Category Archives: Freedom

The Loud Sound of Quiet

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There’s a quiet, which happens when the end of something comes. I heard it before and while my dog died. I heard it again a few nights ago. For once, the silence was louder than all the noise outside.

Louder than the traffic noise from the highway. Than helicopters buzzing in the skies. Dogs barking. The yellow utility fan blowing cold air inside the house. A week of homeschooling (child in house all day). Chatter in my head about money. All taking a muted back seat to the silence within.

This doesn’t happen very often. Usually I have to escape the noise and find an external quiet spot to get quiet and even then the internal noise is still too loud. But something is shifting, and I’m listening. In the silence of that moment, I heard the soul whisper, It’s over. The time of so much change and so little abundance. The time of so much pressure and so little peace. So much restriciton and so little freedom. The time of squeezing. It’s over. 

You might say (or truer yet, my Sergeant Williamson says), Nikki there is always abundance. There is always peace. There is always freedom. You just have to choose them. I could defend this, but I am going to let it be. No need. We go through what we must. Handle it as we do. And in time come through to another side.

On the other side of pressure. Restriction. Lack. Worry- is a space of silence and knowing, which whispers, It’s over. Not the kind of over that mimics former president Bush’s sign, ‘Mission Accomplished’ as he boasted an end of a war that was far from over, but more of an over where spring turns into summer and summer turns into fall and fall into winter. Where once summer occurs, spring can no longer be seen. Sometimes not even remembered, until of course it arrives again.

As we try to concrete our experiences here, we forget our life is cyclical. Our movement rhythmical. The darkest times carrying with them pressure and suffering seem to never want to leave. The brighter days, where are souls are happy and free we think will always last, or at least we want them to. During my dark days, I forgot what it felt like to love. I didn’t realize this until I got a text from my daughter- the same moment I was listening to the silence.

Earlier I was at Target, arriving much too late to look at my favorite designer Missoni, and their new wares. All that was left- a pair of black suede pumps. I don’t even wear pumps, but thought I might charge them. I sent my daughter a text with a picture of them, asking for her opinion. I didn’t buy the shoes and her reply came several hours later.

Unless you love them, I wouldn’t get them. 

When I had money, I was open to finding things I loved because if I loved it I felt I could buy it. Living within my meager means of the past several years, I’ve turned that openness off. Yes, I speak only of materialistic means- shoes, clothes, etc but little did I know I turned off my love valve everywhere else as well. I stopped loving my job as homemaker/parent. I forgot I loved to write. I stopped loving clothes because mine were ripping and sadly out of date. I stopped loving my hair that was falling out. I stopped loving the small things, like curling up with a good book or taking a hot, lavender scented bath. I stopped loving going out and participating. I stopped loving life, and then life sort of stopped. Or ran increasingly stale. This has been the cycle of the past several years.

The whisper says, It’s over…

So what does over look like? At present there isn’t a DJ playing Celebration outside of my window. I have yet to see a fat lady sing, unless I start. There is no amount of cash in my mailbox…yet. But spring usually doesn’t start with hot sunshine and cookouts on the beach either. It starts with the appearance of the first robin. A small sliver of grass. Wet patches of water and ice on the sidewalks, that were once mounds of snow.

Here are my signs: I laugh more. A man at 7-11 with a foreign tongue said to me while using a full circle hand gesture, I appreciate you like this. I am finally dealing with my 11-year old daughter- sitting down with her every weekday morning to help her learn the basics of life and school that she hasn’t received. I remembered I LOVE writing. I bought two Missoni items online that I do love. And I am learning Italian, the language of love. But the truest sign, is the silent sound within my soul, the truest companion I know, whispering to me, It’s over.

To hear the silence on the inside is the gift given when we survive being squeezed from the pressure of our dark days. To have the silence override the surface chaos is what it means to live from the inside out, and to do so in a conscious, direct way. To hear the silence on the inside means we no longer get as twisted and turned about by the winds of change, and S P A C E proceeds again for what we love. We hear the silence. We sense the rhythms. We know when one way ends and another begins. We grieve and we celebrate within the two, and we do it all while saying non mi dispiace (Italian for, I don’t mind).

Off to Big Bear for some (more) peace and quiet- and laughter. I will report again next week.

