I have been thinking about rebirth so much these past few weeks, maybe even months, as the animals of rebirth began appearing for our monthly journeys in the Spring. Jaguar showed up first, the Queen of Shadow work and the one who often appears for dismemberment, then Snake, the shedder of skin and the symbol of transformation, and then in August, Beetle came…a small guide of rebirth who turns literal shit to nourishment, recycling our difficult experiences into powerful spiritual lessons. My personal work with Vulture prepares me, of course, intimately connecting to death and rebirth.
Through this entire process with breast cancer, it has felt like the end of a dis-ease, not the beginning. A personal invitation to be reborn into the healed Angie, the one who has done the work. That might sound strange, but it felt like the culmination of many years of working through trauma, grief, soul loss, and heart chakra imbalances. Like there is this part of you—over the heart, that has manifested cancer in my milk ducts. Interestingly, the cancer developed in a breast I was never able to produce milk out of. That is not exactly true. The milk was produced, but it could not be expressed. (Is that a metaphor or what?) I had a child who died, and I remember how engorged and painful my breasts were, filled with milk and no child to drink. I put huge cabbage leaves on it, until they withered and I smelled like an Eastern European soup. I would cry in the shower as my breasts would weep milk. Except the right one. It would just stay hard and engorged and no milk would weep until it just stopped trying.
During those days, I often thought about this class on Death and Dying in college with one of my mentors Dr. John Raines. He said that babies cry because they know they deserve food, comfort and love. And the cry, he explained, was exactly designed to be uncomfortable for humans, it is a noise we want to stop. It is only when they cry and no one comes that babies stop crying. My breasts were the same. They eventually stopped weeping milk because no baby came to feed.
It is interesting that this tidbit came from a class on Death and Dying. We have those moments we face death both metaphorically and literally. Maybe we survive a great trauma that threatened our life, or we stand and face our demons and get sober, or we ask for a new way to be in the world. In the process of earth medicine initiation, we undergo the process of rebirth through the shamanic experience of dismemberment, where, in the journey state, we literally ask our animals to rip us apart, tearing at us, killing us in journey, so that we may rebirth. With Vulture as my guide, she asked me to release my soul. She could not tear me apart alive. This process of releasing brought up so many emotions and feelings of helplessness that had permeated my life…how do I let go when all I have been doing is holding on tight? It is a zen koan, a paradox for survivors. Somehow I did, though. That is the thing…somehow we do. We do it when the holding on is killing us.
When I had my first chakra balancing many many years ago, my heart was completely closed. The pendulum did not move. It just stood stock still. It disturbed me. I had learned through my many years of life how to shut my heart off. Immediately, the self-punishing thoughts flooded in. “Oh my God, I am broken. My heart is shut. I am a monster.” (This is why I teach my students to be kind and gentle when doing a chakra balancing.) It has been decades-long work to open my heart and to trust people. It was well before I became a healer that I started, but I knew then that the pendulum was telling me something I needed to pay attention to. Opening my heart involved many healers, many therapists, many releases, many times feeling so vulnerable and fearful that I took steps backward and then when I was ready, started back on the path.
I say this because there is no healer that isn’t a wounded healer. Our DNA, our strength as healers comes from our wounds. It comes from our humanness, not our divinity or otherworldliness. While I appreciate there are many who feel shadow work is not as important as light work, I politely, yet adamantly, beg to differ. Any lightwork done without being aware of your wounds ultimately will take you back on the same path again and again. You encounter the same lessons, the same kinds of people (friends, lovers, colleagues, enemies.) Our wounds are invisible blocks that keep us in an eternal loop on the spiritual path, like Sisyphus, the Greek King who cheated death twice and was forced to roll a huge boulder up a hill, only to watch it roll back down. Sisyphus’s story has come to represent any futile, yet difficult task. Unless, we can identify our own triggers, wounds, and blocks; make them visible then dismantle them, we stay in this endless Sisyphean cycle. This is the rebirth. To simply emerge from the tedious work, to slowly break down that rock, our wounds into smaller pieces, so then we can break that cycle. Then our journey isn't so tedious.
Where shamanic and earth medicine work excel is in the rituals, ceremonies, symbolic work of that rebirth. We call in the snake, the beetle, the vulture to help us find a way to break our cycles. This work is a lifelong process. I have been intimately involved with this trauma work and work around my own heart for so long it is almost comical, but also I didn’t start it to be a good healer or to write a newsletter or blog post. I started it because that heart, the one closed and unable to weep, demanded I look at it. This petulant, hurt child within me said, “I cannot be ignored any longer. I will not be neglected. I need to be loved.” It began crying and I began responding. And in turn, I healed those around me, who tried to get into that closed heart for years.
