• Contributory Writer,  Lady Mayhem,  Moon Medicine

    The Touch of a Woman

    I remember the touch of a woman; it still haunts me to this day. The simple caress of her ferocity lit me through my soul. How could I forget? Just a graze of her fingertips across my skin seared me to my deep feminine bones, imprinting her dark heroine blueprint through my maiden flesh. With each breath, each glance, and every eye contact I could feel my energetic well surging and filling. Her raging vocal tore into my soul, revealing a power source deep in my pelvic bowl. Such sensual sovereignty, such a capacity for passion… a world I never knew existed. Women are powerful in ways I couldn’t even…

  • Anxiety,  Contributory Writer,  Depression,  Introspection,  Samantha McDevitt

    Tools For Rewiring Your Mind

    DISCLAIMER ABOUT THE REALITY OF THE BLOG YOU ARE ABOUT TO READ In all honesty I’ve been inspired. I have been on an unsustainable high. I have had this blog pulled up on my computer for at least ten days. I feel like I have something to share finally – something to give – at last.  I feel mentally healthy enough to offer something to the world that I hope will be of use. It is possible I have had this in me for a year, but this is more consistent than other years, more content than I’ve felt before… and then Friday (yesterday) happened and I couldn’t find an…

  • Contributory Writer,  Introspection,  Lady Mayhem,  ShadowWork

    The Book of Madness

    The Book of Madness Before me lays a black book upon a bed of feathers, dark red stains lay upon its pages, watery drops that have come from me. A silver candle is lit to the right of it and the winds of sage ruffles its pages as it blows across from the left. A sight that makes my heart falter and my barriers drop, this is where my whole soul comes forth, this is where I do my work, my gravest work, my hardest work. Black candles await upon a silver holder engraved with spirals; with one pull of a lighter, they are ablaze. The fire flickers, making shadows…

  • Contributory Writer,  Feminist,  Lady Mayhem,  Patriarchy

    I KNOW YOUR HEART

    I Know Your Heart Yes, sister. I see you watching me, I know your heart stirs as I rub dark earthly mud across my nipples, along my cheek bones and down the lines of my stomach. I know your mouth waters as I swing my hips ecstatically through the tall grass. I know you long to have feathers dangle from your ears, lace stockings whisper up your legs, and a stone crown upon your head, as I do. I see you sister. I’m an earth queen and you wish to be beside me. My heart goes out to you, for I know that you have been kept quiet due to…

  • A.M.S.,  Introspection,  Musings

    Get Yourself a Muse or Three

    “No artist is pleased. There is no satisfaction whatever at any time. There is only a queer divine dissatisfaction, a blessed unrest that keeps us marching and makes us more alive than the others.” -Martha Graham When “woe is me-ing” to one of my mentors over something I had created, she told me of this quote and suggested I find myself an Artistic Muse. She explained that we are so harsh in our own judgement that we shut things down without sharing them with the world even though the world may need them. Our own criticism can kill our gifts. My Artistic Muses are pretty fabulous weapons for tweaking and…

  • A.M.S.,  Introspection,  Musings

    The Voices In My Head

    I wrote this whole thing and the negative voices in my head are asking that I go back to the beginning and type a disclaimer about this not being the type of thing I usually write about. My self doubt wants you to know I’m having self doubt around writing about self doubt. Now that we got that out of the way… I watched a Facebook Live video this morning of a father wondering where his 13 year old’s self doubt comes from. Where all of our self doubt and negative self talk comes from. He said we aren’t born with self doubt, so at what point is it planted…

  • A.M.S.,  Introspection,  Story Medicine

    These Hands

    I look at these scarred, cold, not-as-young-as they-used-to-be hands and I somehow feel betrayed by their now ever-present pain but at the same time, not in the least bit surprised as I know their story more intimately than I know any other story. These are the hands of a backwoods little girl who dug for worms, typed imaginary letters on a broken electric typewriter in her clubhouse, built Hawaii out of moss and candles at the base of a tree in her grandmother’s yard. These hands also built The House of Usher in her sandbox and got in trouble for having a real grass lawn around it. Thanks, Edgar Allen…