Namaste,

The Soul Reporter

An Ode (auhhh, maybe not an ode, but I like the title) to the Sigh

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My children say I sigh. Usually when I am in the kitchen. They make fun of me. Sigh behind my back and giggle.

What are you giggling about? Auhhh…..they say.

Do I sigh? Really? Do I?

Yes, mom. You sigh.

The kitchen at one time pleased me. This time has passed. Now I sigh (so I am told) as I wash the counter. Marinate a chicken breast. Clean a greasy pan. Make breakfast….again.

The sigh, the sound of the martyr. Auhhh. The sound of poor, distressed me. Universal, I suppose amongst many women. The sigh says, Save me from this. Take me away….I am a victim. And I certainly don’t want to be that person, right……?

Well, so what if you are that person in a moment (or several). So what if you are acting as The Sighing Martyr in your one-act play. Hating her moment. Resisting her work. Despising her routine. Bored and frustrated by her life. So what. I never wanted to be The Sighing Martyr. I hate people like that, right? Well I did. But of course me hating that part of them is also me hating that part of me- and hating something doesn’t clear the way. Loving might not either (if you force it), but laughing at it might.

I hear myself sighing now- and before my sigh’s hhh’s hit the air, I laugh. I think of my girls making fun of me, Auhhh-ing around the house (thinking, yeah- you just wait). I think of my inner martyr and how tortured she thinks she is, and how she wants to make everything a dramatic event. It’s funny. And it eases her.

What are you doing right now…………………………..? (Duh, your are reading this…Okay, before this….?)

Before I wrote this most inspired sentence, I was procrastinating. Trying to find a way out of my writing. Help me. Save me. (The martyr is quite adaptable. She can put on an apron and pick up a pen- in this case throw the pen) I watched me act her out, as together we have procrastinated many times. I usually judge myself/her/we for this. This time I didn’t. I loved myself/her/we for it (and I didn’t force it).

I love you for all that you do (and don’t do)– can you say this to yourself? If not, can you at least laugh at yourself?

When we can laugh and love, we take the u out of auhhh and it becomes ahhhh. The u is what gets offended. The u is who carries a story of what you u think u are. What u think u should do. Of what u hate and hope u are not. You are more than what u think/fear/believe.

Ahhhhhhhh…………………..

Namaste,

The Soul Reporter

I’m Mad, I Tell You- Mad.

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At any point in my evolution I could have stopped and made a name for myself. Marketed an insight or a practice that worked in a moment, and made lots of money and acquired fame. But I have not done this (I have wished I could do this). I have kept on moving. I suppose in doing so, I have missed many opportunities, but the one I have not missed is the continuos evolution of my soul on this planet.

It occurs to me often, that before coming here, although I have no conscious remembrance of this, I declared my commitment to this soul path of continuous participation in my evolution, and yet I have tried to stop my own progress. I have tried because I also feel the vibration on the planet. A vibration of consistency I thought I needed to obey.

Consistency: conformity in the application of something, typically that which is necessary for the sake of logic, accuracy, or fairness • the achievement of a level of performance that does not vary greatly in quality over time

Our culture likes consistency. Let’s not vary. We view this as stable. Smart. Accurate. Right. Successful. Someone who is not consistent, we call them a flip-flopper. Crazy. Irrational. Undependable. Untrustworthy. Weird. But, I like what Rumi has to say:

Conventional knowledge is death to our souls, And it is not really ours.  It is laid on. Yet we keep saying we find “rest” in these “beliefs.” We must become ignorant of what we have been taught and instead bewildered.

But we look dumb, don’t we if we are bewildered (definition: perplexed- confused)? We need to have a plan. An outcome. We have to figure it out. Look smart. Productive. Look like we have it together. Of course we do. And why? Because we want something to rest on. To put our wobbly legs on so we feel as though we have some control. Because we care what “they” think.

Tell me Rumi, what’s another option:

Forget safety. Live where you fear to live.
Destroy your reputation. Be notorious.
I have tried prudent planning long enough.
From now on, I’ll be mad.

I’m pretty sure he means crazy mad, not angry mad, but hey if you fear anger, you might want to move into it. Chances are its got you anyway.

Every moment says, put this design in your carpet. (Rumi)

And we try, don’t we? Oh, this is a beautiful design– and we market it and make rituals of it and books out of it. We want to make it last. But many designs are to be made. We have a large piece of carpet. Larger than most of us can begin to imagine. I am not saying we should not make manifest what in a moment is a beautiful design, but there is plenty more, so no need to hold on and try and stay.

