and after taking a drag from my inhaler, I find myself jittery and awake. I do what most do these days when faced with insomnia: I scroll TikTok.
I stumble on a video of a woman in the woods, in front of a massive tree. Something about her smile has me pause the scroll. As I listen to her message, I feel my heart rate quickening.
This video was for me. It’s too coincidental to not be relevant and the messages are clear.
I close the app, sit up in my bed, and breathe deep once, twice, three times.
I call all of my power back to me now, I whisper.
I say it again, and again.
In my mind, I see tendrils of gold flying toward me and embracing my limbs. I’m glowing, my sacral on fire. I feel the fire in my hands and I smile. I know this invitation. I’ve come to recognize it as part of my magic.
I activate the power lying dormant within me, I say. My voice echoes on the air around me and I feel a chill down my spine. My hands tingle.
That’s when the meditation begins.
I find myself at the beach I know so well, the cottage to my right, the beach grass swaying in the breeze and lining the path. I walk my way toward the water, my feet feeling the sand beneath me. I assume I am headed toward the cottage with the redwood tree in the entrance, but instead, I see Him standing there leaning against the cliff.
“Hi.” I whisper.
He smiles at me and takes my hand.
“Hi, love.”
“I’m tired,” I lean my head against His shoulder and He kisses the top of my head.
“I know” He says.
I stand up then, facing HIm. I feel my chest rise and fall with frustration and I open up my arms waving around me. Suddenly, it’s as if everything I’ve walked through has come up to the surface and I feel the confusion and fight the disassociation. His eyes study me, always kind, always a hint of a fire hidden in the depths.
“So…what am I supposed to do with all of this? How am I supposed to move forward?”
He leans in and pushes some hair behind my ear.
“Tell them I sent you.”
I swallow. That seems like a tall order, and I feel myself shrinking all over again.
Surely you don’t mean me.
But He does. I hear it in His voice, and I know this version of Him. He continues, telling me I have targets on my back. That others are beginning to notice my power, and that they don’t like it. He takes His hands and outlines my field of energy and I feel contained.
He looks at me again and His eyes are blazing.
“They will not reach you, though. You are protected.”
We sit there for a moment, studying the waves crashing against the shore, holding hands and resting in each other’s presence. And then I hear footsteps and look up, seeing her walking toward us, the red robe blowing behind her. She’s smiling, and beckoning me toward her.
I look at Jesus and He smiles, nodding toward Mary Magdalene.
“Go, love. It’s okay. I sent her to you.”
So I walk toward her, noticing a fire burning. She sits next to the flame, and reaches for my hand. She tells me secrets of my lineage — of the ones who circle me and provide protection. Of the ones who are meant to witness. Of the one who is my mirror.
“You have been a fierce protector of so many people for so long — now it’s time for you to experience that for yourself. The power within you is awakening, and within that power is a need to rest on the ones who can hold you.”
And as we named the ones who are in my circle, I saw them in my peripheral vision begin to circle around us — their skirts and hair blowing in the wind, the thrum of magic channeling between all of us, like golden threads weaving in and out and connecting us.
A sacred circle; a chord of three strands.
And as I scanned the areas of my own energy needing a dose of that golden threaded power, I heard her whispering over me your breath is your knowing.
When Grief Comes to Visit
I wake in the morning with the familiar heaviness bearing down. It was a night of little sleep, so I lean into the exhaustion. My son is up, and wanting company in the living room, so I rub my eyes and grab my robe and tie it around my waist and pull it as close to my skin as I can for comfort. Once he’s settled, I whisper that I will be back, that mama needs to write.
I do not tell him what I need is to cry.
I do not cry, but I do get words out in my journal that won’t ever see the light of day. The heaviness lingers.
Words are spells, dear one, I hear as I spill myself on the pages and I remember. The night before, I saw something pass about a woman putting her daughter to bed and holding her close and murmuring, “you are so easy to love” as the breaths deepen and sleep takes over.
Ah. There is it.
I move over, give space for Grief, and offer a small smile.
“It’s been a while, friend.”
I run myself a bath, the steam rising as the water collects. I opt for the bath bomb I’ve been hanging on to for a special occasion, complete with a crystal marked for healing. Seems appropriate. I sink into the heat, my breath catching and serving as a reflex of the tears waiting to release, and I clear my throat. I scroll through the meditations and land on one I can’t move past, and press play.
The tears come, then. Welcome, aching, cleansing, heaving. I cry so hard a contact falls off my eye. I fold into myself, wrapping my body in the tightest hug imaginable.