Self-care and self-love sound like such bullshit terms, but they are juicy, deep, life-altering journeys. They aren’t just bubble baths and dark chocolate and masturbation. Self-love embodies self-compassion, self-care, self-worth, and self-actualization. We must remother ourselves, or refather ourselves. That has been the challenge—seeing and loving myself unconditionally. But when I struggle, I look at my own children and think, "You are just like them--beautiful, perfect, worthy of care."
It is strange to see my body without breasts. I don't NOT like it. It is just an adjustment. I am almost starting to like it more. I have been trying to take some time with no bra and no shirt to just get used to how I look now—a huge scar running across the place where my babies suckled. My belly sticks out like a big Buddha belly and my chest goes in, almost concave. Right now it is all puckered and there are major folds in it that are angry and tight. They will soften over time. Just like the other scars I have healed in my life—things soften with time. I can honestly say that I feel complete, even without my breasts. This body does not seem ugly, or unlovable, or unworthy at all. It is simply an adjustment.
This is what healing gives you—unconditional radical self-acceptance. I have been working on it for years by demanding I love myself. I thought that if I just said it enough, wrote it out on enough intentions, it would happen, but the truth is—that isn't what did it. You are not in control of the healing timeline. It is something you cannot fake. You simply love yourself until you are willing to accept the love. That's the thing--for me, self-love was about accepting the love, not giving it. Giving love was easy for me, but accepting it was a whole other thing altogether. You become gentle with your inner voice. One day something weird happens—you get diagnosed with breast cancer, or your partner leaves you, or you notice that your face is wrinkled and your hair grey, or you break something valuable and through this long rebirthing process you realize you aren't mad at you, or disappointed, or embarrassed, or ashamed. You stand tall and you say, “Yep, that is me, still me, still the same me as yesterday, still worthy of love and acceptance. I love you. You got this, kid.”
You got this, kid. I love you.
healing messiness
This is from my latest newsletter. You can subscribe here.
dearest friends,
The birds feast on the sorghum that has sprouted from bird seed. It is beautiful how they know how to do this, even if they have never seen sorghum before.
In the winter months, I watch the birds from my meditation room. They congregate around the feeders, the suet and the fresh fruit I put out for them. I put a handmade feeder on the deck this year, because I couldn’t reach it on the feeding station and besides, they are fun to watch during meals. I love the drama of it. My husband complained about the mess they made. He lost patience when a small carpet of sprouts began spreading in late Spring on the newly mulched walkways. We spent a few days pick axing, clearing, digging out and planting flowers and bushes to have these unsanctioned plants begin their fight for life and survival.
I root for the weeds, I admit. I cheer them on in whispers and stolen words. Once you begin the process of learning what and why the weed-plants grow in your yard, it is hard to pull out the ones that simply were here first. They are designed to feed the native animals and insects. But I began the process of cleaning the birdseed from the deck. And by cleaning, I mean, I swept them onto the lawn, beyond the mulched pathways, right at this place where I struggle with the mower, because it is too steep and I have an active imagination, particularly in regards to my own death. I thought the birds might find some food among the grass and be apt to scratch at the Earth a little. Let’s see what happens, I thought. I pulled the mulch up with the sprouts, carrying them to a tree stump on the hillside, and simply spread them out. Grow here, I invited them. Fill in the area. Be plentiful. I put an old planter stand there too, and that is where I put the handmade feeder. Problem solved.
It wasn’t long until I received a message from my local birders group that there is an avian pandemic, spread through backyard bird feeders and well-meaning bird enthusiasts. We are encouraged in the Northeast and Mid-Atlantic to stop feeding them at collective stations, so I just left the feeders heartbreakingly empty. Because I didn't have the heart to cull all the bird seeds that started becoming plants in Spring, they grew and grew in Summer—five feet tall and beyond. They covered the entire hillside. Now, I have the most amazing garden of sunflowers and sorghum and millet, colors of bright yellow and ochre and oranges and reds. The Sunflowers are beautiful and then when they wither and grow brown, leaves falling, the birds began to visit again, and eat the seeds. The Sorghum turns burnt umber and the birds come in droves to eat and pick at their amazing heads. Golden Finch and black birds, starlings and cowbirds, hold onto the strong stalks and peck at the seed that grew out of their own messiness and shit.
