Why Can't I Walk?

… Without Resembling a Rum-Addled Pirate Who lost Her Peg Leg somewhere.

At least once a day, I take a step and the entire right side of my body buckles. My hip and knee give out and I stumble like toddler learning to how to use the stairs.

Is this what being 46 is about? Wonky joints and never being guaranteed you’ll walk in a straight line?

For awhile I blamed the floor of our house. We live in an epic fixer-upper that continues not getting fixed. (Probably because the first thing that needs to happen is replacing the foundation. The estimate was $400,000 in 2016 dollars. So now, in post-Pandemic, current-tariff inflation, that would be what? A million dollars?)

The floor slants, is my point. A lot. If you drop an orange in the kitchen, it will roll into the living room. You may never see that orange again.

We had circus performers for Brandon’s 50th (as you do) and the fire show in the courtyard went without a visible hitch, but the poor dude performing on his circle thing-y in our wildly slanted living room couldn’t keep the wheel going to save his life. We just watched his ego sink into the core of the earth as he kept toppling and having to re-start when the floor didn’t behave as expected. In retrospect, we should’ve warned him.

Unfortunately, my unreliable right hip and knee don’t seem to be location specific. They just merrily collapse on me no matter where I am.

Because I like walking and want to do some of the things my former self enjoyed, like dance classes and maybe running (maybe), I am doing my utmost to sort out this issue.

There’s a theory that our body absorbs the impact of our poor* decisions.

*More accurately, our misaligned decisions. The decision itself was probably neutral but it may not have worked for us at the time. And the body says “aw HELL no.” And then I guess you stop being able to walk like a normal person?

Meaning, my movement issue - like so many issues - has multiple prongs: learning the internal mechanism to making the best decisions for myself in each moment as well as strengthening my body so it can do normal body things without all the drama.

A combination of physical therapy and going to the chiropractor a few times a week fixed it for awhile, but then I made the mistake of thinking it was fixed and stopped doing what were apparently the only things keeping the right side of my body from wobbling like an air sock outside a car dealership.

After I doubled down on my bad decisions by deciding to go for a run (despite the fact that the physical therapist said very specifically “no running”) and thereby messing up my knee (which swelled up like a balloon, that doesn’t seem right), I am now in a bit of a perambulatory pickle.

It’s amazing how much work it takes simply to regain the use of my legs, limbs that used to do their job without all the melodrama. I’m doing my daily physical therapy exercises again with a few additional mea culpas. I’m seeing a trainer, because it has been solemnly sworn to me that they can get me dancing again in a few months.

I’m also crossing my fingers that all this works, because I really want to start dancing again. Also, I enjoy, you know, WALKING.

I miss the days when being out of shape meant suffering through a few dance classes and then being fine. Now, it takes months of work to even be able to consider setting foot in a dance class.

If you’re wondering how all this happened - I mean, I’m not that old - I suspect the combination of the pandemic plus perimenopause massively screwed me over. Some people got in great shape during the pandemic. Others, like myself, simply shaped their couch cushions into something that better cradled their butts. I also watched every single thing my TV had to offer, a decision I regret zero. Add that to majorly spiking cortisol (thanks, hormones) and some wild stress, and my adrenals were toasted like a marshmallow dropped in a campfire. It took two years of no exercise (and lots of other things) to address the burnout. Unfortunately, in the process of healing my adrenals, all my muscles atrophied.

So now I sway down the street like a pirate with a peg leg and no parrot. (I should really get a parrot.)

But because I’m stubborn, and willing to do the work (especially when I know what the work is, which isn’t always the case when you’re trying to fix something), I plan to be in dance classes by the summer.

SO MOTE IT BE.

How To Operate as a Manifesting Generator

Honestly, I do human design wrong.

One of the main things they tell you when you’re first learning about your design is to avoid all the fiddly bits of your design until after you’ve mastered your strategy and authority. I did not do that. I gave a passing glance to the most important pieces and dove head first into all the fun fiddly bits.

I’ve spent the last few decades alternating between wishing I had popped into this world with an instruction manual and trying to write that manual for myself and getting frustrated because, apparently, I make no sense.

Done right, human design can be a really wonderful instruction manual. Mostly, it’s confirmed what I already knew, while allowing me to sink more deeply into my own quirks. Oh, the life-changing majesty of giving yourself permission to own your quirks. Now I know to take the chair with its back to the wall in a restaurant. I know it’s okay to eat little bits at a time without commiting to full meals if I don’t wanna. I know there’s a reason specific money goals make me want to puke. I know that my head is very prone to absorbing other people’s opinions. (So don’t do that, Amber. You’ve seen the internet and its opinions.)

While I love sinking into the warm proverbial bath of my own weirdness, I’m still a bit lost when it comes to understanding how my intuition works through my body. Streams of information, no problem. Funneling that guidance and information into actual creation that actually goes places has been more of a challenge. Hence, a new devotion to listening to my body and design. Fine, strategy and authority - I’m listening.

