Knowing Yourself, Knowing Spirituality and White Privilege, Knowing You Know Nothing

Ginger and I were watching The Great Hack in my bed last night, and my pup Margo was digging into her princess bed until her curly fur stood up electric, straight from on top of her head. She looked back at us over her shoulder, her hair as static and entangled as her mom's, as mine. My eyes shining, my heart melting, her sweetness wafting towards us.

Cooking with Ginger is a delight. So blessed to have her on my journey with me thus far. (Woah, those two sentences sound straight from the spiritual journey Instagram feed.) But like, for real though. She's seen me in the pits of despair, in the pits of pain and agony, waddled up with fear on my couch, unable to move, terrorized by leftover scars, or still painful wounds, rather. She's taught me about my feminine power, the divine place from which I too can lead and lean into. She's held space for me to discover other parts of me, simply by showing up and listening, not telling me what to do, but by sharing the deepest vulnerabilities within herself, the good, the bad, and the ugly. Because why the hell categorize those parts with those words anyways? We're all an evolving kaleidoscope of pain and trauma, unraveling and reforming, knowing and unknowing, discovering and hiding, revealing, truth-telling, and then hibernating.

I want to read more about the intersections of spirituality, white privilege, white fragility, gaslighting and all of that. I think it is time, past time, that I read Bell Hooks.

I want to have late night dinners and discuss Camille's words. I want out of my silos. I want to be the work.