So here we are. With the tension of eons of patriarchy stretched almossssssst as far as it can be stretched…
I used to disappear into Queen Anne’s Lace. She held cuourt in the Queendom of the imagination place.
Every moment we live in, we are our best self and there is always a reachable next…
I miss the sound of the birds singing, right there on the tree outside my window–when I choose instead, to notice the chainsaw farther off in the distance.
I have found time and time again that the angry walls are never fortress enough. They are never quite high or thick enough to disappear behInd.
May we compost the shit in our experience, reap the harvest of the vision in the fertile ground we turn and cook the manifestation in the cauldron of our prayerful attention.
Do we even know what that means?
May our prayers reach all directions even earth and sky