Lustral Bath
I just got home from Greece — it was magic beyond magic.
I landed home right as the Days of Awe began. Those ten days between Rosh Hashanah and Yom Kippur, the Jewish New Year and the Day of Atonement.
I grew up in a culture where the idea of "atonement" meant self-annihilation. Atonement doesn't have to mean self-annihilation.
I like to think of it in relationship to these questions:
Where do I want to show up better, for myself and for my community?
Where have I missed the mark?
For me, this year, it's over-giving. Learning — painfully, beautifully — to turn toward myself. Not in an "I can do it all alone" way, but in an "I've got me, and I'm a badass" way. Offering myself compassion for the parts that over-gave to receive love. It's an ancient archetype.
Greece itself was epic. I got to see my beloved teacher, Rosita Arvigo, the woman whose work — Maya Abdominal Massage — pulled me OUT of chronic, extreme pelvic pain. She's 87. Still sharp, still brilliant, still stunning. I don't take a single visit for granted.
We did a plant-spirit bath in the ocean — a "lustral bath." Rosita told me luster means light. I said, "Rosita, that makes me think of lust." She laughed: "That's because you're younger than me!"
We got into how "lust" gets used to shame women's desire — and what it might mean if our desire is simply the Goddess's light, shining through us.
And here's where it circles back: so much of the leaking, the gripping, the bracing I see in my clients — and used to feel in my own body — comes from that same over-giving pattern.
Armoring instead of softening. Holding instead of trusting.
If you've ever peed a little when you laughed, sneezed, or jumped on a trampoline, click the link below for access to a free video practice that is one of the foundational practices I share with all of my clients.