Because I’m a manifesting generator, one of this year’s big goals is to become the mistress of my own sacral energy and use it for good (meaning, whatever it wants) and not for evil (as in, what I think I should be doing). Oh, those vile, vile shoulds.

Something I’ve realized now that I’m paying attention (and taking a class on using your sacral energy) (trying to figure it out on my own was going to slowly) is that I shut my sacral energy off when I’m burnt out. Hello, light bulb moment. I shut my little sacral powerhouse down because I don’t want to have to respond to anything else. Your girl is full up. Everything go away. Unfortunately, this does tend to include money, opportunities, friends, and various and sundry fun stuff. Since I spent most of 2021 and 2022 burnt out, I shut out a lot of life. It’s so tempting to jump up and down on my own head about that, but that’s not how we do things any more. Self-flagellation is so 2009.

Now that my energy is back and I understand that I switched off my own power…I can switch it right back on again. So I’m experimenting. I do love a good experiment. (That’s how the money healings came about, after all.) I’m paying attention to when I flick the off switch, and when I let my energy radiate.

Even though I’m pretty well healed from my burn out, if II’m tired or triggered, I’ll zap my sacral energy. Temporarily, but off it goes. And I’m not willing to turn it back on again until I’ve taken care of myself. Napped, eaten, turned off my phone, taken a walk, read a book, whatever I need in that moment. No opportunities allowed, nothing I’m interested in responding to until I feel better. Thank you for that revelation, This Morning.

It’s also a huge relief to realize I don’t have to run around and chase things down. I’m not designed to do that. My personal map is to let all that sacral energy fly and respond to whatever comes to me. Is it a big yes or a hell no?

I’m so, so curious to see what happens in my life now that I’ve switched my power back on.

My Soul is Expensive

My soul genuinely thinks I have a trust fund.

Maybe it's because our larger selves don't register money the way we humans must. My understanding is that we all have this big umbrella and the human you that's reading this right now is only one aspect standing under the big umbrella of you. All your past selves, past lives, and whatever else you're doing while your human is charging around on earth - all of them are under this larger umbrella. And that umbrella is deeply connected to the universal field of intelligence, is an intrinsic part of it, which is where my umbrella metaphor falls apart.

Whatever the reason, my soul is always yelling YES! to things my human bank account can't yet afford. It's like having to say no to a toddler every single day. If that toddler had a wonky hip and really wanted to go to the chiropractor, but also has shoulders that currently have more chemistry in common with concrete than human flesh and wants to go to the masseuse, but also has teeth that the dentist keeps saying need very expensive things and hahahaha, no, they aren't covered by your insurance! Let's not even revisit the sleep thing and what my brain may or may not need right now. (I still don't trust Kaiser. They keep trying to diagnose my brain based solely on what my brain says about itself.)

But what my soul really wants, aside from the basics to keep my body functioning, is expensive trips. The Giraffe Manor in Kenya. Hot springs in Iceland, preferably with the Northern Lights overhead. Penguins anywhere I can find penguins. Any place that's had a restaurant on Chef's Table and can I please eat there.

My soul also wants classes and seminars - not the cheap ones, no. It wants the expensive ones. I could easily spend a year's tuition (granted, a year's worth of Barnard tuition from the late '90s, no idea what preposterous amount it is now) on all the things I want to learn this year.

Since my soul moves faster than my bank account, I try to figure out how to do things on my own. I can't get to Kenya on my own, but I can stalk the giraffes on their instagram account! I can't pay for all the education I want, but I can do my best to figure things out on my own using the library! But it starts to feel isolating. Because I'm doing everything by myself with the help of the internet or books. I could create a community around it, but I want to do too many disparate things for that to make sense, and also communities require an incredible amount of time and energy. Isolation is faster. But that's frustrating, which is a sign of misalignment for me.

So, honestly, what I'm focusing on right now is money. Creating it in a way that doesn't require me to be a cog in the capitalistic machine - which I couldn't do at this point, even if I wanted to. Receiving it in a way that's good for me and everyone around me. Remembering that hard work doesn't create money - just look at the distribution of wealth in this world. The teachers and nurses and firefighters and gardeners and food service workers don't have it.

The more my life, soul, nervous system, and what I see happening in the world feel deeply affected by money, the more I want to dig into the Way Things Work and change it. I'm starting to get really intense about this. Especially about my belief that the big money should be in the hands of women. Women do good things with it. Women distribute it. Women take care of people with it. (A lot of men do too, but historically the disparity has been wide. Also, when I think about wealthy females, I think of Dolly Parton. When I think about wealthy males, I think Musk and Bezos and...you probably get my point.)

I'm still tuning in about what to do with this. How to help, in a way that creates money. How to fill my own cup first, so I don't screw myself and my health over again by doing too much for too little. How to help everyone have the money and resources they need to take care of themselves, their families, and the world - in whatever way is correct for them.

Stay tuned, I guess. Whatever I do over here in my little corner, the money ride is getting wild.

Love, Amber

P.S. To the people in Cash Compass, thank you. To the people who support me on Patreon, thank you. To my future agent, who will help me figure out what to do with all these books, thank you. To the people who pay me to write things, thank you. You are all the reason I can pay my bills, and that is something my delicate-peony nervous system needs. Next up, giraffes.

