Tuesday, December 31, 2019


Called forth by a voice that has not been silenced, just shushed.  Scratchy wool rubbing up against silky skin begins to feel like wires.  They dig in.

Unfurling and unraveling, crimson ribbons glide out of blackened depths.  Swampy and murky, a long hidden cesspool with a life of its own.  Creatures in your domain but not yours.  Why are you not afraid?

Fingertips gone, talons sharp as steel blades in their place, they speak in deadly swirls.  Gentle waves of hair slither as venomous snakes.  Those crimson ribbons now drip with blood at the end of a beautifully lethal whip.  You know it will whistle when it is yielded.

You are not only this.  But you are this.

Can you feel the blood those talons could draw, the life that could be shredded, eviscerated? Can you see the fear inspired here?  Silence reigns but it is no longer yours.  

Safety.  Freedom.  Winds whisper to you, teasing you with tales of things you thought you would never have.  Protection.  Power.

Holding and hiding up until now, the stars and soil are now too bright and too rich to be ignored.  The heavens sparkle as jewels in the black earth at your feet.  The forest tells you to fly and fall, not to choose.

Enjoy the silence that is not yours.  As nails and hair return, they are marked.  You are marked.  Your nails are blood red.  Crimson ribbons weave through your hair.  You are always and never only this.  

Sunday, December 15, 2019

Who are you Woman?

A large silver mirror, simple and stark, holds the reflection of a woman reflecting. Reflecting on how she began - petite and curious, heart open and pure, here for reasons that had little to do with her. On how she continued - steadfastly but painfully.  Brave and courageous perhaps but with hollow gains and no peace. Grinding her teeth while being pleasing and pleasant.  Being a nice girl, saying yes when yes was rarely want she wanted.  Always prey and never safe. 

Will you continue be that woman you were raised to be?  Can you remain a taller and older version of the girl, quiet desperation clawing at you from the inside, a hungry ghost haunted by insatiable cravings for approval, love, and validation that never arrive, never fill?  Not a woman, just a girl living on an endless loop dressed up like an adult.  But grown up enough, lived through enough to now be living with the deep knowing that any pursuit from this place leads to heartache and more emptiness.  This castle will never be safe.  Its walls are damp and dank with the violence and terror of decades past.  

And yet she is not any less you nor any less valuable for all that she has been.  She is simply no longer what you can be.  Literally.  Most of the pieces that made her what she is no longer exist, except in memory. And those that do remain no longer serve.  Can you honor her and allow her passing?  Can you let the smoke and sparks of what burns away in the funeral pyre leave a celestial body, a constellation of all that she was for you to see in any night sky, even in the underworld where the blackest sky is only a memory you hope to see again?  Give her constellation a name that is pure and strong and remember her as such.

Outside the castle now, dense forest calls.  What woman will you be?  What kind of woman can live in the wild?  A woman whose voice sings true, from sweet songs of devotion to rallying battle cries.  A woman whose sword is weighty with the justness and discernment that reside in its blade.  A woman with a deep and wild river that runs forever inside her, serene or churning, but always alive and moving.  A woman whose fire burns for herself first and foremost, light and heat landing only upon the worthy and often only within.  A woman whose strength and sovereignty gift her with the possibility of sweet, aching vulnerability and endless support she does not have to source herself.  

Silver mirror left in the castle, the reflection holds, even in the darkest forest.  She sees herself in the eyes of the wild creatures come to bear witness to what has been and what will be.  In their solemn eyes, she sees the darkness holding her from below and the light illuminating her from above.  Suspended and grounded between stars and soil, crown, sword and wings her birthright.  Whole unto herself.  That is the woman you will be. 

Go into the forest tonight.  Burn what must go and let it be nourishment for the soil, bless its season and harvest and then rest.  Gather your gifts, unknown until now.  Leave the forest the woman you were meant to be.