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A Holy Wild Woman Rebellion

Tuesday, May 24, 2016

From the beginning of this space I described myself as a “holy wild woman” whose purpose is to “Heal, Nurture, Illuminate.” This is who I am and what I do. It is the intricate ballet of being and doing.

But it has taken a lifetime to reach a space where I can unreservedly embrace both together.  I spent so many formative years “doing” my way to love. I earned my “right” to exist through my actions—sacrifice, hard work, service, an utter giving away of my Self. A young version of me learned that approval, appreciation, acceptance and good will were the rewards of things I did to earn them.

Healing my old way of thinking meant I had to rebel—a holy wild woman rebellion. I had to stop the work. Stop the doing. Do the opposite, actually ... allow myself to “just be.” This terrified me because surely I didn't deserve love or acceptance now! The inner critic rushed to call me lazy and selfish—and that was on a good day. Allowing myself an extended season of rest + waking up to the truth that I am loved as I am, not because if what I do, was a luxury I felt I did not deserve and could not afford. 

The hunger for love takes many forms. For years it manifested through me as codependence. Now I recognize it as a form of disbelief ... I did not believe I was lovable as-is. Who would love this? <Insert all manner of what I considered disgusting and repulsive.> I grew up with strong faith and yet even my faith could not hold up beneath the tenderness of a young girl aching to be loved. A young girl who felt faceless and unmemorable in a sea of others—just one of the kids, one anonymous face in a crowd, one soul in a million souls. How could I be loved when there are so many other children? So many other women? Who am I? How could there be enough love to go around? And yet I did not want to be loved at the expense of others—I did not want others to be any less loved. Unconsciously I told myself, then I will sacrifice. I will be less-loved so that others can be loved. I will give love. I will love and love and love. 

And I loved so much my heart broke. I loved intensely the way I wanted to be loved. I showed it through service, devotion, words, presence. I deeply wanted to prove my love—and underneath it, not even really known to me—my lovability. 

I remember one evening in January, years ago, standing on my balcony alone with tears on my face. The stars glimmered sweet and the wind whispered soft poems to my skin. I looked at the stars and suddenly realized that I was looking at them with my own eyes for no other reason than so that I could see them. For myself. I could see them, and I didn't need to give this seeing to anyone else. In that moment, all this beauty was for me.

I remember touching my eyes and in those moments, illumination burst through my entire being.

In a lifetime of “doing” where I learned that it was holy to work hard, sacrifice, and give my Self completely away, I also learned that nothing belonged to me. I had no right to good things or beauty. If I had anything good, it was mine to share with others and to sacrifice. Nothing felt sacred in the sense that it was private, with protective boundaries, worthy of holding close and treasuring and keeping. 

And yet I stood looking at the stars, with my very own eyes, eyes that were given to me for my own pleasure. And I got to keep them. I had something beautiful to keep for my very own.

And suddenly I realized: this is love.

It felt like a thrilling secret. I have eyes and this person over here has eyes and we both get to see and my seeing doesn't take away from theirs, and theirs doesn't take away from mine. 

And I began to see all the things that are mine that I get to keep: my soul. My breath. My eyes. Feeling the soft night air on my skin. The way my heart beats with joyful, gentle rhythms. Gifts. Just for me. I did nothing to earn them. They just Are, and I just Am. 

It was here that I began to finally grasp the mystery of grace and the divine love of God. It was here I sank into permission to stop doing. Finally, to give myself to a season of rest and learning what it means to Be. To heal my work—to dismantle what I believed about work and sacrifice, selfishness and doing. To examine why I did things and revamp my intentions and beliefs. 

To “undo.”

It was my season of Undoing. After a lifetime of the opposite, rebellion became the only way I could move forward. I had to deliberately not do the things I normally did in order to unravel the tightly bound threads that locked up my heart. Over time, she began to stretch out, timidly peek out from her cave. Honestly? This season took years. Years of gradually gaining strength. Years of healing the old ways and beliefs. Years of trusting that it's not all some kind of joke and that any moment I will wake up to find that I'm completely wrong and there's no love for me and that God is insidiously laughing (or sad) at how deceived I am. That it's too good to be true that God is this good, that love is this abundant, that beauty is this lush.

Now I'm ready to embrace doing again. But for the right reasons this time, secure in the truth that I'm worthy and loved and accepted for who I am, period. End of story. I have nothing to prove. In this space I get to come even more alive! I can ask myself what do I want? and move forward rejoicing. I can work from a pure heart not holding my breath waiting for my work to be rejected or approved along with myself. I can give freely because I know I am enough. I can serve because my service does not ask others to hold the weight of my need. 

A few months ago I told my friend Janae that I realized I was giving out of my lack—that I already had nothing, and was giving and giving from that space of nothing which was leaving me even more depleted than before. And I said to her, now it is time to give from my overflow. From my abundance. And when one is that depleted, it can take time for the well to fill. But I must fill my well in order to have something to give. And when I do, it will be that much more rich and nourishing because it comes from a deep, sweet, rippling well rather than tiny drops scraped off the rocks of my dark desert cave walls. 