Everything is energy. We are energy, and because we don’t Know this basic idea, we believe everything is solid and we think what is solid and consistent is what is real and better. We constantly take what is given and solidify it. Concrete it in. Make it last. But, this is at the risk of holding our continuous evolution at bay.

I have done this with myself trying to be normal. Trying to make a living off of what I learned, and look like all the other successful writers, coaches, teachers, gurus out there. And trying to subdue all of the activity and anxiety I have going on inside of me. So many energies contradicting themselves. I try to reign it all in- for the sake of my husband, who says I am always changing, for the sake of others and their judgment, and for the sake of myself who has felt overwhelmed by all that is going on inside of me.

But the overwhelm is only felt because I have tried to control all of this. I have tried to be consistent.

Do I contradict myself?
Very well then I contradict myself,
(I am large, I contain multitudes.)  ~Walt Whitman

Speak what you think now in hard words, and tomorrow speak what tomorrow thinks in hard words again, though it contradict every thing you said today.
—Ralph Waldo Emerson

These greats, with these words allowed the flow, the continuous rhythm, the force which has us grow and evolve. And yet, with these words we also see the conflict. Just the mere fact they wrote this and that I am writing this, shows there is conflict- like, is this okay to be inconsistent? To be seen as contradictory? We question because many of us were not, and feel we are not allowed to be ALL of who we are. There are limits, right?

NO. There are not. A large carpet, remember? Many designs, don’t forget. All here for us.

Through my writing and sharing, and continuous evolution, I am coming into my rhythm. It’s dynamic. Not one-sided. Certainly not consistent, but there is a Core of Consistency, which spins inside of me- a Truth. Or a Power. Or an Intelligence. Something I don’t have to name, but can just feel, sense, Know- and because It is there, I can be free to roam. To wander. To allow all that is me the freedom to flow, continuously.

Freedom at the Supermarket

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Written in February of 2007 (the edited version):

It was a Thursday afternoon. The house was empty of most our common essentials: milk, eggs, bread, fruit and juice, and I wanted some extras.  I went to the grocery store. I had $29 in the joint checking account and $59 in my checking account.  This being my “reality” I wondered if I should have gone to the other grocery store where the prices are cheaper and the products mediocre. I stayed. I would divvy up the cart, putting all the items I would buy with our joint account on one side, and the items I would buy with my account on the other side.

This particular store has a gift section that sells candles, cards, and various decorative items for the home. I needed ribbon for my daughter’s Valentines Day cards we were making that night. I saw some pink ribbon for $2 I thought that was okay. I looked at other ribbon that was prettier with more variety and color. These ribbons were $5. I stayed with the pink.

At the produce section, an organic pineapple caught my attention. My mom just brought us 6 from Maui and I wanted more. It was on special for $4.99. I passed it by, but I really wanted it.  Instead, I did my usual blueberries for $2.99, and then grapes for $2.99 per pound. I passed on the Clementine’s for $7.99 and the organic bananas because I just wasn’t in the mood.  Then I went back to the pineapple, and put in on my side of the cart.

At the dairy aisle, I got the store brand cheese that was .20 less than the name brand, but it’s a fancy store, so obviously not generic. I picked up the orange juice, the milk, and wondered if we needed butter. I was glad we didn’t, and grabbed the store brand eggs.

At the aisles of packaged goods, I got the snack crackers the girls like for lunches, the bread my husband likes, which is large, cheap, and saturated with high fructose corn syrup (that went on our joint account side). On my side went the whole grain bread without the high fructose corn syrup.

Now, the deli section freaked me out. I like Boar’s Head, which had begun to feel like a luxury. I decided to get some turkey and havarti cheese anyway putting it on my side since I had the most money to spare. I breathed a sigh, hoping I would get to the check out and have enough money.

All lines were full. I went to the aisle with the nice middle aged man thinking he would be the less likely to judge me if I had to give up the Boar’s Head. You see, this was a new experience for me at the grocery store. The only other time I came close to this kind of apprehension was when on welfare as a single mom and used food stamps at a grocery store in a prestigious suburb of Minneapolis.

