A few years ago, while on retreat in Tulum, Mexico, I met an older Mayan woman who told me my liver contained some trapped fury. She referred to it as my small fist. She gave me a flower that represented this portion of pent-up rage and told me to release it in the ocean. Cut to my fourth attempt to send the ceremonial flower out to sea. Foiled by the wind, which kept whipping it back in my face, I waded farther and farther out in my cotton dress, until I was chest deep – laughing, furious – in a froth of wavelets yelling, fucking go already….
kyo maclear