Gaia

I am the witch at the edge of the woods

I am the woods 

I am the owl in her hand

I am the roots of her bones 

I am the seed of her egg 

I am the sun of her womb 

I am the wolf at her feet 

I am the rose quartz in her eyes

I am the feathers on her fingers 

I am infinite slips of snake skin 

I am elephant wrinkles 

I am the hive 

I am the nest

I am the prophecy

I am the song of the whale 

I am the quills of her spine 

I am the trill of the sparrow 

I am the air in her mouth 

I am the fire in her heart

I am the river carving stone 

I am the pine

I am the herd

I am the flock 

I am the tribe 

I am the child 

I am the witch at the edge of the woods

She is the witch at the edge of the woods

She is the woods 

She is the owl in our hand

She is the roots of our bones 

She is the seed of our egg 

She is the sun of our womb 

She is the wolf at our feet 

She is the rose quartz in our eyes

She is the feathers on our fingers 

She is infinite slips of snake skin 

She is elephant wrinkles 

She is the hive 

She is the nest

She is the prophecy

She is the song of the whale 

She is the quills of our spine 

She is the trill of the sparrow 

She is the air in our mouth 

She is the fire in our heart

She is the river carving stone 

She is the pine

She is the herd

She is the flock 

She is the tribe 

She is the child 

She is the witch at the edge of the woods

What if I let it all in?

In the cafe, I am the junkie, drinking a bowl of bean caffeine. 

I am addicted to happiness. It is my safest place. I am afraid of my sadness. I am afraid of melancholia, boredom, and sorrow. I fear the heavy. 

I must be light. I must. 

And so I drink a cup of coffee. And then, I drink another. I try to hold to my allotted 12 ounces, but before I know it, I am at the pot once more, pouring. 

In the bar, a room I rarely reside, I sip wet glasses of golden wheat. The dizz, the buzz, the bubbly. I want the night to be light. It must be light. It must. Even if the floor feels like a slight hill. Even if the walls appear blurry. I want the night to be light. I want to feel happy. And so I sit and sip.

It is a fear to feel deeply: - feel the fullness, feel the uncomfortableness, feel the emptiness, and, yes, feel the abundance. To be in the seemingly boring, silent stillness. To hide in the cupboard, in the car, at the counter. And in the moments of ecstasy, of feeling too light, I try to tether my energy to something heavy in my belly. 

What if I let it all in? 

What if I throw open the door between my body and soul? 

What if I sat in the bowl of the moment? 

The worry is that I'll drown, or that I'll float away. The worry is that I won't be quick enough, interesting enough, fun enough. I will be a boring, sober human being. I will be an odd one. I will not be whole. I will not be happy. I will be tired, hungry, and grumpy.   

And yet, what of my liver? And yet, what of my sleep? What of my cells? What of my blood, bones, gut, and brain? What of my glands and my skin? 

I hope this body thrives now...

... and for a long, long time. 

And what of my soul? 

It is calling me to sing the pure, true song.

I want to quit.

Quit caffeine. 

Quit alcohol. 

Quit eating animals. 

I want to quit all unconscious consumption.

And it's not to prove anything to anyone else, but to choose and welcome the home of my wholeness in its full, unfiltered essence. To stimulate it not with cups of drink, but with acceptance and experience. 

And yes, it feels like a lot of no. So let's turn it over and look at the cover. 

Yes, drinking clean water.

Yes, eating nourishing foods. 

Yes to presence. 

Yes to being and body.

Yes to standing in my authentic center, acknowledging my truth. I want to flee the feelings within me. I don't want to notice or name them. I don't want to feel them. I want to skip right to freeing them and feeling free of them. And so I dance away my anxiety, and I run to release my rage, and I walk in the woods to boot away worry.

And so here is to allowing it all, to letting it all live. I will notice and then express. I will walk, run, and dance. I will remember my brilliant resilience. And I will remember my deep reverence for the divinity within me. 

A Vibrant Stitch

It is a vibrant stitch - a hem between the heavens and me. 

Sometimes the cloth here is as crude as burlap. The needle pierces the skin, and the thread snags and tangles. And the more I whine and weep about it, the deeper into the misery I drop, and the further I am from the other side. 

