A Fully Permission-ed Life

I coach people who are wanting to live a FPL, “Fully Permission-ed Life” in expression, relationship, creativity, career, and BEING!

This is a messy business to say the least.  But, not as messy as when I was a child, always trying to please everyone (8 siblings, 2 sets of parents) on top of being a chronic apologizer.  It was exhausting to be on high alert trying to meet everyone where they were, and ignoring my inner soul voice. Today, I no longer deny my Self a "FPL", except for when I do.

These last several days have been challenging my “FPL”.  It’s humbling, and it is kicking my ass.

How do I give my Self full permission when I am searching for a good enough excuse, a concrete explanation, or a defense around the reason for not being able to show up.  I find myself “sorry-ing” my kids, business partners, and friends. Where is my permission without the excuses, guilt, the should’s, the shame, and the stress?

IMG_2553.JPG

I have to dig a little deeper, and wrestle with what I know to be true. I need to notice when I’m defending my life, instead of living from my personal truth, and stop allowing others to define me. Yup, it’s a very messy inside job. I have to dig deep into the sludge of should’s and defensive living, as I rummage around my soul for the well buried truth, weeding out the excuses, yeah but’s, and shame.  Digging deeper still, through the hot mess of personal with-holding, to finally reach the decaying Fully Permission-ed Self.  There She is, hiding in a tight corner of my Being. I recognize the faint flicker, reminding me of the fire fly that caught my sleepy eyes just last night, when I looked out my bathroom window.  This is when I heard my soul voice whisper, “Wake the fuck up, Girl!” I feel that something give, and my FPL is ignited, and my truth sayer is choosing, “NO not today."  I breathe in my reckoning; the punishing banter that delivered my own damn truth. It isn’t someone else’s truth, it is all mine.  I get to be exhausted, spent, confused, unhappy, nitty, and beaten down by the world for a few days.

She’s back, a Fully Permission-ed Glorious Mess! The magic that arrived at the end of this day's reckoning was a note I received in the mail from my niece, and it read, "darling, a beautiful thing is never perfect."

 

Dreams in Queen Anne's Park

On Friday evening a friend of mine asked if I wanted to write a letter as part of an art project that her daughter was doing at college.  For some reason, I dove right into the request to capture the images that started to come into my mind. They were of Queen Anne's Park which was right around the corner of our house in Newport Rhode Island while I was pregnant with my daughter. We lived there until she was four and she is my inspiration for the poem below:

2017-08-15 17.15.54.jpg

Dreams in Queen Anne’s Park

Dear Daughter,

I stopped to rest beneath our Sycamore tree.
In the park, near the house, where you were born.
I remember sitting on summer grass at the same place, years back.
While your presence formed. Unaware of how you’d change me.
Your tiny hands would challenge every misconception.
Every constancy I’d ever known, exchanged for love.
The prodigious force that multiplied.
Entwined with you and I inside.
Delivered to each other like unexpected twins.

Each birthday flickered holograms, of candles on your cake.
The holy moments. The only moments.
While you count cartwheels in pink tutus.
Lasso monsters in dress-up shoes.
You keep rainbows in a jar.
And I, captivated by the prisms of your laughter.
Like the ones we hung near windows, by your pillow. In your lemon-yellow room.

Glimpses of far away planets remind me of impermanence.
Memories float like incense and linger in the air.
You are a constellation organized in a fistful of scattered seeds.
The growth patterns imperceptible.
The chances impossible.
You are a wildflower in technicolor.
And fireworks blooming in July.

My mortal hands reveal veins like patterns.
A map of traveled routes to the motherland you made of me.
The fertile land you blessed for me.
With open hands you gestured me.
While beaming your unicorn smile.

My pilgrimage begins at every sacred site of you.
I wonder at the sight of you.
The epicenter of everything that goodness ever made.
Taking particles of you with me.
Life hasn't dreamed the last of me.
I won’t carve the base of our Sycamore tree.
For the imprint of you {LOVE} is in my heart.

-Momma

(Monica Rodgers Jan 26th, 2018)