So here is permission for both of us, love—let's fill our wells. Let's bring ourselves to the eternal river of divine love that is always lush and here for us to drink from so deeply, filling our chalices and buckets and clay mugs and tea cups and bathtubs until our entire lives are drenched and overflowing. Let us bring our beings to our doings and hold out our arms to tenderness. Let us give from the abundance that we are and nourish the whole earth with our presence and gifts and the light of the Eternal within. Let us love from the exuberant verdant garden of love that bursts within, vines ripe and heavy with flower and fruit. And may we always know that we are beloved from the depth of our cells to the vast fields of our souls and that there is nothing that can separate us from this love.

Paradox as Redemption

Monday, April 18, 2016

“My heart must open to the cosmos with no language unless we invent it moment by moment in order to breathe.”—Jim Harrison, In Search of Small Gods

“All saying must be balanced by unsaying, and knowing must be humbled by unknowing,” Richard Rohr tells me. I'm folded into the corner of the World Religion section at my local Half Price Bookstore reading his book The Naked Now. Shelves marked Islam, Hindu, Buddhism tower above me, overflowing with teaching and philosophy. But the three humble rows called mystic grip me. I can't turn away. I’ve gathered an armload of promising texts and Rohr is on top of my pile. He goes on, “Without this balance, religion invariably becomes arrogant, exclusionary, and even violent. All light must be informed by darkness, and all success by suffering.” 

The words press to my heart. I scan through the pages ahead and my spirit sighs yes. This book is coming home with me. Because what Rohr said about imbalanced religion which can become arrogant, exclusionary, even violent? Those words resonate. I've seen how true it can be. And as I explore my own ways of faith I don't want to end up doing the same to others.


“Maybe there are more Rohr books here?” My voice is hopeful. I'm with my friend and we eye the shelves. I've gathered a few more books for my “keep” pile. She disappears, returns a bit later. “Now you know I love you,” she says, laughing. But I hear a barely discernible edge in the salience of her words. “I even looked through the Christian section for you.” 

The significance is not lost on me. It's where we used to lurk all the time—in the Christian sections of bookstores, neatly cloistered between shoulds and shame. We were the ones you'd see at Barnes and Noble and Starbucks, bibles and notebooks spread over the table, talking boldly about doctrine and theology. 

We inhaled purpose and passion. We knew the language and used it well. 

Now the words stick in my throat, just sitting there. I can't swallow them. They feel superglued to my lungs. I want to scrape them off, breathe fresh air. It's why I sound guttural, hoarse. It's the words and the thrashing and the scraping.


I try to explain what it's like, my experience within arrogant and exclusionary and violent religion. “We're not all like that,” western evangelicalism defends, and depending on who is speaking there's a soft plea or a brusque dismissal of all my stories. Yet I know it is true—they're not all like that. Just as I know it's true that I go running when shoulds and shame come hunting for me. 

More often now, though, I'm found pressed between the earnest desire to offer grace and compassion to the same world I run from and the aching inability to be in that world very long. Invariably my heart begins to pound, my head spins, and that lurching in my tummy promises a bigger mess than I've bargained for. But for me it's the language of westernized religion ... the words. They feel tired and drab and old. 

My heart stirs.

Why do you look for the living among the dead?  

Why indeed? There is no life in this language for me. 


There's a saying that goes something like, “People fear most what they don't understand.” If my journey doesn't fit into a neatly-ordered box (strangely in the shape of my body, and body-shaped boxes are most often meant to put in the ground) according to the perceptions of others, then I am demonized. I am the villain in my own currently-unfolding story. The enemy. I become reduced to a label, something sticky and small and dismissive. 

I've been thinking about labels lately. Labels are boxes of their own. They stop the discovery process. “Oh, he's Baptist,” we might say of someone, and instantly have visions of cushy pews and hymnbooks and choir-robes. We already know what he believes and don't need to bother hearing his heart. Perhaps we stiffen a little if we don't agree with Baptist theology. But not to worry; he is invisible now. 

I think of my own embrace of the term mystic, a word I use because I'm still finding the one which fits best, and how there's still a part of me that wants to defend, too. We're not all like that. Whatever horrible thing THAT is today in the mind of those who are afraid. And I realize I'm doing the same thing I denounce: adding my own reinforcements to the wall in between. Us versus them. Because I know the lament that harshness brings. I know the agony of words. She's rebellious. Backslidden. A witch. Pray for her. She's a bad influence. She's a deceiver. She leads people astray. She promotes witchcraft. She's against God.

I've heard them all, these loaded words. Words rooted in fear. People fear most what they don't understand. Even the Christ divine was called a devil by religious folk. 


