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the feeling, of scraping soft skin against stone, higher even than where the birds caress treetops, the feeling, of my fingers grazing a self, the sound of wind & wing, above & below, this body & its surroundings begin to blur, become one
My ancestors & guides have been teaching me what it is to witness the pain of others in a good way. I used to hold it all close, feeling that keeping it in my own body, in my own heart, was the most loving way to honour the pain story, but Brigid
❈ h e a r t  o p  e n ❈

dirt road beneath the tires, dust rose in our wake, through the trees, past clear cuts & new growth, our feet found stone, clambering up & up, higher & higher, above the valley, above the birds, holding peonies to
my love, mo Anam Cara, what blooms in the space between us is rooted in rich & fertile soil, filling the fissures of painful pasts with potential, you are possibility embodied, our togetherness instills an indescribable fullness from which we flo
Traversing, four footed, through brush and bramble, following the scent, the sense, (re)connecting with the wild wolf, letting them lead, letting the feeling of being lost, of loss, come, then go, then come, shifting shape, together, undone, skin sna
wandering lost in my own self, I came to realize that this whole time, this whole life, I have been making a map to return to truth & wholeness, to heart, the hearth of my own being. 
Every photo, ever word written and whispered, every gaze, ever
In Women Who Run With the Wolves, which I am finally reading for the first time, Clarissa Pinkola Estés writes that the Wild Woman, the gatherer of bones, the one who knows, the wolf mother, has keen instincts and discernment, they know what m
❈emergence❈
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The liminal space between winter and spring has been full of academic burnout, adrenal fatigue and deep, intense and profound shadow work 
Part of my absence has been to tend to the pain of transformation, nurturing joy and pleas
 

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