imagine a fire,

a bright, dancing glow. 

its beautiful petals

delight to unfold.

their lips clear a path

with soft, molten kisses.

the power to transform,

igniting forgiveness.

imagine your chest,

pulsing with flames.

alive with love 

as your heart melts its chains.

allow what isn’t yours

to billow away.

ash joins the universe

to become a new day.

watch the fire lick and lap 

at every sore place.

wrap its arms around sadness, 

soothe fear, soften shame.

let its heat meet the edges 

of anger and hate.

sparks fly, as it bleeds 

with their fiery pain.

breathe in fresh air. 

let your lungs fan the flame.

watch it light up each cell, 

free each vessel and vein.

warmth tickles each crevice,

watch how they play.

feel what it feels like

to forge a new way.

I’ve been reflecting on how I dampen my own creative spark - how I inflict the same wounds that were inflicted on me when I expressed myself growing up. Whether through criticism, perfectionism, shame, or invalidation, I’m blocking my life force and hurting my spirit. It adds up. It sits in my heart and strangles my joy. Even when I’m telling others how important it is to support their creativity, and KNOWING IT, later, I still turn around and disrespect my own. WHAT THE FUCK?! This poem is an exploration of that heartbreak, and more importantly, a vow to meet myself differently.

Tender seed 

bursting forth.

My heart 

asking timidly

for permission to fly.

So many times

I’ve taken a hammer

and smashed you to pieces

before someone else could.

Bravely, you healed,

and waited,

beating quietly 

behind the door.

Taking orders

to swallow and ignore 

impulses

pulsing through you.

I can feel the bruised places

where you hid

under my skin

while I shouted,

No. 

Not here, 

not now, 

not like that.

You don’t belong.

But that’s my shame, not yours.

Acting on ancient orders

willed down through DNA.

Be small.

Shut up.

Obey.

I don’t want that anymore.

I want your raging river.

I want you spilling out over the banks,

slamming against rocks,

splashing and playing

with every creature that calls you home.

I love you deep.

I love you shallow.

I love you still, sorrowful, quiet.

I love you strong, willful, thundering.

Whatever

is the truth.

Thank you

for staying alive.

Now is your time.

I will be your biggest fan,

instead of head of the committee

of reasons why not.

I will put you on my shoulders 

instead of standing on your grave.

I will use my legs and hands

to bring us closer.

I will use my tongue and skin

to taste warmth.

I serve your army of love. 

A soldier of delight, 

marching toward wholeness,

jumping with joy,

dancing like a dolphin in your veins,

smiling at you, belly up,

from the inside.

You’re the leader now,

not a pet I let out

once a day to take a shit.

Take your place as Lion,

King of the Wild.

Fiery.

Unchained.

Loud.

Last Monday, I arrived in Mexico. Since then, so much has opened up. I’ve learned new words, met new people, walked down new roads…you know, things you do when you’re in a new place.  But the most profound opening has happened inside me. Thursday, some mild stomach issues suddenly became unbearable cramps, fever and an inability to do anything but lie down and occasionally hobble to the bathroom, for hours. It was brutal. It was gross. It was humbling. And there was nothing I could do. 

Except, I’m a badass witch that can move energy. So as I laid in bed, moaning through waves of pain, I breathed and shook and held different parts of my body, helping it pass whatever was moving through me. 

For the last year, since a mysterious download from the Universe, I’ve been learning from my own body and others’ to figure out how this crazy shit works. Each time, I unlock deeper discoveries and validate wilder hypotheses from my intuition. Being so sick and forced to surrender so hard to “something else,” I got another peek behind the curtain. Consider this poem a recipe.

There’s a splinter in my chest. 

I can feel it. It feels like heartache. 

Old,

and deep. 

I’ve been pressing into it. 

Hard. 

Squeezing the skin and muscles. 

Trying to force it out.

But that doesn’t seem to be the way. 

Okay.

How do you extract a splinter? 

You soak it. You soften the surrounding flesh.

With time, and the right conditions, 

it works itself out.

And so I gently bathe it, 

in warm, soapy love.

I sit patiently beside it and say,

“Take your time. I’m here.”

It aches? I ache with it. 

I place my hand on my back. 

I can feel the muscles start to relax. 

A tear bubbles to the surface.

Do we all carry hardened hearts? 

Bony spines, laid brick by brick

to protect our tenderest parts.

But hardening doesn’t keep us safe 

from the hardness of the world. 

The wound inside remains, 

quivering within its cage. 

I’m reminded every time someone gets close,

or I’m in that certain pose, and my neck hurts. 

But my neck hurts all the time. 

A cold, dull pain I drag from place to place. 

It sits, like a stone. 

Heavy shield

I’m too tired to hold.

Every time I crash, I learn a new way to break. 

A new corridor breathes.

Life flows back

into parts of me I didn’t know were there.

The slower I move, 

the more my bones start to speak.

The cartilage unkinks.

My heart 

wakes up from the inside.

Pumping fresh blood,

a primal hum

shakes itself free.

It doesn’t want to be 

anyone I’ve ever been, 

only who it always was.

Born to swim, 

and dance, and run.

Go where there is life and take it in. 

Wherever you walk, create a path.

Smell flowers, light fires and laugh.

Sit in small, dark rooms with the walls painted blue

and cry.

Most of all, give it time. 

You can’t unfold all at once. 

You’re not a house of cards. 

Your being was built over years and years. 

And the threads of its coding are the oldest fiber. 

You can’t rush open space.

Gold only knows how to whisper.

So listen close,

and wait.