Sleep-Deprived Woman, Reporting for Duty

One of the reasons I didn’t have children is because I knew I couldn’t handle the sleep deprivation. Joke’s on me, because I’m not sleeping any way.

Did you know that the sleep studies saying humans need eight hours of sleep were done on men? Women actually need ten hours of sleep. A NIGHT. Do you know how often I get ten hours of sleep in one single night? About once a year. Most nights I’m thrilled to crack seven. Four nights in the past week, I’ve been struggling along, haggard and bumping into things, with three or four hours.

Humans don’t operate well like this. It’s 3:28 a.m. and I’ve been awake for four hours already. That’s right, I went to bed around 8:30, woke up around 11:30 after a bad dream and haven’t slept since. I’m now on the couch anger blogging in hopes of convincing my brain to shut up and my body to rest.

Hopefully this peanut butter toast and expensive but thus far useless sleep drink will help.

You know what I really want? An app that takes your favorite comedy specials and mutes the applause, especially the applause at the end. Ooh, I hate that applause at the end. I’ve finally fallen asleep in the last ten minutes after hours of insomnia before turning on Son of Patricia for the 97th time and let Trevor Noah’s dulcet tones lure my cranky, neuro-deficient brain back to sleep. AND THEN THE GODDAMN UPROARIOUS APPLAUSE WAKES ME UP AGAIN. I mean, I’m sure that kind of applause is life blood for comedians, it sure would be for me, but can we at least develop an app that slowly lowers the volume on comedy shows so that once you’ve finally fallen asleep, you stay asleep? And by “you” I mean “me.” I just need some sleep, man.

It’s really my brain. I suspect my body would fall back asleep if my anxious brain didn’t take this quiet time opportunity to torture me. I’ve become a mental master during the daylight hours. Heading down the anxious rabbit hole? I switch courses within a minute or two. Intrusive thought? I flick it away. Old pattern reappearing in hopes of catching me in a weak moment? NOT IN THE SWEET SUNLIGHT OF MIDMORNING, SATAN. But at night, when all I want to do is sleep, and I’m afraid the tools I use during the day when my anxiety brain starts hopping will just wake me up, I really need some help.

Like pills, honestly. I’ve never been a pill person. The way I was raised, taking a Tylenol in college was an act of rebellion, forget all the fun drugs. When I was in my early twenties, I went to see someone about depression and his only solution was anti-depressants and I heard a really clear voice within say “this is not for you” and so I walked away. He basically chased me down the hall with his prescription pad. I’ve never regretted that decision. But it does not escape me that literally every time I go to the doctor, they try to give me pills with no mention of getting to the root of the issue, but the one time I go to the doctor because I actually want some sleeping pills for when the insomnia gets really bad, he tries to get me to go to a sleep study first, a sleep study which is impossible to schedule.

So I’m still here, rage blogging on my couch at 3:33 am because I had a bad dream, woke up after three hours of sleep, and that might just be it for me tonight.

My reason for writing here is to write myself to a new perspective, but I have no new perspective here. I just know how I feel the days after getting ten hours of sleep - like a superhero - and how I feel the days (far more common) when I get three or four hours of sleep - like an addled slug.

So if you see me trying to do things tomorrow, an addled slug, know that it's a triumph of the will.

The Profound Beauty of the Void

Being in the void is one of the scariest things we can experience. We can’t see the way out. We have no idea how or when the situation will resolve, we have no idea if what we want will ever unfold for us. 

But the void is where the rebirth happens, where the transformation begins. 

We can be in the void with a creative project, a business, a relationship. Your entire life may feel like it’s in the void. Maybe you’ve been navigating that rebirth, that scary void, for years. 

I feel you. I’ve been there - for years. Being in the void for a protracted period is one of the hardest things we can go through - when what once worked doesn’t work any more. When what we once relied on fades away. When pieces of ourselves feel lost, or we’ve changed so utterly that we barely recognize ourselves any more. 

We’re required to move through the void to create. 

To create those beautiful things only you can bring into the world, to create a life that surprises and delights you in the best of ways. 

The void feels like nothing, the scariest of nothings. But we create from nothing. 

But first we have to rest in the void. Rather than try to move through it, fight through it, or even heal through it. 

We have to surrender - oh, that word - to the darkness rather than try to light our way out. 

We have to trust that what’s growing within us will bloom in the perfect time - maybe not our prescribed time, but the perfect time for what you’re creating - whether it’s a book, a business, a relationship, a family, or a new phase of life and evolution. 

As someone who navigated the void for years - sometimes resting, sometimes trusting, sometimes trying to fight my way out, I know how scary it is to be in the void, especially when it feels never-ending, when you can measure your void time by calendar years. 

So I want to have a conversation about it. About the challenges and the profound beauty of the void. About how to care for yourself and your life from within the void. How to navigate it so that the profound transformation of the void can find you, can sweep you out when it’s time. Not when you’re ready, but when it’s time. 

Love, Amber