Category Archives: mother earth

Sacred Longing



In the wee hours of the morning, we rise.

the time when our dreamtime sleep is pierced with the wounds of the past.

we startle awake, frantically searching

          our surroundings for safety,

          our bodies for breath,

         our minds for unity of our many selves shattered at the hands of our violators,

         our gods and goddesses for harmony within our spirit.

One by one, we stumble into the darkness, leaving the places where our bodies reside but our spirits restlessly search.

The old woman, long ago widowed, crawls from her warm bed where she sleeps alone.

The new mother stands from the chair where she’s been rocking her infant for hours.  

The young father checks his slumbering children before creeping out of the door.

The maiden whispers goodbye to her lover in his sleep.

The aching isolation of our souls prompt each of us to emerge from our earthly dwellings looking for that place beyond ourselves

for our tribe

our kindred connection

our family.

Once outside, we stand in the darkness, drinking in its moist feminine energy,

simultaneously fearing the danger darkness can bring yet slowly stepping into it.

For we sense a beckoning, a sacred longing that begins to ease our fears.   

The clouds part as a path is illuminated by Grandmother Moon for safe and easy travel.

The faint distant rhythm of a drum synchronizes with our own heartbeat.

A far away glow beckons us where a fire already tended crackles warmly.

And we descend upon it.

In that fire circle we sit, bathed in the moonlight, faces illuminated by the brilliance of the embers and we glow.

We greet each other by simply looking.

And it is there we truly begin to see.

Our tribe, made of many wounded souls.  

Some faces empty, devoid of emotion. staring.

Some young with wide frightened eyes.

Some wrinkled, filled with years of despair and longing.

Some with eyes closed, deep in thought.

One cradles her baby to her breast and while he nurses, she weeps softly.

One pokes and tends the fire, focuses on his task, never looking up.

One screams at the moon until wordless and spent, sinking to the ground.

One rocks a sobbing adolescent sprawled awkwardly across her lap.

One lurches out of the circle, purging and retching from her deepest parts.

The elderly crone stretches her crooked legs out in front of her and softly begins to sing.

Some reach out for another’s hand,

some stare at the fire,

some sway to the song of the crone.

In the night, we join each other.

Bonded by our wounds and the desire to transcend them.

In the night, we hold space for each other, knowing each of our paths differ as much as the pace that we travel them.  

The wise crone stands, reaches deep into her medicine pouch that sways from her middle and tosses white sage onto the hot stones and we witness the hissing smoke that arises.  

Young and old, we hush in unison, casting our prayers onto the smoke that travels to the heavens.  

The owl who guards us from the trees above, gives a guttural hoot in support of our ceremonial gesture.

white owl


The crone continues around the circle toward the young woman who nurses her baby, still quietly weeping.  

She stands behind her, gently places her gnarled hands into her long, thick hair,

stroking and raking,

stroking and raking.

The young one’s body relaxes and responds with gratitude, leans into her as the crone weaves magic into her hair.





she is lost again.

and i’m the only one she can speak through.  i am her voice and her vessel.  i carry her and speak for her.

hurled into the swirling spiral by the Dreamtime, no earthly choice just the mystical presence that puts her in that place between worlds.

the animals were there again: bear, turtle, owl, wolf, skunk.  each bringing a forceful message of  PAY ATTENTION! to the signs we give you.

she frantically hurled herself through the streets of this in-between world, trying to speak to strangers but her words weren’t understood, her language was foreign to each passerby, she couldn’t hear them either no matter how hard she concentrated and tried, though their mouths moved, the roaring in her head didn’t let their sound in.

the bear appeared growling, reared up on its hind legs and she quickly changed her path.

the skunk met her at another intersection to quickly alert her of its reputation and she turned and fled again.

she flopped in a grassy spot under a tree to rest, to find herself, wanting the path toward home. she felt her body relax until the wolf’s howl pierced the night and snapped her back into alertness.  PAY ATTENTION!

next to her she sees the spotted arc of turtle’s back and reached for her.  to her horror, the turtle shell cracked in half revealing the soft underbelly of the creature inside.  the girl knew instantly that she hadn’t been protecting herself.  she wept for her and blessed the turtle for its gift, sending her home to the Mother.

the cracked shell…a message…from the in-between….PAY ATTENTION!

leaning against the tree, she closed her eyes and was transported to the sacred spiral again. this time landing on a beautiful, gilded carousel.  eyes wide shut, she feels the hard, unyielding exterior that she had wrapped her small arms around.  she feels its slow, mechanical bobbing, resting her head upon its plastic mane willing herself to open her eyes.

finding courage to peer out through the spinning of the carousel, she spotted familiar faces in the surrounding crowd .  her sister, her mother, her husband and daughter.  each of them slightly turned so as to not meet her eyes, almost with their back to her.  they know her but wish they didn’t. they don’t like her when she’s in-between worlds.

spinning. swirling. bobbing.

then…all noise stopped in her head. silence. purposeful quiet. so the sounds coming through can be heard clearly and distinctly.

first a faint groan, followed by the slightest pop.  then picking up speed, the cascade of




the tree that stands alone in the forest, heavy with age and stress, fulfilling its time and finally surrendering to gravity.  the crescendo ending in a deafening thud as it has just split itself in half.


she snaps back again. back to the carousel.

under her she feels the surface turn warm and pliable. energy radiating, coming to life.



snorting horse breaks the shackles around its legs and she grabs on tight.  unsteady at first, she synchronizes to its rhythm.

fear turns to joy.  heartbreak falls away. 

she feels the wind on her face as horse gallops her through the people, through the fields, to the ocean.

free. alive. wild. joy.

leaving all the people behind, leaving the in-between, she doesn’t look back.

straddling two worlds

I always intend for these posts to be of  value to the person who finds themselves drawn to them.   Most often my target audience, as in the people that I envision when I sit down to write, are women.  More specific than that, they are women who are sexual abuse and incest survivors.  I want them to find me and glean anything from my writing to help them make sense of the swirling crazy world that they are probably living in.

