October: Roar.

Inhaling in and out, counting slowly and sweetly. My shoulders begin to sink, they give way to some natural release, and finally they rest. My breath deepens as my jaw softens, all of yesterday’s worries get swallowed, gone for now. My eyes are lightly closed and my eyebrows relinquish their expression. 

The palo santo is wrapping me as I hear the wax of my candle drip to a stone beneath. Some nondescript guitar strums from my phone to transport me to a far off mountain top at sunset. 

Inhale for one, two, three, four, and hold. 

Now scream. 

A guttural, molten lava yell erupts from my soft belly. Anguish, fear, anxiety, and acid frustration climbs out of me like long buried Gods of the underworld. I breathe slowly again, eyes still closed and gentle. And again I yell like a terror and smile when I am complete. 

I am woman, hear me roar. 

The amount of glee that comes from an ugly yell is unmatched, the unabashed screech of feelings that words can not serve is a force. I am not yelling at anyone, I just need to get stuff out of my body. And after, it feels so good, the goodness lasts a good part of my day even.   

Some folks call it mantras and those sacred words taste yummy in my mouth too. But, these days, with all the chitta and transitions of seasons and all the sameness of unfair justice in the world: I crave a thick scream. 

And it gives way to tears some days or words come up like lost shoes in the ocean after a storm. This human body can’t sit still in silence these days, but I can sit and yell and sing and roar, even if I scare my neighbors. 

Spooky season is about to get loud, so scream you beautiful, terrifying moon beam. Let taking care of yourself get loud.