• Depression,  Feminist,  Musings,  Patriarchy,  ShadowWork,  Story Medicine,  Underworld Work,  Wounds of the Feminine

    PRAY WITH YOUR BODY AND YOU WILL FIND HER

    Sinking onto the floor in a puddle of child’s pose, I take a deep and sad breath in as I begin to move, to conjure up the something that has been missing in my life. My body moves in a sensual yogic dance… I WORSHIP I DANCE I PRAY I AM THE ECSTASY OF A SIMPLE SWAY And as I breathe in, I AM THE BLISS OF THE FIRST BREATH OF DAY.  Lighting a candle and setting sacred space I begin to feel them entering the room one at a time.  I call to my primal ancestors, my highest spirit guides, the energy of SHE, the Magdalene and the Christ…

  • Anxiety,  Patriarchy,  ShadowWork,  Story Medicine,  Wounds of the Feminine

    The Anxiety of Being Stalked

    A large pawed tiger was stalking my back today and I felt like a white pelted snow rabbit frozen in fear, wide blue eyes staring wildly out with my back turned to the wall.  It’s a feeling that I experience frequently like while walking in the park, I take with me my large Labrador on his protective prowl, and I still glance nervously over my shoulder often as if the large pawed tiger is going to leap from the trees at any moment and drag me off into the woods.  In my twenties I had recurrent dreams of being stalked by a man in a black coat whose face I…

  • Introspection,  Story Medicine,  Wheel Of Year

    The Inbetwixt Fairy

    Snowflakes are falling outside in a blissful little dance of winter’s refusal to cease and move on.  The trees are lined with ice that looks like glass, and I’ve become a fairy stuck somewhere in between.  I should go out into the biting cold and use the glass covered trees as scrying mirrors to see what future the spring will bring, but I am feeling stuck somewhere inside.  I too am refusing to let that slumbering hibernation den go, and I have begun fluttering around in my winter abode as I start to feel the shifting mania setting in.  The switch below has been flipped to harken in the change…

  • 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…