Everyone has their own kind of dignity. Sacred and profane on the same block, in the same museum, in the eyes of the same people. And we're all the same people - in the eyes.
Just like that, grace sweeps us onward. Swift and complete.
Pluto, I am at home in your depths, born of your mystery.
Spring dawns in my heart from your dark medicine, making the soil rich and pure.
Though I don't know it yet, flowers will bloom here and make gardens of me.
Angels, be my breath as I locate my heart.
Spilling all the joy-filled moments to make room for more.
The extraction feels unkind and filled with compassion all at once.
There is bounty where I am headed now.
My compass has pointed me there.
There is a right next place.
...This. This long, relentless now that insist upon the death of my hope for the familiarity of the light, ensuring I do not mistake a synthetic source for the real thing.
Stars and chandeliers hang from her ears. We try to find clean water. The way ahead was skewed by circumstance and interference.
Remember the beauty in the ground. She is calling you to get dirty again, chandeliers and all.
Eternal winter in the underbelly of grief. What to say?
But plenty to feel.
Uncovered, raw, wandering in the wilderness of unclean thoughts and abbreviations of the Soul, lived out in a body.
Somehow, some way, under grace - Love will hit the mark.
I know it will change me to walk again.
Negotiating fiercely with the unknown, I cannot permit death to take me this way. Instead, I open the animal of doubt inside this crunchy rib cage so I can smell my own blood and feel the pulse of my heart beat that connects me to all living things.
I whisper gentle breath into the new day to get acquainted, until at last the bellows, with fierce and easy determination blow with direction - a kind of focus that deters distractions and collects all necessary elements toward the intended goal.