I am paradox embodied,
formed out of the most beautiful nothing.
My body is made of sap and songs, red earth, musk, and morning light. My mind is a flaming windflower. My soul: the sky.
I have seen clouds in the sea.
Tossed on the potter’s wheel, I am supple and shriveled, resistant, surrendered, forever destroyed and re-made. I know blossoms born of burning, and I also know rain.
I am the dawn, dreaming and determined, a young girl and quiet crone. I am melting snow—ruby-eyed and terrified—awed by my own mystery, and yours.
I am the story of a slow burning star.
My yearning is rebellion, my pleasure unmoored.
I am the wound and the medicine, protestor and protested—bound and ever-free. Beneath the painted masks of personality, I am consort of eternity.
Loved and rejected, respected, subjected, praised, and put down—
when all of this fades, I am what remains.
Who writes these words?
Who thinks these thoughts?
Woman of tides and bones, her full potential still unknown.
I HAVE BEEN A SEEKER AND I STILL AM,
BUT I STOPPED ASKING THE BOOKS AND THE STARS.
I STARTED LISTENING TO THE TEACHING OF MY SOUL.