This is something I relate to.
Finding medicine and nourishment in my own messiness and shit. Maybe that is what I should write on my website—Angelica Yingst, specialist in finding medicine and nourishment in your own messiness and shit. It is my new mantra--Nothing is wasted. I write so rarely in this newsletter and yet, you have probably heard it many times. I try to embody and model for my clients, my students, my children, my friends, and my family how to deal with shit. How to reach out, how to find a community, how to make things sacred. When I am vulnerable and open, it heals not only me, but also is of service to other people. I recognize this, and yet it is still hellishly hard to be vulnerable and open. I tell stories about bird seed and sorghum and shit because it is hard and I am having trouble getting to the point, so suffice to say, this is me sweeping my bird seed and my shit onto the grass to see what sprouts.
A month ago now, I was diagnosed with breast cancer.
It just came, out of a routine mammogram. Nothing extraordinary—no lump or bleeding or pain or strangeness, just something they saw on an annual scan. They told me it was early and that I was lucky.
I feel lucky.
They told me in the same breath that I would have to decide what I wanted to do, which was basically one choice…one boob or two? Or rather a single mastectomy or a double? Which would I like? Would I like a single mastectomy or a double?
With one boob, I could shoot archery like an Amazon, but I would still have to wear a bra with a prosthetic tit. With two gone, I could have a weirdly unnippled flat chest, which will probably be lumpy, rather than flat, because let’s face it my entire body is lumpy. I probably won’t like either choice, they said, but maybe this choice will save your life. We think it will. Maybe you can avoid chemotherapy and radiation and death, they said, but honestly, you are so lucky to have found it now.
I feel lucky. I chose to remove both of my breasts.
A friend reached out telling me they saw a hawk flying with a snake. I saw the same thing a few weeks ago, like an Aztec myth or a Homeric saga, we are seeing similar signs. We wondered if it was a global message or a personal one. Maybe it is both...I can't help but think, in the way I did so many years ago when my daughter died, that life continues. That hawks capture snakes and people go to the mall and buy stupid shit and dogs bark at the neighbors even though things are happening in slow motion and in fear-o-vision for me. There are signs and synchronicities and healing, but I still have cancer. I am dealing with this by organizing my cabinets and buying hoodies.
When I was given this diagnosis, I kept thinking, "Angie, how will you make this sacred?" How can I capture this time before my breasts are gone forever? If I sprinkle this old bird seed and shit onto the grass, will it grow into something beautiful and nourishing? I know I will create artwork and write, because that is what I do with everything. I have created a crystal grid and an altar and called in Magdalene and Mother Mary and Kali showed up and Vulture…and yet, I simply want to lie in bed and stop the relentless litany of "Things I Need to Do Before DMX Day." And I can’t also, because the litany and the list are real and, from having done the lying in bed, obsessing about not obsessing thing, it doesn’t help. Organizing and making lists makes me feel in control when everything is out of my control.
I am lucky. And yet, how will I release my breasts, the body parts that fed my babies (do you want tetita? I would ask them, as they turned their heads to latch on.) How will I release the chest they lean on, cuddle into, grab for when they are scared? How do I offer up the boobs that offered hugs to my hundreds of clients over the years and my sponsees who ask for their bosom hugs? How do I cut off the breasts that held pleasure and sensuality for my lovers? The breasts that are my husband’s favorite body part?
It is easy to release them when I think of that time in my life when I was still a girl, when my breasts seemed to grow overnight. One day, my landscape was flat, and then small hills appeared. I remember how much they hurt when a football hit my chest. I remember when the boys started snapping bras and reaching over me, so they could graze them for a cheap thrill. I went from a flat, athletic girl to one leered at, an object of lust who still wasn’t sure if she wanted to play dolls or cut out Teen Beat pictures of George Michael. They have been the part of me people glared at, evidence that I was a slut or a hoochie mama intent on stealing their boyfriends. They brought derision and discomfort and pearl-clutching if I wore a spaghetti strap tank. I have wanted them off since they were first unwantingly groped by creepy men or whistled at when I was just mindlessly walking down city streets. My breasts have brought annoyance and trauma and healing and love. It is a complicated relationship.
This is the thing about us humans—even if we have never faced this particular crisis, we know how to make it sacred. I have learned to make it sacred by including people, by reaching out, by asking for support. Innately, we know how to eat the sorghum that grew from messiness and shit. We invite our bird friends to share.