I told the man there would be separate transactions. The first transaction came to $21 so I handed him the orange juice, which left our joint account with $4. The next transaction came to $49, leaving my account with $10 to spare. I left the store knowing we would be okay.

There was a time I had money, an inheritance I received when I was 25.  I used the money to live on while I raised my kids. That money ran its course. I have come from the belief that money is freedom. When I had money I would go into the grocery store and throw whatever I wanted in the cart, never looking at price. The mediocre store I thought about retreating to would have never crossed my mind. I always went to the “fancy store with carpet” as my husband calls it. Making these kinds of choices was freedom to me.

I had so many choices and could choose it all if I wanted to. I could get what I wanted and maybe not even eat it. I could experiment with new items not knowing if I would like them. I could get a couple of options of lunch meat.  But, did any of this make me more free?

My freedom then was an illusion under the guise of having money. As I walked through the store consciously choosing what I would buy, what it would cost, and what side of the cart I would be putting it on was a new form of freedom. Inner freedom.  I did not grieve for the life I once had where I bought what I wanted and did what I wanted, because the truth is I didn’t know what I was made of, what I could handle or how I would handle it.

Back then a similar woman in my situation I may have frowned upon, not realizing that she is more free than myself- the one with money. Not having a lot of money makes me pay attention to every choice, in ways I never did when I had it. Why pay attention when you think you have more than enough? The freedom I found in the grocery store, was actually one of my richer moments.

Lesson:

Accepting our situations allows strategies and solutions to what otherwise would make us feel imprisoned by them. Accepting and allowing IS freedom.

>Is it God or Is it Me?

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I wanted to go back to bed at 8:30 this morning, but instead I picked up my phone, got on my Facebook ap and saw a posting from the Oprah Winfrey Show Page about today’s show with Iyanla Vanzant.  I read through the comments, and I found one that got my heart-a-pumpin’ and there was no going back to bed.

The commenter said, as a Christian she is suspect of people calling themselves spiritual. She went on to say she does not like Iyanla’s belief that her power comes through herself because she believes power only comes from God.

Do you have awhile? Because this might be a long post.

My relationship with “God” began before I got into the double digits.  I put God in quotes because during this time in my relationship with “God,”  God wasn’t mine. He was everyone else’s.  Others defined Him for me and it didn’t feel right. When my aunt took me to church, and I sat in the pew staring up at the people raising their hands up high, looking toward the sky, praising Him, I wondered what made these people act this way. Why were they raising their hands? Swaying their bodies, and whispering, sometimes yelling things like, “Praise Jesus.  God save me?” And who the heck are they looking up to?

I didn’t like church. It made me uncomfortable. It felt wrong. Strange. False. Weird.

Both my parents were raised Catholic.  My father, as a little boy, stayed up nights worried Satan was going to grab him and take him to the depths of Hell, and my mother got beat up because she was Catholic.  Needless to say, neither of my parents cared to take me through confirmation with the rest of my family.

I didn’t mind.  I liked having the freedom to explore my own spirituality. To create my own religion.  Sometimes my mom thought I’d be damned, or my daughter would be when I decided not to baptize her in the church where my grandma, her, me and my oldest daughter were baptized, but I wasn’t scared.  Why would I be? I wasn’t raised to fear God or Satan.

Yet, this didn’t stop the weird feeling I couldn’t shake for most of my adolescence and young adulthood that I was being watched, judged, controlled and punished by some big bearded man sitting on a cloud in the sky.  But because I had choice about religion in my family, I chose to create a movement toward what felt right- myself.  I became a sort of psychologist to myself. The more I dug into who I am and why I do what I do, the more uncomfortable having this big bad man breathing down my neck became.

Working within the self, I discover there is nothing outside of me.  Nothing. And I realize this statement is controversial.  I remember having a conversation with a Christian friend. At the time I attended a Unity church. She asked me what their beliefs were.

“They speak of the Christ within,” I said. “They believe we hold the Christ light within us.”  And further, “I believe my work is to become that light because I am that light.”  Her response: “We don’t believe God is in us. We believe in seeking God, and doing right by God’s will, but we could never become God.”

Where do “they” seek God?  I mean, really. I want to understand this.  It is difficult for me to even fathom a concrete answer that would make sense to me other than God is everywhere, including within us. Tell me, if not within, then where is God?  Is God in the clouds?  And further, what do I have to do to be worthy of God?  What is His will for me?  What must I do to make Him love me? To save me?  What happens if I don’t do those things?  Spiritually and personally, I don’t worry about any of these questions or the answers, but I am very curious about the answers from others who believe God is “out there.”

