The Erotic Path Through Chaos

Reflections from the Liminal, Void, Deep Yin, Dissolution

It’s been a hot minute since I’ve written here.

The last month has been a whirlwind. I spent the start of the year weaving together a four-day immersion in New York City with a dear kindred spirit, creating something beautiful, something sacred. And now—days later—I find myself, and my whole family, recovering from the flu, purging out Goddess knows what from last year.

I look around and see so much devastation—fires raging in California, people I love losing their homes, the collective grief of the world swelling beneath the surface.

I’m behind on everything. My hair is a tangled mess. I’m in glasses, no makeup, wrapped in blankets, taking so much vitamin C that my stomach has rumbled through my day like a storm. There is blood on the sheets from bloody mucuus dripping out of my one year old’s nose through the night, and urine too from leaky diapers. It’s not a pretty sight. It reminds me of the bed after birth. It’s raw. It’s real.

And it has led me to ask, to practice, to ponder—how the hell, in the messy and hard moments, do we stay tethered to the erotic pulse of what is? How do we avoid falling into survival mode—defaulting to stress and depletion—as mothers, wives, business owners, and friends?

How does even THIS mess become enlivening?!

How do we find the erotic in everything? The divine in everything? The gift in everything?

How do we find the love, the heart, in it all—the flu, the fire, the mess, the exhaustion? How do we open to it, let it melt us, instead of bracing, resisting, or collapsing into victimhood?

This is what I wrote about in my book F*ck Like a Goddess (Sounds True, 2020):

It’s a glorious surrender to lie down and open to the present moment, inviting it in like a lover you don’t want to look away from.

This is it.

Enjoy it. The hair pulling from life. The spankings. And the tears that drip from your eyes in gratitude for the ecstasy at hand.

The moment is yours. Make love to it.

I dare you.

So, How Does a Woman Do the Above?

How does she drag herself out of the grief, or the flu, or the mundane—the dishes, the laundry, the emails, the meetings, the texts she forgot to respond to, the whatever else mess—and find the juice in it?

How does she drop into sensual pleasure even in the middle of it all—without feeling like she’s performing, faking, or betraying the moment?

How does she carve out time to sit at her altar, whisper her prayers, feel her desires, and call in her manifestationsin a world that barely acknowledges these acts as real, let alone important?

How does she remember her curves again—literal and metaphorical—and the soft front surface of her love body, the open channel of her aliveness—in a world that is often so intense?

And how does she hear the voice of her soul—the inner poet, the dreamer, the artist—when the world won’t shut up about productivity and politics and hard-edged old realities that feel tightly wound around us?

IT AIN’T EASY. But it is simple.

It takes guts.
It takes sacred, messy, imperfect-as-hell practice.

And amidst the yuck-as-fuck flu—it takes feeling my warm womb, my soft heart, the linen sheets on my skin, the sound of my partner’s voice reading to our baby, the faint strawberry taste of the electrolytes still lingering on my tongue, the tears of fear and grief dripping out from my eyes onto the pillow…

Instead of getting locked into my broken nail, my unshaved legs, my throbbing head, the unanswered emails, and the wet cough coming through my mouth.

Feeling instead.
Not from victimhood or collapse, but from opening to life.
From being truly here.
From seeing that this moment is a gift.

I am alive now.
I am breathing into this moment.

This is a choice.

To feel into the yuck.
To soften into the muck.
To widen into the fuck.

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Dissolving Into the Unknown, Waiting for Rebirth

There is a strange magic in being in the muck, the swamp, the mess—in letting everything dissolve.

As my Taoist partner Eli says: “This is dissolving into the yin field, where the greatest fear is dissolution itself, but it is exactly what is needed.”

There’s fear in letting things fall apart—whether it’s our routines, our exercise schedule, our finances, our home being tidy- the illusion of control.

At first, we grip onto it. We try and hold it all together.

And then—we hit the threshold.
The letting go.

It’s the same as in a plant medicine journey.

At first, you think: “Oh yeah, I’m cool, I’ve got this.”

But then you realize you’re still resisting because you still have CONTROL.

And then—it hits you.

There’s nowhere to go but down and in. Into the abyss. Where there is no control.

Birth can be like this too. You think you can handle the contractions when they first show up: “Oh this is it? I’ve got this"!” And the big mama contractions come.

And suddenly, there’s no “handling.”

There is only surrender.

And in that surrender—there is life.

A breaking open.
A revealing.
A rebirth.

Because if I’ve learned anything from every transformational experience, every shamanic portal, every ceremony, it’s this:

The sun always rises.

Even when the night feels endless.
Even when the fires rage. Even when the fever isn’t breaking.
Even when we are raw, undone, and unsure of what comes next.

There is always a new dawn.

And maybe, just maybe, this moment—this mess, this unraveling—is not the end, but the necessary dissolving before the becoming.

Maybe we are still in the portal, still being asked to trust, soften, surrender, and be reborn.

Because we do.

We always do.

And when we emerge this time—

Let it be with more devotion.
Let it be with more tenderness.
Let it be with more pleasure, more eros, more of the sacred woven into our every breath.

Because if we are still here,
If we are still loving,
If we are still choosing to open—

Then the dawn is already upon us.