Though I share beauty and wonder with my photographs,
I am not really an artist
Though I create beautiful pendulums with crystals and gemstones,
I am not really a jeweller.
Though I blog and use spreadsheets and have my own app,
I am not really a techie.
Though I work with energy and butterflies,
I am not really a healer.
Though I use the cards I created and the cards of others,
I am not really a Tarot card reader.
Though I paint with words and juggle ideas,
I am not really a writer.
Though I design my own graphics and sites and printed materials,
I am not really a designer.
Though I share my spiritual path for those who may wish to join me on it,
I am not really a leader.
Though I help souls navigate the difficult path,
I am not really a coach.
Though I help with writing and facebook and ideas,
I am not really a marketer.
Though I help ease the pain of the soul,
I am not really a counsellor.
Though I demonstrate how to use platforms,
I am not really a teacher.
Though I have your DNA and small chin and food sensitivities,
I am not your kin.
When I see them – the artists and techies, the healers and readers, the writers and jewellers – I see their shared experience, their belonging, their common language.
Each within their own sphere, a bubble that contains and defines and secures them.
Each so complete that I know, without doubt, that my spirit will not fit into any one of them.
This feeling, this knowing, that I do not fit in these bubbles, that I do not fit in these definitions, has been my cloak for all my life.
Most days, I wear it proudly. Most days, it is purple and velvet and richly royal.
Some days, all I can see are the holes in it. The places where if I only did this or that, I could call myself writer-teacher-tarot card reader.
But my heart always asks: what about me?
I am the butterfly that floats between the others, gently touching each bubble so a hint of its colour rubs onto my wings.
I paint my wings in the colours of writer-healer-teacher, artist-designer-coach and all the passions of my heart, swirled together in patterns that defy description, that kaleidoscope with the tilt of my flight.
My heart, my true self, defies description, decries definition.
I reach for a name that is magical, that speaks of healing and mystery, that conjures images of the vast unknown.
Shaman. Butterfly Shaman.
Not any one thing, but many; not one colour, but all the colours; not a set path to follow, but an adventure to explore.
And still my heart sometimes asks: “But where do I belong?”
I know the answer to this one now.
With your heart, Dear One, when you need someone to hold your heart.
When I work with you, I bring my heart, my all, but it is only me.
It is both artist-writer-healer-leader, and not. It is me.
For all the words that could be used Butterfly Shaman fits these wings best.
Though my heart will always ache to belong, my wings, radiant with their riot of colour, will always bring me exactly to the place I am needed.
If I had the choice I wouldn’t change a thing. My heart’s ache is just the fuel my wings need.
Dear One, is there anything you ache for that you know you wouldn’t change, even if you could?
If your heart needs holding now, you may want to work with me.