The other side is one of surrender, light, and mystery. Always, the fabric from the blessed source of all LOVE is warm, inviting, and vibrating. The needle soars and swims and slips with ease and reverence and joy. It is a tapestry woven with lines of rainbow light. This place is spacious. It is thin, as forgiving as linen, as fine as cotton, as sheer as song and color and fog. The more I lift my attention to the Infinite and invisible, the ethereal!, the longer and wiser and more luminous my threadline, the hem within me, the hem between me and the heavenly!

I am the light.

Sunbeams slant through open sky, slip and seep through fluttering golden leaves, and peek through panes of old glass before settling upon the wide, pine-planked floorboards where I sit in meditation. 

In my soft box of light, I narrate my breathing, In...Out...In...Out... Soon, I am focusing on the breath rather than observing the breath, and before I can slow it down, it becomes like a runaway, run-on sentence, going and going until I am gasping, leaping, tumbling, and landing onto the grassy meadow of my consciousness. 

I let go. 

I become still. 

I breathe. 

Then I pray, Empty me and fill me with light. 

For several minutes, I pray this plea. Empty me and fill me with light. Empty me and fill me with light. Empty me and fill me with light. Empty me and fill me with light. Empty me and fill me with light...

Eventually, within me, I hear, I am the light. 

As these words pour through me, a sunbeam, sudden and bold, bursts through space to shine upon my face. The sunbeam stays with me for a little while, whispering the warm words, I am the light.  I am the light. I am the light. I smile. Yes, the light is within me. The light is me. I have everything I need. I am everything I need. I am the light.

Offering of Song

I have been guided to the dark, to the early morning. Perhaps it is the cycle of the seasons, the turning and returning to the cold—the winter homecoming. Winter is a time of soft hiding, a time of being alone, and a time of gathering light and singing to the slim slips of sun every day. It is a time of candlelight, bread, soup, and stove. It is a time of evolution. A cocoon from the cold.  A wide, warm womb.  

Come! This dog begs me every morning. Let's go and smell and move and breathe and be! He wakes me with a language of licking. He is as black as the land and trees in the pre-dawn woods - a shadow with shining eyes. A void. A dream. Before the squirrels squirm and the birds sing, we walk. It is quiet. My breath, my boots, his pant, his paws, and the early morning traffic from the highway down the hill are all I hear. The animals sleep while the earth radiates her essence like a delicate, invisible glow, a song I can't quite hear but know is there. A joyful, soulful hum. 

Sometimes songs come to me there, arriving in my belly and rising up and out of me.  Simple songs. Looping ones. There is a song about slowing down and one about the ocean. There is another about my sovereignty. I record them on my phone.  Place them there. Just as I might photograph something. So it becomes something I can hold. The act of recording anything tends to imprint it (an idea, image, or tune) deep within me. I suppose these songs are to share. Share with you. Share with myself many years from now.

I place them here as an offering. 

• I went out ...
• freedom
• I went looking in the ocean ...
• slow down
• I can stand on my own ...

Go look into the dark. You may find yourself there. And if you go there often and for long enough, you may also find a song. 

Ten Years Ago

You were born at 7:20 in the morning while a team of silent surgeons stood in the corner of our hospital room, their scalpels sharp and their gloved hands ready to cut you free from me so that you could breathe. I willed you out with every cell of my body and being. It was labor. Then it was bliss. The moment my body carried you to air and then to breast, I felt such relief. The weight of potential sorrow lifted, flew away on the wings of all the angels who had arrived to support us, to save us. Your birth was an ending and a beginning.  

Years later, I learned that you were the invitation for my evolution. 

It's time. Your soul whispered to mine. 

Oh my. This is all so terrifyingly big. Can I do this perfectly? My soul begged. 

Your soul hooted and hollered. HA! Absolutely not! You cannot and will not do this perfectly. And yet, in striving to be exceptional, you will become the person you seek to be. You will NOT be perfect. Neither will I. But the missteps are an earthly requirement. They are the lessons we are here to learn. But don't worry, there will also be plenty of joy and peace. We will take this time to evolve. And this stretching will set us both free. Just like your belly stretched while I slept and swam within you, our souls will stretch and eventually flow and soar.  One day, you will see that motherhood first begins with you. You will learn how to mother yourself with abundant acceptance, patience, and wisdom. You will learn how to find, love, and free your inner child. And in doing so, you will learn how to find, love, and free yourself.      

One

I am the soul 

   divine and eternal

I borrow the body 

   a temporary temple
I am one story 

   within the story of stories
I am one 

   one of the One.