I know, I know. It hurts. I know. I’m here.
I learn all over again how to mother the wound.
The ache doesn’t disappear. I don’t magically bounce out of the water ready to tackle the day. In fact, the ache eases into the next day, and I sob while watching TikTok videos about our inner child and continue while attempting downward facing dog and cat-cow. There is no saluting the sun this morning. There is, however, a little lion using my tabletop pose as an opportunity to give his stuffed zebra a ride. I smile through my tears and whisper thank you before quietly asking if mama can have some space.
I walk through my day as best as I can, most often wrapping myself in some type of blanket or sweatshirt or protective outer layer. I clean the boxes and books piling up on our kitchen table. I finally take the stack of mail and throw away the coupons we’ll never use. I do all of this while Clarissa Pinkola Estes’ blesses me through my AirPods, reminding me what happens when women sing over each other’s bones. I tend to my plants, pulling off the dead pieces and greeting the new buds and thinking to myself how this simple gesture, this simple care, is more than I’ve received for most of my life.
The tears come again, and I let them fall. I make myself some lunch and drink some water and turn on the Maggie Rogers’ album I know by heart and begin to write.
I start to sing, feeling the vibrations in my bones.
Come awake, love.
Rise up, dear one.
Further up and further in, I am becoming Someone new.
Recognition
I was listening to Glennon Doyle’s latest podcast episode around writing and creativity and something struck me.
She mentions something about her dual selves — how there was the Glennon for public persona and the Glennon at home alone. And so often, she masked herself in order to fit within the rules of girlhood: don’t be wild, don’t be hungry, don’t be animalistic. However, in creativity — and when she’s writing — she is true. Honest. Visceral. Her untamed self is calling out to other untamed selves.
She’s reaching for resonance. Her real self, unmasked, untamed, unleashed — is looking for others who understand.
I started writing for this reason. Initially on xanga, and then on MySpace and Blogger and Wordpress, I spilled my thoughts hoping for someone to recognize the words I was forming. But something happens when you do this consistently. You begin to recognize yourself. You begin to live integrated.
You begin to find your voice.
I have never stopped writing from those early days. We’re going on almost 20 years of sharing my thoughts on the internet. And even though I haven’t built a following like Glennon, I’ve come to know myself again and again, through words. Because even though there are hundreds of thousands of words I have written spread far and wide in this corner of the internet, I have just as many I’ve held close to my chest in journal and altered books and Notes on my iPhone that are locked away for safekeeping.
This is the magic — the medicine. It’s not sharing your thoughts and hoping for resonance. It’s sharing your thoughts and finding yourself. It’s being willing to own yourself when you come face-to-face with her in the sentences you’re crafting. It’s taking every imperfect sentence and every paragraph that makes you cry and every moment you’ve uncovered a deeper level of healing through letting yourself speak and merging them together.
The imperfect, the resonant, the intuitive.
A few days ago, I found my Awake the Bones instagram. As I read through the captions of posts I shared four years ago, I laughed to myself because there she was – right there for me to notice — the Elora who is writing these words right now. And maybe I noticed her. Maybe I saw and was afraid because of the wildness I recognized in her words. The audacity of demanding healing and recognizing the need for owning your place in this world. The questions of programming and belief systems that were set in place and rooted deep without any say of whether or not they fit.
She was there waiting, imperfect and resonant and intuitive as fuck.
I’m so glad I found her.
The Wild Mother
I took Instagram off the home page of my iPhone yesterday.
It’s been a long time coming. For the past few months, I have felt more and more inclined to share myself within the space of my weekly letter and dreaming about the days where I was able to post on my blog full-formed thoughts that allowed me to dive deep into the topic without fear of character limits.
I’m nothing if not verbose, and this is both a blessing a challenge.
And I’ve discovered, over the past few years, I have felt more and more constrained and self-edited within the space of those small squares. As someone who finds herself continually through words, this was problematic. So here I am, in this space, aiming for something that feels more True.
Welcome.
I’ve recently learned that part of who I am rests in this inner conflict of deep masculine drive vs a need for inner sovereignty and what it looks like to embody leadership within a feminine framework. I’ve been pulled toward the concept of matriarchy and midwifery for years, and it’s part of where the roots of my story coaching originate. However, what I didn’t recognize or prepare myself for was just how deep this goes and just how needed it is: both internally and collectively. But it makes sense, right? The patriarchy has wounded us and programmed into us the impossibility of a divine feminine within ourselves.