I had one such opportunity with my cousin, a born again Christian. She enlightened me on their beliefs about other spiritual teachers, like Buddha. She told me to follow anyone other than Jesus is a deception used by the devil.  So basically what she is saying, is Buddha is Satan in disguise.  I appreciated getting a window into the mindset, and I also appreciated not being frightened of Satan coming to get me because I have Buddha heads in my house.

Fear is fear, whether cloaked in religious dogma or not. It is fear, and to use beliefs to instill fear, in my “spiritual” opinion is wrong.  Not helpful. Not useful to the health and growth of our human civilization. Either is any religion urging too much looking out and not enough looking in.

Recently, my husband had some work done on his car. The man doing the work came to our house.  Before long, this man was asking my husband about God and Jesus and the Holy Spirit. “Do you believe in the Father, the Son and the Holy Spirit?”  Oh, how I wanted to get in on this conversation, but I just listened and observed.  I noticed in this man’s car he had a pack of cigarettes. I also noticed he inhales paint fumes all day long not wearing a mask, yet he goes to church a few days a week.

Observing this, I realized there is too much focus on dogma. On beliefs and getting others to believe. On pleasing God. Jesus. And with this, a neglect of the self. Who we are. What is within us. What moves us. What represses us. Liberates us. Frees us.  Limits us. Where is the interest of our own soul?  Our destructive habits? The health of our bodies?  When we look for our power and our answers on the outside, what hope do we have for change? For resurrection?  For truth?

I was at a workshop recently and I overheard someone say, “It’s in God’s hands. I will wait to see what God wants.”  I thought to myself, you’ll be waiting. God, when all else fails becomes our crutch. What we lean against when we don’t want to get down and dirty with our own shit, our own dreams, our own life, our pain.  And it is socially acceptable. Everyone gives everything to God and we just nod our heads in agreement. We even find it noble. Which might be fine, but I am not convinced many of us have truly taken the time to understand what this idea of “God” is and if this idea is healthy for us and if it supports our evolution.

So does this make me an atheist? If it were up to the commenter on the Oprah page, yes.  She said she’d rather people who say they are spiritual call themselves atheists.  I am not an atheist. I believe in God, but I refrain from using the word God right now.  To say God makes me feel scattered and powerless, and I choose to feel whole and powerful.

The inner work I have done has shown me I am 100% responsible for my life.  This means I create my life.  My beliefs. My thoughts. My desires, create my life.  To look to anything outside of me right now is detrimental to my growth. To my evolution. I am on a Soul Guiding Journey, and I believe I hold everything within my Soul, and that is where everything emanates.

Some may say I’m crazy. Arrogant. Just bought a quick one-way ticket to hell.  But I know how I feel. I am liberated from foreign forces that have bound and gagged me. I feel free and I don’t care if you are a Christian, a Buddhist, or an Atheist- we all have the capacity and desire for freedom, which means we are free to believe what we trust brings us to freedom.

I am returning to the knowing I had as a young girl, before the beliefs of others penetrated my soul. I am special.  I belong to SomeThing Special.  I understand it to be an Intelligence, or what was called the Force in Star Wars.  I am a part of it. It is in me and I am in it.  Nothing is separate from me. Nothing. No person. No God. No force. No tree. No plant or animal. Nothing. As I have heard it said, we are all a concentrated universe. Everything is contained within us. We are all here together composed of the same matter and material and God spark. And we are all in different spaces within this reality. For me, this feels right. I feel enlightened by it. And it motivates me to expand deeper into “knowing thyself.”

I dream of a world we can dialogue of these things and come from an understanding of solidarity and a respect of where we are within this sanctified whole. Which is why I would love to start having a conversation about this taboo topic of God and religion and spirituality. To literally get our head out of the clouds and not just nod our heads in the name of God,  but really examine it for ourselves.

And a moment on the word spirituality. Recently someone said it was overused.  The commenter said she is offended when someone say she is “spiritual.”  Is the word getting a bad name?  Do we really know what it means?  The dictionary says spiritual means, of, relating to, or affecting the human spirit or soul as opposed to material or physical things. 

