We ended on something of a cliffhanger last time. So I should probably give you a tiny bit of background.

The very short version is that I talk to walls. And myself. And a duck.

Really, if you keep reading now, you’ve no one to blame but yourself. 🙂

The short-ish version is that I started talking to the part of myself which keeps me from moving forward (that was Part 1) … which resulted in (Part 2) me having an awkward and uncomfortable conversation with my fear.

Which you’d think would be bad enough.

But no. Apparently, the only thing that would satisfy my fear was more wackiness.

Just how wacky? Here’s where we left off:

I asked about what was going to happen next and my fear said I had to go do some deep work with my second chakra and then I rolled my eyes and then my fear called me a pussy.

It was delightful.

And really, that’s when everything went crazy and the seriously weird stuff started happening, but we’ll have to talk about that next time.

I told you it was going to be weird.

I mean, it was hard enough with the fear and the blocks.

So if you have no idea what the hell I’m talking about, you’re in pretty good company. This wasn’t making any sense to me either — but don’t worry about it.

I’ll just tell you what happened.

Me: “Hey, you in there. Um, it’s me, I guess. No, it really is me. I just feel kind of weird about this.”
Body: “Do you want something?”
Me: “Well, this is sort of awkward. It’s just… apparently I’m supposed to be having a conversation with my second chakra or something.”
Body: “Knock yourself out.”
Me: “Aren’t you going to help?”
Body: “Dude, I’m right here.”

If at first you don’t succeed ….

Me: “Okay. Fine. So here’s what I know about second chakra.

It’s located in the lower abdomen and associated with reproductive organs. It’s the symbolic center for things like relationships and sex and money and things that have to do with give and take.

It’s about exchange. It’s about flow. It’s about movement. It’s associated with water and with the color orange. It’s about creation, procreation, giving birth to ideas…”

Body: “Knock it off with the yoga teacher routine, would ya?”

Long pause.

Me: “Okay, this stuff wasn’t even my idea. I don’t even want to be doing this.”
Body: “You know what this is about? This is the fear thing again. You’re petrified. And you’re avoiding me so you won’t have to have the stupid conversation.”
Me: “Yeah? So what?”
Body: “Just have the conversation. Get in here and have the conversation.”
Me: “I’m not even sure I want to go in there right now.”
Body: “I know, sweetheart. I know.”

Going inside.

So I went in. But I’m not stupid.

I lit candles. Some incense because yeah, I hug trees and I live in Portland. I wrapped myself in blankets and put Selma on my lap. And I started talking to myself.

I reminded myself that I am never alone. I reminded myself that I have huge reserves of safety and comfort and support.

And when things finally started feeling safe I said, “Let’s do this thing, baby.”

So we did. And it was horrible. I mean, not really, but at first glance. Ugh.

The first thing I found was an enormous pile of worms.

Big, fat, black, slimy, oozing worms. A massive tangle of worms. Moving slowly and steadily, climbing over each other in a pulsating mass of ew.

Instantly the fear showed up. I could feel my fear, poking me from behind.

Insinuating that it had been right all along. That there were things to be afraid of … and that these things are inside of me right now.

Gross things. Unhappy things. Painful things.

In fact, hinted the fear, it’s probably cancer. It’s probably destroying you. It’s probably too late.

I clutched my duck, and took a deep breath.

Me: “Hey, fear? This is so not helping right now.”
Fear: “But but but but! WORMS! Inside of you!”
Me: “I can see them, yes. And I’m terrified, yes. Here’s the thing. We’ve talked about this. When you put in me in fear-mode I get so paralyzed that I can’t act and I can’t help us.”
Fear: “WORMS! Run awaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaay!”
Me: “I know you said you’d come with me, but what I really need right now is support and encouragement. And strength. Because otherwise, I may never find out what I need to find out.”
Fear: “Sorry, sorry, sorry. Force of habit. I’ll shut up now.”
Me: “Thank you.”
Fear: “But you know…”
Me: “Support and encouragement and strength, please.”
Fear: “…”
Me: “Thank you.”

Finding what’s there. Learning what I need to know.

I looked at the worms.

I really, really wanted to run away. Or throw up. But whatever, I’ve come this far. I had to ask.

Me: “So … hey there, crazy stuff happening inside of my second chakra. I don’t know what this is all about, but I’m feeling really nervous about it. Can I have some more information please?”

The worms all seemed to stop moving at once.

I wondered out loud, “Do these worms even need to be here? Is this what I’m here to see?”

And then they all disappeared. Gone. And I saw what was beneath all of those worms.

What I found was a nest. In my ovaries.

The nest in my ovaries had been built with what appeared to be feathers. Old, black, decomposing feathers. It was an old nest. Actually, I got the feeling that it was tired of being a nest. It was very tired.

Me: “No wonder you got filled with worms. You’ve been decomposing for a long time, nest.”
The Nest: “Yes, I seem to have forgotten my purpose.”
Me: “So you sent for me.”
The Nest: “I have been waiting for you for a very, very long time.”
Me: *bursts into tears*

We all forget our purpose sometimes.

Me: “Oh nest, I want to help you. I really want to help you. I’m so afraid that I won’t know how to help you.”
The Nest: “It’s lovely that you are here. So … what would you like to have from a nest? Maybe that’s my purpose.”
Me: “Well, I don’t know. A nest could be shelter. It could be a place to hide. It’s also a place to grow. And to store things for the future. It’s like a tiny little home for hope.”
The Nest: “I like the sound of that.”
Me: “I thought you might.”
The Nest: “I’m so glad you’ve come. And now I really have to go.”
Me: “What are you talking about?”
The Nest: “Goodbye, my dear.”

What happened next …

I waited.

And I thought about my nest. I thought about how it had a purpose once, but then that purpose had disappeared. The nest had been abandoned. And it forgot who it was.

Part of me was sad for my nest. And sad for me.

But then this other part of me was kind of thinking about how that is the way of things. You know, they grow and shift and change and die.

Next thing I knew, my fear was sitting next to me again. But this time it was quiet. It seemed as though it was thinking. Which was odd, because it’s usually so damn loud.

Me: “Oh it’s you again.”
Fear: “I have so much love for you. I don’t want to see you covered in worms.”
Me: “Yeah, me too.”

And then my fear was gone again as quickly as it had arrived.

The space felt bigger and lighter. More expansive. I wondered what I was waiting for. And then it came.

I found myself in a gigantic wooden bowl. But it wasn’t really a bowl. It was a new nest. Made from wood. It smelled a bit like cedar. It was clean and welcoming. I mean, for a bowl.

The question.

Me: “Are you my new nest?”

The Nest didn’t really say anything but it kind of beamed at me.

Me: “I feel comfortable here. I feel safe. I think I like you.”
The Nest: “I will be here for as long as you need me. You know my purpose and you know where to find me.”
Me: “Wow. Trippy. I’m going to write this down, but this is way too crazy for a blog post.”
Fear: “No kidding. No one will ever read your blog ever again if you write about this stuff.”
Me: “Oh, you’re back.”

And that’s where we left it.

Is it crazy? Yeah, kind of. I mean, absolutely. But that’s what happened.

It’s not like I’m done talking with blocks or anything, but I’m feeling more comfortable with the whole thing.

And I guess maybe my fear isn’t as impressive as I thought it was — those worms didn’t even scare me half to death. Though I have to say, I’m glad they’re gone.

My fear is still around. My old companion. It’s just that things are different between us. Less fight-ey.

I don’t know when I’ll be visiting my nest again, but yay — it’s there. It’s mine.

That’s a start, at least.