Mountain Home.

August always brings change that blows in on the cold wind of Winter’s last breath, until the wheel turns again. I followed my callings through my bloodline, feeling the quiet insistent whispering to heal the wounds inflicted upon my ancestors, to connect again with those who came before me. I spent weeks bedridden with illnesses, and cut off my hair to invite change into my life and to unweave the old contracts I made with myself to believe that my physical form defined my worth. I grew and grew and grew. - I am nesting in our mountain cottage, like the bowerbirds that visit the huge maple tree in our backyard, I gather precious items around myself, like paint and tea and feathers. I spend my mornings watching the huge clouds fly past in the sky, imagining that the mountains sent them to me as a gift. The currawongs and cockatoos create a cacophony of sound as the old lady next door feeds them every morning, and I watch the rosellas and lorikeets splash around in our bird bath. I lie in the sun naked reading fantasy novels and writing in my journal until my skin is glowing. It snows sometimes and I run outside to twirl around in the flakes that disappear the moment they touch the ground, feeling their icy chill on my cold nose. My love and I make art together and write love notes to find around the house; we make love and we fight and we grow together as we both follow our own callings apart and together. I climb to the tops of the mountains on my own and look at all the trees spread out to the horizon in a vista that leaves me astounded every time. The freezing air on top of the cliff edge cuts through my skin as I laugh at how grateful I feel for these moments. I let go of my grief to leave behind a beautiful wounded family, and know in my heart that they are protected by angels and ancestors. I love and love and love. I am creating and living in silent ritual, of movement, of pain, of growth. I can feel the earth waking up from its Winter sleep, and so my cells do the same. Nesting into this space, I let my soul thrive and my life unfold with ease and grace.

little one of ash and ember.

little one of ash and ember. remember your power. drawn up through layers of earth and decay, through dancing bones, through frost and feather. don't forget. your rage is a boon. it can ignite the flame that will burn through your choker of thorns. made from bramble bushes covered in bleeding berries, the tiny spikes press delicate blades into skin dripping honey. bathe in rose water rivers and press the petals to your heart. the bees know how to make love to the flowers.

-

i seek the mountains, the highlands, the earth that reaches upwards. cold air and clouds that eat the land. i float atop waterfalls that spiral in concentric circles of electric violet light, dropping down into voids of memory and dreaming. the trickling song of the stream dancing on the rocks fills me with primordial memories. i drifted through galaxies of light and spoke in the language of the stars; before i was housed in this cage of bones. the water sprites greet me as a lost sister. we used to dance together before age and humanness made me forget. a tiny water child speaking with the giants of the sea, fearless and knowing. i let the water flow over me; i am ancient unmovable earth and river song flowing to the music of rattling bones and whale calls. i close my eyes and surrender. remember, little one.—

Of forest fires & blood.

I trace my tongue across my cracked lips, like the earthen floor opening up in lightening bolt lines, sucking all the water down into the depths. I taste blood; always blood in my mouth. Copper. Ruby droplets. Rivulets of my heart. Your face above mine, etching your lines into my skin. Dragon eyes and dilated pupils catching flickers of fluorescent light. I claw over freckles and scars and memories, skin that catches fire like mine, hands that give. I don't ever want to forget your eyes. — I am a forest fire inside flesh that stretches and aches and carries me through my manic mind. A rage to burn cities. A rage to burn it all down. A frustration that is tempered with pain and paint. There is only one letter difference. — I cry myself to sleep, silent sobs wracking my body, curling inwards, holding onto soft cotton as if it can transform into another human being to help quiet my mind. I remind myself that this is what I asked for, this is part of healing, of grieving, of letting go. To learn how to be my own person. To not rely on others for security. I fall asleep in my tears and dream of the smell of salt water, of mist rising over a tiny town by the ocean in the early hours of the morning. I walk down silent streets that feel asleep and peaceful. My feet are cold in the sand and the beach is dark and empty, stretching into the night. The ocean sings its forever song, of ebb and flow, push and pull, receiving and letting go. I sit on a rock above it all and breathe in the scent of the sea, allowing it to teach me how to be. Part memory, part longing.