bristle and spit

I’m reflecting on spirals of change. How we evolve, and yet stay so completely the same. Truth grows and sheds its plumage as it pads on its rustling way.

I met a midwife who utterly nailed me to the floor with that sentence.

“You can tell what kind of soul has arrived the second they come into the world. It’s all written all over them, loud and clear”.

I try to write event blurbs and what’s in the way is how much I’m sold to the thrill of mystery : if I’m enchanted, just take me on board, tell me nothing. I’ll find out details in due course.

I’m still adjusting to being out of the little cave of containers where I learnt and loved. Adjusting to a world where people don’t say “erotic” out loud even, like a swear word or a curse, let alone discuss and openly inquire. I am shown a string of Enthusiastic “yes” that quickly become “yes but”, and then later fade into the silence of scuttling feet.

I’m bumping against my intention of opening spaces to foster clarity, in the mind and the experience - and needing to heavily veil them in fake light, to sanitize and dissect and scrutinize.

Pandering to the “this is safe safe safe”, as if it came from me. Safe never comes from me. It comes from you. I detest bowing my knees to that particular charade.

Plenty of growing as I’m rubbed up against things against my nature. Sanitizing. Tiptoeing. The nature of these gifts is anything but.

Hmm. Writing helps. Lets me bristle and spit and rumble and shake it off.

Nurturing patience. Thanks for witnessing.

Photo by Kate