🜂 Episode Overview

This episode centers on the myth Seal Skin, Soul Skin, read aloud and discussed as a living metaphor for identity loss, burnout, and the slow violence of misaligned lives. Rather than interpreting the myth symbolically at a distance, the conversation treats it as diagnostic — a story that describes conditions many listeners already recognize in their own bodies.

📖 Text Read & Referenced

Women Who Run With the WolvesMyths and Stories of the Wild Woman Archetypeby Clarissa Pinkola Estés, PhD

The myth Seal Skin, Soul Skin is read directly from this text and used as the episode’s backbone. Estés frames the story as one of soul retrieval — when instinctual nature is stripped away in exchange for relational or social survival.

🌊 Core Themes Explored

Identity as Costume vs. ConditionIdentity is discussed not as “false” but as functional — something worn for tasks, not something meant to be lived inside permanently.

Burnout as Soul-SeparationThe seal woman’s physical deterioration mirrors what happens when people stay in roles their nervous systems cannot sustain.

Homecoming Without AnswersReturning to the sea isn’t framed as clarity, success, or healing — only restoration of alignment.

Ego as Tool, Not DriverThe conversation reframes ego not as an enemy, but as equipment — useful when worn lightly, destructive when mistaken for the self.

Colonizer Energy & PossessionThe theft of the sealskin is named plainly: taking what is beautiful, useful, or alive rather than learning how to let it remain free.

🐚 Notable Moments

The visceral description of the seal woman’s body drying, cracking, and failing as a metaphor for long-term over-identification

The idea that some lives don’t explode — they thin

Humor used as release valve: identity jokes, grocery store ego, productivity guilt

The child’s inheritance: art, song, and myth as what remains after survival

🎧 Sponsors (Satirical)

The Algorithm™ — You didn’t choose it. It chose you.

Productivity Guilt — Free, automatic, and impossible to uninstall.

🜁 Closing Reflection

This episode doesn’t argue for quitting jobs or abandoning relationships. It asks a quieter question:

What skin are you missing — and how long have you been living without it?

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You open the ribcage and name the truth: you don’t know what’s next, what you want, or where the hell the road is. A recent reading knocks you sideways, stirs old shadows, drags up regret and longing you thought were buried under a calmer kind of lostness.

Suddenly the compass spins, and suddenly the fuckin sea opens. Moses style.

This episode sits in that drift.Lost, but not empty.Aimless, but not wrong.

You walk through the confession that wandering is a ritual, even when it feels like failure.

You talk about the shadow that wants integration, the fear of being lost in the wrong way, the strange holiness of not knowing who you are becoming.

The word undertaking turns itself inside out — a burial, a marking stone, a tiny death inside the odyssey.

There’s the loneliness.The rootless bed.The strained psyche.And that stubborn mythic heart that refuses to stop being a romantic even when you wish it would chill.

A quiet episode.A drifting raft.A reminder that some voyages don’t have a map — only weather, memory, and the next wave.

Crack the spine of the myth.Download Ashtray Gospel — Issue Zero and step into the ashpath.Raw pages. Scorched prayers. Field notes from a life rebuilt in smoke.A digital zine for wanderers, firewalkers, and anyone nursing a secret resurrection.

Grab the Issue. Burn a little brighter.

I had a really interesting and quite mirror-esque conversation with Mike about what we want to do, long-term goals, et cetera. I said I felt like a boat with no rudder, just floating on fucking faith. But through that came a joyful message: the only thing to do is jump on the moon. Like, from Rent—literally from Rent.

“I felt like a boat with no rudder, just floating on fucking faith.”

Mike started singing, and then we tried to quarter and saw the first quarter moon. I just got a zillion chills and knew instantly it was some kind of cosmic message. Leap of faith. The only thing to do is jump over the moon. It was loud and awesome and terrifying at the same time.

“The leap isn’t about landing. The leap is about jumping up—not over an abyss, but over a moon.”

And now the question is: what is the leap? What is the moon? The leap, the moon—these symbols, in their happy, almost tongue-in-cheek presentation—are hitting deeper. Like the glowing jewels of singing things in the DMT-activated realms. There’s something to get over, as much as there is something to leap into. The moon could represent whatever fears or blocks are presenting themselves as insurmountable hurdles. The leap is then less about where or how I land, and more about knowing that I have the hops to fucking jump the hurdles.

“Not that the net will appear, but that there’s no need for a net in the first place.”

The leap isn’t about landing. The leap is about jumping up—not over an abyss, but over a moon. Something one might think they’re completely unable to hop over due to the rules of the universe. But that’s just fear. The next step isn’t identifying the various facets and textures of the moon, of the fear, and identifying all of what it is. The next step is just to fucking leap—and to do it with unyielding faith. Not that the net will appear, but that there’s no need for a net in the first place.

The only thing one needs a safety net for is when they’re tightrope walking or fucking trapezing from one place to another—not for jumping over the moon. It requires no net, no need to dissect or analyze the moon ad infinitum. Just leap over it. Just jump high and over the moon. And you’ll land on your feet, smack-dab on the same dull earth from which you jumped—only now, it’s you who have changed. Not the external world. No nets. And the moon will always be there, always ready to remind you that you can do what most think is impossible. You can jump over the fucking moon. Again and again. It’s so easy even a cow could do it.

If this piece hit something true for you, consider sharing it with someone else who might need the reminder. And if you want to help keep more work like this alive, you can subscribe — free or paid — to support the writing directly.