That’s what I call my dad’s place in Costa Rica. I figured if he could’nt be here now to enjoy his prophecy about Bahia and the gem he built, I could at least name the place after him. It’s a funny story actually but a bit too long for right here right now. If you go to the shop page you can join a retreat that includes a day visit to Willy’s Place and a story about his nickname.

What I know is that before he died he poured his everything into this place. This was his last bang, the final hoorah, his impulse to leave a legacy behind and show us that it is possible. A dream is possible. This fantasy is sweet but it’s also tainted. It wasn’t easy being his daughter and sometimes the worst of him feels alive in me. This isn’t the nicest thing to say about someone I love, I know, but it is the truth.

I suppose this is the kind of thing that happens when those who love you also hurt you. I’ve tried now 3 times to get through Bell Hooks’ all about love, she speaks on this in the very beginning and it just makes too much sense. Because of this awareness and evidence I have not touched it. The book or the feeling. It makes me feel like I am falling apart. The body keeps the score shot right through me, by chapter 2 I was a mess and only got through it on audio because I tuned most of it out. It was enough though. Enough to tease out some gnarly bits and start seeing and allowing.

I have built a victim identity around this very story. This thing I feel so called to write about, this indescribable emotion and waves of sensation. I am still hearing this inner kid say, “Nobody’s gonna help me” I don’t know what’s on the other side of this but I also know that it doesn’t have to matter right now.

I can just tend to the “nobody’s gonna help me” and show it #loveandrespect. I can follow the rivers of consciousness to the memories and feelings I have built walls with. I can somehow let the tears flow and the mind unravel and let it be good. Even though it hurts now, I know it can be something else. It can be better. The coming to this, is not so nice. All of the vices return, full force, the riptide of this moment in life flinging me around by my hair, getting to the gut of my weaknesses. This must be hurting me in some way. A way I can’t see yet but I am going to get out of my head as a practice and see what comes. I’m hoping I can avoid the usual trouble…

Like the way I mindlessly fall in love. I have built ways to say no to help just to later live inside of the belief nobody’s gonna help me. I get tangled up in a bad way and find myself right back at the root of my problem but it sometimes is because I really love my pain. If it goes, I’ll miss it. Just a strong habit that now I can see. Even though I have no power over it and all I can do is watch, it’s been enough to see my real feelings.

How divinely timed is it that when I am ready to rebuild the way I relate to men I am also called home to his place? There is a deep well of grief I am surely working through and the medicine of the moment is home sweet home. I am thinking what better place to lay this victimhood to rest than at the source of my strife with men and love? In what better place to remember that my whole life is steeped in memories of trees and hammocks? The moment that I would most need to integrate and retreat Willy’s Place would call me home. Thank you for reading my words, I hope they land and offer comfort. Check out the scheduler, work privately with me, stay tuned, more is coming.

Nothing but Love,

Adri