Sequoia: healing from the roots up

( Francesca Woodman- Then at one point _Providence, Rhode Island 1978) Bless the quiet mornings when no one is up and I am alone. Bless the still, tall trees outside my window. Bless the bright stars in the night sky. Bless the stillness. Bless the pile of dishes, and bless my lover, who will do the dishes today. Bless the way he will pile them haphazardly and precariously to dry, and not dry, on and off the rack. Bless the used green tea bags, and the red polka dot bowl with remnants of cottage cheese in it. Bless the empty bottle of wine. Bless the half full bottle of wine. Bless the Netflix documentaries. Bless the exhaustion. Bless the warmth of two bodies sleeping beside each other. Bless the waking up from a good dream. Bless the surge of tenderness you feel for another human being. Bless the kisses. Bless the quiet before a day full of talk and doing. Bless the quiet after a day full of talk and doing. Bless the pile of poetry books. Bless the Marim...

I come from adventure I come from wild sky I come from open I come from deep green I come from remember I come from song I come from sisterhood I come from grace I come from ancient I come from valley I come from peoples I come from witch I come from plants I come from iron I come from clay I come from voice I come from play I come from land I come from prayer I come from tears I come from the Grandmothers I come from bones I come from wings I come from time I come moving, alive, old, wise, sad, vibrant, free I come I come I come alive

"You are like a leaf blowing around in the eye of a hurricane. Life has really landed on you. It's amazing to see how you carry it." -Ryan Hartley Life is like a dark night, and a star-lit soul peering into a jar of fireflies. We are free and bound at the same time.  It is the collected moments that you are present to, which create a beautiful life.  Observing the steam rise in curls from a mug of green tea, the pattern of sunlight streaming through a leaf, the warmth of someones lips on yours, the crinkle at the corner of the eyelids in a child's smile, the moment you jump into a cold lake.  This is life.  And yes - the moments where you are curled up in a ball on the floor, your body heaving with sobs. The moments where you are called out. The dark parts of yourself that you encounter, and choose to integrate. The times you see someone doing something you wish you were doing and feel jealous. Life is not a tea party that we dress up f...

Today, an angel walked by, dressed as an elderly lady in a maroon beret. She smiled right into my dramatic spat with my lover in the park and said, "Have you had breakfast yet? It's a beautiful day." And I hid my face and wept. Even when I am in pain, and my world is falling apart, these things hold true. Have your breakfast. It is a beautiful day. I am here to be soft.  To be crushed, and like mossy sponge, spring back to life. But stronger, more complex, more resilient each time. My strength is that I am resilient. I always come back. It is this way for the soft ones in the world. Some buckle under the eternal pressure. Some rise again. I rise again, over and over. In my own way. My rising belongs to me. Every hard thing that my softness comes into contact with becomes softer, though I may get bruised in the process. This is why flowers and mosses enthral me. Each expression of life in this great pulsating tapestry has something unique to say....

Life ought to be a struggle of desire toward adventures whose nobility will fertilize the soul. -Rebecca West The quality of light coming in through my window is dark and dank, cheap and easy. It reflects night to me. I can see my face in it. It is viscous. I see it. I remember the way he touched my cheek. The deep light in his eyes as he looked directly through my paper skin, into my soul, waiting to be excavated. Grief lasts for many long years. It ebbs and flows like the ocean. Climbs heights and scales depths like the mountains underneath the surface of the water. Grief is not only sad. It is every descriptive word, of every variety and implication. It lives here permanently. It is a way of life. But still, sparkling heights are available. Even within this slow song-dance of grief (which everyone defines and lives differently.) The whole world is available to an open soul. Diamond caves are tucked into the murky, crowded cities of seaweed un...

You are wise to let it be messy. I bless the mess you make for the sake of your freedom. Our mess is sacred. Cleanliness is too neat, it is not free enough. My mess is down and dirty, It is ripe, rife, and creative, it is ALIVE. It is like a river, flowing mighty. Your clean neat perfect is like a dry mud hole. Mud is better when there is a clean river flowing freely over it, and through it, making clouds, making a dance. And we find our sisters there, In the mud, in the cloud, shouting and banging, in life alive, life untamed. Sister, sister in the mud, I bless you. I do not want to be perfect, I want to be free. I want to reveal my freedom layer by layer. Not neat and tidy, but loud and flamboyant. It is time for this. The world needs us to be messy now. Now. Now. Now. Hallelujah for the mess, for the joy dance. ...

Pray in sweet ocean cycles. Create a thousand raw truths. Spring deep, Sing new. Come question a bone well. Find inner stream chant, She spirit, Whole night laugh. And wake To pure surrender of being.

We are unfurling ourselves across the universe.   It just takes shaking the banner out, over and over again.  When we shake out the banner together, worlds fly free. We need each other. When you speak up, you give me courage. When I shake the banner, I connect myself to you. When you rise, I rise. When I heal, you can see your way to healing. When you breathe, shout, laugh, dance, swear, weep, pray, fuck, face your darkness - I, too, am given permission to do these things. We are all woven together by love.  And we are shaking out the banner together.  We will get there. Don't lose heart.