***
I know this is shocking. It is shocking to me. But I have to tend to myself. I have shut down everything in my shop—distance readings and healings, sales and memberships. I wish I could be present and hold space for you, but right now, this deep healing is reserved for me. Besides all I think all day is, “I have cancer. I am so lucky it is not worse.” My thoughts are dominated by this particular paradoxical truth. It is a niggling mantra that I keep wrestling with, like a Zen koan. I am devoted to my clients and students, but I am healing and coming to terms with this and making it sacred. And in that process, I have had to simplify and not be so bloody busy, as well as quarantine before surgery and prepare my home.
I have one more event before surgery on September 15th at Alta View Wellness Center with my bestie, Sharon Muzio. We are doing a shamanic healing circle on August 29th at 4p at Alta View—Sharon will lead the guided journey and I will do the hands-on healing. You can register here.
I am beautifully interconnected to a vast, powerful circle of psychic, empathic healers, priestesses, shamanic wisdom and medicine keepers, seers, seekers, practitioners and beautiful souls like you, many around the world who I have been privileged to work with. If your expertise and experience falls into working with cancer, healing from surgery and making this process sacred, I’d love to hear about it. Please email or call (717-770-9109) and with that being said, hopefully, you understand that I am overwhelmed easily, so I might not get back to you immediately, or take your advice. Please do not take this personally as I am trying to intuitively navigate to what feels healing to me right now at this time.
When I return, I will let you know. I may even write you a love letter or two.
summer solstice check-in
Early Summer in Pennsylvania blossoms into Wild Black Raspberries, Mugwort sprouting up wherever you let it, Wild Yarrow that hides in the tree line and roadsides, pretending to be Queen Anne's Lace. I see the snake tails disappearing into the long grasses and listen for the calls of the nighthawks. It only takes opening the eyes of your eyes and the ears of your ears to see the medicine all around you.
I turned my chicken coop into a potting shed and have fully dived into herbalism classes and study. I had always dabbled, but I wanted more formal training, and so I am getting it. I have always grown herbs to use for teas and salves, but it is different this year when my eyes became more finely tuned to the subtle healing of all the native plants of my area. My kids thought I was magick when I chewed up a Fleasbane Daisy and put it on a bugbite of my son, and it disappeared. I felt like magick too, as he said, "I thought that was a weed."
Weeds are just a matter of perspective, son.
I think about that quite a bit--how the thing we think is a nuisance ends up becoming the medicine. How a flower's beauty is all a matter of perspective. Same with humans. I think about how hard I work pulling unsanctioned flowers out of a bed I am trying to plant flowers in. We learn the things we learn through nature. I have never wasted an experience...I have used it all in some way. I would venture to say you have too.
I have spent the last few years healing trauma from different realms of my life--big traumas and little ones. I honestly just started calling things by their proper name. It has been the most humbling, difficult aspect of my work with self-love and self-compassion. I suppose this is called shadow work, but it feels more like integration work.
I remember being particularly keyed up and triggered by something and losing my patience with my kids a few minutes later. I put myself in time-out and my husband followed me. I was crying. And in that crying without thinking I said, "Why did bad stuff happen to me?" It is a question I never let myself ask, really. It feels so immature, so unevolved, to ask that question, and yet, the child in me needs a voice too. I have suppressed her for too long. Sometimes the work we need to do is just to say--that just wasn't fair.
For me, sitting in the unfair, is not comfortable. I am a fighter (not a flighter or fawner). I prefer fighting for justice. I don't usually struggle with fighting for my rights or the rights of others. But just sitting with injustice is so difficult for me. And yet that has been the work of the last few years...sitting in injustice--in our outer world with the struggles of black and indigenous people (761 bodies of indigenous children found this week outside of a residential school is such a horrendous example of this), and people of color, and then in our inner world with our own suffering and struggles healing trauma, addiction, codependency, fear, grief, anger, physical and mental struggles...we have to sit with injustice. All of us.
After I sit and feel the weight of it, I take a breath. I process it. And then look at this unsanctioned act and make medicine out of it. When Elizabeth Kubler Ross and David Kessler mention the 5 stages of grief, they were talking about acceptance of death. It was written for those who were dying, not those who were living, but quickly, it was adopted by the grieving. Recently, I read that Kessler postulates another stage for the grieving--making meaning. This is what humans do. We make meaning. We seek a story. We want to thrive.
And so I challenge you to make meaning out of a loss, to find a weed and make it medicine. There is beauty in every flower. It is just a matter of perspective.