But she’s there.
I call her the Wild Mother.
This is where I’m at right now: learning, growing, de-programming, and understanding that maybe just maybe, my creativity is my worship. We need it so badly right now: the vision and dissonance of creatives and artists reminding us that there is a better way and a better world possible.
Maybe just maybe, helping others heal and find their creative voice within the divine feminine is why I’m here.
The Itching of Wings
When we were younger, I remember climbing the couch all the way to the top and waiting for the itch in our hands to appear before leaping toward the floor.
We liked to see how far we could fly.
We followed that itch every where. Monkey bars. Swing sets. Backyard pools and tumbling gyms. The higher, the faster, the further? The better.
We wanted to be a ballerina for a minute. Do you remember that? We loved the way they jumped and twirled and defied gravity in so many ways. We walked into the studio clad in gym shorts and a t-shirt, saw the tights and leotards, and went running the other direction.
I felt you, though. Despite the it's okay, I didn't want to do it anyways, the pinch was there. And when we had a best friend in elementary and middle school leave for ballet class and talk about finally reaching point, we'd smile and wonder. Remember? Instead, we took to cheerleading and became the base. The spotter. We couldn't fly, but we helped every one else get there.
I think that might have been the beginning of the Great Hiding.
There were other factors too—hands in places they didn't belong and words thrown toward you at volumes you weren't meant for—but eventually, the itching went internal.
And instead of your hands reminding you where your wings should be, your heart scratched your insides and begged you to stay safe. That's when you turned to the pantry.
You learned early on that a cookie worked better to satiate that scratching than anything else. So you ate. You ate the cookies and the tortillas and the peanut butter and the pies in the freezer. You ate the chips and the turkey and the candy bars and the chocolate milk.
And soon, you didn't even try to fly because of how heavy you felt inside.
A few years ago, someone gave you a rope. Do you remember? It was like a piece of red thread connected between here and sanity.
The Great Hiding looked dark. Lonely. It looked like you may turn to the wallpaper for friends instead of the world outside and that's just not the way to go, you know? And you wanted the girl back—the one who would jump from things without even looking because of course she could fly. She had wings! There was itching to prove it.
That thread was the first broken belt on the strait jacket of invisibility. Nothing was satiating the scratching inside and now you knew it was because it didn't belong there. It didn't belong there and this whole time you thought your heart was working against you but really, she was just trying to get you to hear her because she was caged.
She was caged and begging to go free.
She knows we're meant to fly.
I found the key, little one.
It's right here. I'm holding it. Are you ready? We were born to risk—to jump—to celebrate the softness of landing in our dreams.
And today is the day the itching returns to our wings.
Teaser Tuesday - Vol 1
Welcome to Teaser Tuesday, where I will share with you a piece of the WIP I am working on before publication. If you want to catch the entirety of the (rough) draft as I write it, head on over to my Patreon and subscribe for updates. These posts will always be short — maybe a few paragraphs. But the point is to pique your curiosity. 😏 Currently, my WIP is about a stalker, so consider that before reading. I hope you enjoy!
We’re standing by the ocean, the foam washing our feet in a joint baptism, when you tell me you can’t see me anymore. You give all kinds of excuses: it doesn’t make sense, there’s no more mystery, you aren’t attracted to me — but I know they’re all lies.
I watch your eyes roam my face with desire. It’s obvious you want me, you’re just fighting innate impulses. I reach my hand out and caress your arm, but you pull away, a snarl on your lips.
I smile. You’re so feisty when you resist.
I watch you turn and walk away, studying the buckle of your sandal as you maneuver through the sand back to your car. You didn’t even offer me a ride, but maybe that’s because you haven’t broken up with your boyfriend yet and you don’t want to raise questions.
I understand.
I drove here anyway.
I watch you until you turn invisible behind the sunset and then wipe my face. Fucking tears. I breathe deep and notice a starfish on the sand by my feet. I pick it up, fingering the indentations and grooves. I remember you telling me once that starfish symbolize infinite love...or was it vigilance? Either way, I lift the creature to my lips and give it a kiss before snapping off each arm and throwing it back into the sea.
If you want to play cat and mouse, Juniper, we can play.
But you need to know — I always win.
Capturing Minutiae
Published from previous blog on April 20, 2020
I saw something in an email this week that mentioned our every day documentation during this season. I admit, sometimes I feel as if it’s not readable to post about Jubal climbing our piles of laundry on the couch in our bedroom and playing his iPad while I binge Outer Banks and try to get some words in for the day.
