My inner youngster chows down today on pumpkin seeds and chocolate chips—delish! What’s not to love in healthy fat plus well, CHOCOLATE. I have been thinking I need to upgrade my chocolate source to like, organic free trade cacao powder. Not yet, not yet. Please. I’ve got a good thing going here.

So I serve myself more. Is more of a good thing always good? NO. I learned that the hard way with alcohol. Invariably, I’d feel great with a couple of drinks in me and often have a shit-kicking good time. More, more! NOOOO. Bad choice.

Tired of puking and massive hangovers, I limit myself religiously now to ½ a glass. It’s the only amount I can have and still feel like a million bucks in the morning. Just a taste, a toast, a savoring thimble of the sweetness of humanity. I rest in divinity. And I really can’t do that if I fry my synapses on a vibration degradation. So there it is.

I feel like it’s Christmas morning. No really, I do. Can I even begin to talk about what happened last night? My natural highs include search and rescue of terribly lost, abandoned, persecuted selves and bringing them home to kindness, love, and a warm bed.

Hey, dear male self. Any chance you’d like to have the mic?

No way. You got me into this: I’d like you to tell the story of rescuing me. Besides, I’m still blinking in wonder at all this majesty, this glory, this being alive without you hating me. It’s a lot to take in.

Okay. You take your time, sweetie.

Zachary Kadoph on Unsplash

I begin to cry. I don’t know if I can go there quite yet. ‘Tis a beautiful morning and I’ve freed a sweet male side of myself who’s been hated for years, and I am so happy I cannot stop weeping. Thank you, Universe. Thank you to Trise*, the healer who developed the tools I use, including Beholding. This one tool of Beholding just keeps working magic rescues, and the deeper and more profound, the more I can only cry with gratitude. Thank you.

I say to he-me: I’m so glad you’re home.

It’s too valuable to sum up like an aside at a dinner party. But I want to shout to the rooftops: I love you my dear, dear maleness, my masculine self, my sweet boy.

And he blooms and is so happy and there’s really nothing more to say.

But here’s a thimble full: Me, at 10, my father’s eyes withdrawn with the piercing sword of rejection, neither of us able to stop it, his women’s issues swimming before his eyes where he used to bathe me in sweet life-light, and me at 10 thinks: Only one of us must be worthy of love.

So I decide to hate him, but he’s a substantial share of who I am and the instant I do decide him unworthy of love, hatred rains all over all the him in me. And keeps raining until last night.

I knew something was up because meditating after a fight, I kept thinking “Christopher doesn’t deserve my love.” That he didn’t treat me well enough to deserve it. And also feeling hatred at him. And I know enough to turn that around and wonder about it. I let all the other emotions flow through and release until it was just that one belief.

And then I called the part of me that held that belief outside to behold, support, and dialogue with her.

Decisions made at 10 while in agony prove once again unwise, but who can blame a child for misinterpreting reality? “Only one of us must be worthy of love.” Wow. Made sense at the time.

So I told her about my dad’s issues, how his mom was dangerous to him in some very scary ways (while being wondrous in many others), and how he was a troubled grown-up, not a villain, that we both deserved my love.

And that I get to keep all of the me that’s like him inside me and love it and stop hating my masculine self and instead embrace its rich legacy. And I also still get to savor the lesson of this lifetime—to claim my own authority, power, and wholeness, claim my femininity and all of me my Dad could not see as reality.

I am the queen of my infinity.

And that’s enough of the story for today, is it not? You just needed a little taste. Thank you, GRACE.

*Trise Ruskay’s “HeartWork, a Manual for Therapists” will be out soon.