With the elephant prancing in the background, life still flows. We do not stop everything just to wait for the other shoe to drop.

Last Sunday, I participated in the “Day of the Book” festival as one of the local authors. This is one of the many things I appreciate about spring in the US—the bustling events related to arts and music enlivening and enriching the local community almost every weekend. I feel heartened being embraced as a local. Contrary to Singapore, local in the US is connected to residence instead of nationality.

As I afford myself the spaciousness this morning to reflect and write, I am better able to appreciate what unfolded through that day. Typically, participation in such events is challenging for me. My nervous system can be easily overstimulated, leading to my habitual freeze and fawn response. Before I engaged in any form of soulwork, I was clueless about any of these patterns. I lived simply as a meek mute mouse. With more awareness, the same patterns repeated while I witnessed with horror. It was also convenient to slide into self-loathing in those times. But that was the start, where soulwork begins—to understand what was happening in me; to feel the stories that contributed to them running in my soma; to learn who I took myself to be, and what I needed, and gradually unfold to become what and who I need.

Each local author’s event was a practice of relating and functioning. Last Sunday was no difference.

Nearing the end of the event, I witnessed how little space I took at the table shared by three authors. The space behind the table was already tight, and I had made it tighter for myself. Was it my Asian (particularly Teochew) woman thing—being considerate and stepping aside for others? That sight was heartbreaking. I could not stop the tears in my heart from that realization. A few drops leaked into my eyes while most flowed down into my belly—my ground, also my reservoir. I also encountered an aspect of my egoic structure with more clarity: she was only about nine or ten years old when she was taught how scarce, important, and hard-earned money was, along with the virtue of thriftiness. My parents had often exuded a sense of hardship whenever they talked about money.

The number of books I had sold at each of my past few events can be counted with the fingers on one hand. In terms of sales, my book performs better online and on the shelves of two local bookstores. Perhaps it is the mental or emotional space that shoppers are in, having more time to browse at their own pace. This was the first event I participated in where we needed to pay for the tables/tents, and I had tried to make a sensible choice with how I spent my money, hence, opting to share a table. Was an entire table crazily expensive? No, it was not, but I was afraid to invest in something that may not have returns, i.e. being wasteful. (Notice how the lesson to be thrifty plays out as a polarity between thriftiness and wastefulness in my example.) While I thought I was making a wise choice, I have come to see it was not an awake one. That ‘wisdom’ was stale and not alive to the situation.

I can be generous with others and miserly with myself. When it comes to money, I am still healing my relationship with it. After all, I had inherited the generational wisdom that is no longer serving me. Recently, I came across a new way of seeing generational trauma through a webinar on money trauma: Generational trauma is generational wisdom that has been passed down that no longer serves. How beautiful and honoring.

I wish I could outsource my money matters to relieve the stress of being self-employed, but doing that will be avoiding the core issue. I am learning to relate to money anew. I hope to be able to relax and release the stories passed down to me, and offer a new possibility to myself and my family. My stories of space and scarcity are not merely stored mentally, they are in my body. More accurately, they make up my soma in the way I move through the world. Layer by layer, I am seeing how this body was shaped before it could even walk or talk, how it knew not to take up space even from its time in the womb.

Heartbreaking.

Yes, my heart aches. Such heartbreaks are good. If there was no self-cherishing, my heart would not ache.

Despite the ways that I sabotaged myself when I left myself and lost presence, I still signed up and showed up for these events. Despite the narcissistic wound (of not being seen) being triggered each time, I still open my heart to share about my book with people who walked by. Am I fond of such events? My patterned response is no. Such events create a hell lot of discomfort in me. I have little desire to be a masochist. Why then?

Because I promised myself to bring my book out to meet people. I believe my book deserves a chance, and I wish to do right by it.

Because I want to know and understand the space in which I thrive. Patterns are patterns. While I continue to work with them, they do not dissolve overnight. Hence, they can keep running while I continue to put myself forward to create opportunities for a corrective and restorative experience for myself.

Because I want to meet and know my readers. For that beautiful moment when I got to share with another curious person about my book. Also, for that special moment when I connected with the soul who bought my book; when our hearts acknowledged that I know you and you know me, and I know you know me and you know I know you.

Because I can easily forget that I am not alone in my struggles. Participating with fellow local authors and hearing of their challenges help ground me to reality and not take things personally. Fear is contagious. So is courage

Meeting others, I meet me. Meeting me, I meet others.
In all our mess and magnificence.

From time to time, I forget.
And through such events, I remember.

I remember what my book is.
And I remember me.

The Weight of My Soul is a quiet book beckoning the gentle sensitivity of our soul. It needs space to breathe, and I had not honored this part of it. Through my book, I learn to see and respect me. It does not shout, neither do I. Yet the more space there is, the louder we are, the more powerful our quiet vortex is to draw souls into their depth.

This book, like the soulwork I offer and engage in, thrives with space. Because with space, I connect to Source, hence, connecting to everything.

Yes, my wish is my command.

Gravity is alluring. More and more, I am allowing myself to unfurl, and lean into the momentum of my unfoldment.

The call to pause…the call to be quiet…the call to space…the call to depth…the call to union with Source.

And the call toward meandering before joining the ocean—uncovering and honoring the age-old wisdom we carry, alchemising it then letting it pass through us, to be delivered as fresh wisdom for our times. This is how we respect and release the weight of our collective history, while also cherishing the significance of each of our individual life.

Guess I can’t deny it anymore. I’m into midwifery, magic, and miracles.

I am mystery unfolding.

And I look forward to sharing with you more about my fresh offerings next week. Till then, enjoy the spring breeze, enjoy the birds’ songs, enjoy you.

🍯 The Dandelion Notes ~ Writer’s Fund

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New to The Dandelion Notes?

Hello & welcome — I am glad you are here. I am Rosslyn Chay, facilitator, healer, poet—each of these, a very human attempt to mend our fractured relationship with our nature and free the truth of who we are from the weight of our history. The Dandelion Notes are field notes on my attempts.