For me, spirituality is the movement toward truth.  And truth is inside of me.


No Soul Tip Today- Just Questions:



In my attempt to dialogue and expose our beliefs: What are your thoughts? How many of you feel watched by a man upstairs?  Is this comfortable for you?  How would you describe your relationship with God?  How would you define the word spiritual or spirituality? 

Namaste, which by the way for those who don’t know is a greeting which means the divine in me honors the divine in you. I shared this with my cousin. When I told her what it meant, I never heard from her again.  Through these conversations, I expand in trust, knowing we are all where we need to be in our evolution.

The Soul Reporter

>Investigating Procrastination

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>I know why I procrastinate. The reason came through this morning while folding laundry, and made me smile of how witty, and innovative I really am. It turns out I am not self-sabotaging and being irresponsible after all.

In July, a woman contacted me who runs a mom’s group of about 65 woman. She had read an article of mine in momtalk.com magazine and asked me to speak- in October. I thought, why sure I have plenty of time to prepare. I am off work the month of August and will put it together then. August came, and I spent it clearing out my home, and having a garage sale. Then September rolled in, and I started back to work. About mid-to-late September I began putting it together. This entire time it was this huge thing out there that I knew I had to do, but wasn’t. However, I will give myself credit I was taking notes.
This weekend, I have devoted to finishing the presentation, power point with guided meditations and all. Today I woke up an hour later than intended, did my usual morning routine, went downstairs to fold and put in another load of laundry- while thinking about the presentation. For the first time since I began this process I didn’t check in with my feeling space to see if I felt like working on it. When the investigation tried to happen, very quickly I thought- It doesn’t matter if I feel like it or not, it is going to get done. And then I understood.
Prior to this a-ha folding laundry moment, I had been curious why I put off working on something until right before it is due, hardly giving myself enough time to even finish, although I always seem to. This putting off has been a long standing habit of mine. I wondered, is it because I was born late, and just can’t help it? Or was there a way I could actually finish a project before it is due, and have that time to unwind, relax and prepare for the presentation of it? And if so, how? All I knew is I had a subtle desire not to be confined by this is what I do, so this is who I am, so this is what I do- wait until the last minute- mindset. Again, I wanted freedom, which allowed for this:
I “procrastinate” because the pressure, which builds after waiting so long provides a deep focus and resiliance I don’t have when I still think I have enough time. When I still think I have the luxury of- do I feel like working on this today? This focus and resilience is what I like to see in myself, and apparently don’t give myself permission to use it unless it is absolutely needed. What if I told focus and resilience, I need them more than I don’t (especially in light of all I want to do)? What if I made space for them to show up, and allowed for the pressure and anxiety to dissipate? How might I create, as Cicero suggested: The pursuit, of even the best things ought to be calm and tranquil.”
The good news is I have never procrastinated for so long, the project never gets done. If this is the case, I think there are deeper issues, which I will not take time to investigate now. I have a presentation due on Wednesday, and my focus and resilience is strong.
What are you putting off what you could choose to do today? What are you telling yourself about yourself putting it off? Are you calling yourself names, or are you being forgiving? Are you curious about this behavior, and do you want freedom from it?
Insight into ourself, and our mysterious, and sometimes annoying ways, always provides freedom, if we listen and take heed.

Namaste,
The Soul Reporter, who will report again after presenting her finished product.

>In My Blue-Painted Room

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>As I free you, I free me.

I will not stake your claim.
I let go.
I will not stake my own.
There is no use to possess me.
There is no use to possess you.
I hear the words, “Give in. Give in.”
As I free you, I free me.
This is a magical time. An opportune time.
At Present I am in my blue-painted room,
listening to a CD, Conferring with the Moon.
A candle is lit, and I am not on the periphery of me.  
I am inside of me, in my blue-painted room.
The old me returns.                        God how I’ve missed her.  
She unites with the one who has healed so many wounds.
I no longer fear me. 
I no longer fear you.
And it’s exquisite.

>I’m Sick of Claiming my Independence

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How much of my movement claims the territory of my freedom-space?
How much of my movement resists the temptation of an embrace?
I’m sick of claiming my independence.
I don’t want to be alone.
I sit on the edge of the bed, wanting to embrace.
I know if I leave I am setting my claim.
I am sick of claiming my independence.
I want to be free.
And so I embrace.