Or like last night, when Russ asked Jubal, “hey buddy you want me to teach you how to play guitar?” And Jubal snuck his way in between Russ’ arms and watched his hands pluck the strings as if it were the most important thing in his world, I snapped a picture but didn’t think about writing it down because this moment feels normal. Every day.
Just like it doesn’t feel significant to talk about the walks Russ and Jubal take every day, canvassing our neighborhood with the dogs, finding leaves that spark their curiosity, because this happens literally every time they’re walking. I forget about the conversations and the silly things Jubal says and only later when Russ and I are alone we look at each other and ask, “what was it that he said today that was so hilarious? Do you remember?
I don’t talk about the recent discovery that our son apparently prefers 1970’s Indie punk above all other musical genres. Or his insatiable need to have his blanket with him everywhere - even while making sandcastles with the dirt outside on our patio.
I don’t talk about the masks we got in the mail today and how now there are two hooks above our keys by the garage door so we won’t forget to grab ours before leaving the house on our weekly errand to the store. I don’t talk about the hand washing, the daily counting of toilet paper rolls, the Vitamin C intake and countless virtual trips to Target and Amazon and nearly any store that will deliver.
I don’t talk about how Jubal now mentions that his school is closed.
I don’t mention this stuff because it doesn’t feel monumental, but I know one day, it will be a welcome treat to read back and remember these days where we were learning so much about each other and our world was changing so exponentially.
The last time this happened, we were stuck on an island in North Carolina, waiting to come home with our new son. Every one then kept telling us to enjoy it — to soak up the time we had together because it would pass quickly and soon we would be wishing for those days of listening to nothing except for the ocean waves crashing against the shore. I believed them because I know myself. I know the atmospheres in which I thrive. And true to form, as we returned to our lives in Austin and the sound of ocean waves became more and more a memory, the ache deepened.
I missed it.
Because of the intensity of those days, I wasn’t able to journal. I couldn’t. There were too many emotions swirling in my brain and mind and all I could manage were small poems haphazardly scribbled in my notebook. Instead, I read. I read so many books.
But I wish I would have found some reservoir in order to write.
So now, as I hear Jubal’s giggles out front and know that any minute they’ll come rushing through the front door with treasures he’s found on yet another daily walk, I try to capture as many moments as possible.
Like yesterday, sitting out on the porch with little lion, I turn and ask if I can take his picture.
“Yeah, mama. You can.”
“Thanks, babe. Can you smile for me?”
“No. I think I just want to look at the clouds.”
And so he did. I’m so glad he chose that instead.
Sundays with Maggie - Vol. 1
And I walked off you,
And I walked off an old me.
Sometimes I wonder if I will ever be able to separate the Elora I was with the one I am becoming. I think about her often — the one who got me here.
She kept me safe for so long - behind my mother's clothes in her closet where I could smell her scent, behind a smile so I wouldn't be seen as trouble, behind a list of rules so I wouldn't fall into rebellion and sin, behind a fear of expanding into anything other than what was expected of me.
She wanted nothing more than to just be good.
And then suddenly, it wasn't enough. Nothing was enough. One day I knew from the core of my being that if I checked all of these boxes everything would be nice and neat and perfect and easy I would fit the mold. I would fit. I would belong. But it didn't work. Everything fell apart. The entire story I constructed for myself felt like an ill-fitting jacket, suffocating me.
What was once my lifejacket had become the tightest straight jacket, impaling my senses and leaving me frozen and paralyzed, unable to remember anything about who I was in my core.
Hey now, breathe deep
I'm inhaling.
You and I, there's air in between.
Leave me be, I'm exhaling.
You and I, there's air in between.
The other day my therapist told me, "breathe through this," and it startled me into awareness. I closed my eyes and let my body feel oxygen in every square inch of her and when I released, the tears did too. I had no idea I had forgotten to breathe, but she saw my shoulders clench, my eyes lose focus, my jaw tense.
Once again, I found myself holding my breath - waiting, anticipating, fearing the next thing to fall away.
I hold my breath without realizing it. I've done it about two or three times while writing this. Suddenly, my chest constricts and it feels like I can't get enough air in and I can't remember the last time I felt breath fill my lungs and so I have to throw my arms back above my head and reach for the sky while reminding myself how to breathe — in and out, in and out, expand - expand - expand.
I learned to not breathe by learning to fly under the radar.