I’m not sure that my writing is fit for the general masses and I’m fairly certain that it fails to grab the attention of the mainstream.  But I’m still going to put it out there.  I know in my heart there are those so lost and frightened by the trauma of their past that I pray they find these writings along with other sources of help they need.

I want to share with them that transitioning from day to night is the toughest for me.  As the day fades into dusk, panic sets in.  It is the time that I have to hold on extra tight not to lose myself as I prepare for the dark to come.  Night is when the unconscious comes out to play and dances around with all those memories. Night is also the time when, agitated and angry, she cracks me open and swallows me whole. Speaking in symbols and metaphors, she often stays present in my mind long after I have woken up and started my day.  The line blurs between the two worlds until I feel as if I’m straddling two dimensions at once.

This has to be how many survivors feel.  We’ve been dissected into so many parts and are so out of touch with our bodies that we float around with wispy images from our dreams never quite having our feet touch the ground.  Its up to us to assemble the pieces and break the cryptic code that will set us free.  Our disassociated parts try to integrate through any means it can find and often use the unconscious as its playground.  I’m sure its why  many of us are drawn to the arts and nature as one means of healing.  Whether its through music or gardening, it is there that we make a connection that grounds us, helps us connect the fragmented pieces.

Throughout this journey, I have come across many tools and resources to heal.  I want the survivors to know even though we occupy an odd, scratched out corner of the everyday world, feeling invisible and vulnerable, there is always hope.  With the darkness comes a rare opportunity to go inside until we understand and embrace our true selves.  It is then that we can emerge an entirely new and whole being.

So for this moment, I sit with the images from the dreams of last night.  Warm images of my mother and my beloved owl Athena are present as I simultaneously recall the struggle through a maze of darkened streets, looking for a way out of something that I’m still not sure of.  The same theme presents itself again.  It tugs and nudges me to continue to unravel the story which may be repeated until I fully grasp the meaning.  I force myself to be patient and loving with the process and hope that others are doing the same for themselves.

girl. cat. wolf

girl.  cat.  wolf

i sit here listening to the thunder and knowing that a huge storm is on its way.  of course i already knew this by the way i felt last night.  the weather girl, she who comes out to play during the storms, alerted me.  she is dark and stormy, noisy and tumbling.  most people don’t like her but she has her place and definite worth.  she is change, she is movement, she rocks your otherwise mundane existence to take a look around you, to take inventory.  she makes you hold onto what’s important so it doesn’t get blown away.

she carries some of the same personality traits as Aldonza the whore.   Aldonza, is curt, to the point, she knows she’s a whore and doesn’t play games with that knowledge.  husband doesn’t like her because he can’t look at anything that dark, she scares him, her truth scares him. he wants to argue with her, tell her she’s really Dulcinea but she doesn’t believe him or have time for that nonsense. she is a whore, men come to her, show her attention, make her the most important thing, woo her for sex.  then they discard her, ignore her, hate and despise her when she shows needs or has any characteristics of a person and not an object.  husband hates her and discards her not because she’s a whore but because she’s too strong.  she had to become strong to survive, it was the only way. either that or die and she refused to die.  she is me and i am her.  she is so innately resilient that it is impossible for her to die.  girl cat wolf–she who howls with nine lives.  the one who can’t be killed.

i love her, i find her exciting, passionate, fascinating.  she fights for recognition, she keeps the issue alive, so alive that it can’t be ignored, alive until the issue of  molestation is acknowledged and ultimately stopped.  that is the whole reason for her existence is to stop the cycle of abuse and it did stop with her.  her daughter lives a life absent from abuse.  not void entirely of rough spots because healing from this is bumpy, very bumpy at times.  but no one has touched my daughter as a child without knowing that i would kill them and i mean that figuratively and realistically.  i would kill anyone who harmed her like i was harmed.

stormy girl pauses to catch her breath.  dogs are uneasy, men look around wondering what she will do and when she will do it.  they know she’s out there, her feminine energy waiting, spinning, calculating the right moment to pick up speed again.  they have no choice but to plant their objects and feet firmly and wait.  stormy girl needs a goddess name. one that tells of her life where she spends part of her year above and part below.  she is the underworld and rises in the spring to plant narcissus and please the mother earth Gaia.  she is beautiful and adaptable.  she can weave in and out of many situations using her keen instincts of intuition and survival.  you can’t be rid of her, she will outsmart you because she has the power of the animals on her side.  she is smart like a fox, has the stamina of the elk, the insight of the owl, the patience of the ant.  like skunk her reputation precedes her and you know you will be sorry if you cross her path.  for many years she’s played dead, like possum, only to find the correct time to rise and be heard.  as she takes a deep, deep breath and casts her eyes toward father sky, letting out a piercing howl that says i am here, i am going nowhere, i belong here, this is my air, my land, my world and my spirit belongs here.  i am taking back my place, making it mine by taking my rightful place as she wolf, leader, gentle teacher, activist, informer, i am home and my spirit is happy.

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