I wonder how often I dehumanized others in the vulnerable midst of their own journey. Maybe I tossed around labels as easily as tossing back my hair. Maybe that lost / angry / confused / irritating / inauthentic / trying-too-hard / judgmental / graceless soul simply longs to be seen. Needs a tender kiss from life. A breath of fresh air. A gentle squeeze, a whispered reminder that you are loved.  To know that even at their most vulnerable they are somehow also the most worthy.

Because there's so much I don't know about other soul-journeys; so much I don't need to know. I certainly don't need to tell anyone how to live. This journey is more intimate than anything—sex, poetry, touch. They will be found in their own time. Loved. This is the only label we need. 


“Stop writing what is beautiful. Write what is true.”

So said my wild and wise friend as we spoke in a long-overdue phone conversation. I was caught in a season of words that didn't feel rooted or real and I wanted to stop writing forever. As a sister writer, she felt safe. She would get it, and so I spilled my messy truth: I couldn't write; I hated it, in fact, and I wanted to delete all my blogs, burn my notebooks and never wrestle with language again. “I'm not a writer anymore,” I declared. Later I wrote, I’m not one who can sit down and pump out a week's supply of posts in an afternoon. I’m in awe of those who can, who offer fresh content like clockwork. Many times it takes all day for one moderately-sized post and by the end I am exhausted. It’s worth it, because words are my life, but it’s a true labor made of desire and love. By the end I might as well be collapsed limp and soaking wet on the floor. Today I decided I’m done. I’m not a writer anymore. This fight is ridiculous. I am angry, I am sad, I am desperate. I am bursting at the seams with no words left. It’s not writer’s block I’m talking about. It is having everything to say and opening my mouth to silence. It is waking up in a foreign land and not speaking the native tongue. It is stuttering syllables and frustrated sighs. I make sense to no one. I’m trying too hard. I’m done. I don’t want to be a writer anymore. I just want to be me. I want to tell stories and live true and embody love. I want to stand here in my soulskin while my eyes flash fire.

“I believed that I wanted to be a poet, but deep down I just wanted to be a poem.” 

― Jaime Gil de Biedma

Beauty truth

My friend and I both love beauty like we're starved for it. We want to ravish and be ravished by a beautiful life. I don't know when or how I lose my way, when I begin substituting an air-brushed kind of beautiful that smiles on paper with pearly white teeth, sparkly eyes, and perfect skin. I do this with words and art. I write what feels safe because it's soothing and meditative and uses syllables I love. Maybe I think it's expected of me. That I have some image to uphold, a “should” to follow.

But real beauty is the ragged coastline which withstands centuries of pounding waves and angry storms. Real beauty is found in the folds of my skin that carries the weight of my stories, all my embodied language, etched with the expansion of all the worlds I hold. Real beauty is in the staccato of halting half-sentences: because life. Takes my words. Leaves me lonely. It's either too sacred or too grief-stricken. No language for it; just feelings. Just living it out. Breath by breath. 

Truthful wild beauty is found in the salty, wet, body-wracking sobs which speak a language of their own—as I weep in a dark theater over Interstellar for the first and second time, or when I reveal how lonely I am because the sacred communion I've found with kindreds across the land is missing in my city. Or when I ache wondering why some people just ... leave. Was it you? Was it me? Or when I admit how irritated I can get, which is definitely not very enlightened or loving. Or how normal (read: borrrrrrring) I am. Or how I struggle with the trinity of debt and weight and clutter.

“I want to enter my life. Be here now. 
But the how (and the howl) of this always begins in the dark.” 
Into the Dark Night

Truth is uncomfortable. It feels like nervously-shuffling feet, shifting in your chair, a cleared throat, looking away—as if not staring directly at pain eases some of it. It's nicer and easier to write beautiful things, to inspire and bring a smile through an encouraging, happy paragraph or two. To hold the world at arm's length; to hold myself behind a protective veil and a walled garden. To cover up the messy parts which are more intimate than the beautiful ones.

When I speak of my life purpose I often say that it is to cultivate beauty. To move and be moved through something so sacred and soul-stirring that the body bears witness through a constellation of goosebumps, a deep exhale, or an unexpected salty tear. That the spirit is moved to keep her flames alive, desirous, free and dancing. That the soul, the strong eternal soul, is reminded of her Home.
And yet, so often I am lured by a different sort of beautiful which leaves me malnourished, hungry, depleted, and starved. These words are my truth and declaration: I must see to mySelf. To my Soul. Here I am, gathering my dark and my light, seeking new ways of living in my home, in my body, in my being and becoming.

Before we got off the phone, my friend left me with one more nugget. She said, “I realized I was avoiding my truth by writing other things, beautiful things.” 

And I exhaled with the quintessential recognition that bonds us together in our shared human experience and the comfort of tenderly being seen: me too.

I have to believe that somewhere within the ugly cry, the wild truth, the chaos and the calm, the heartache and the miracle, and the sacred mundane of everything lies holy alchemy. The Sufi poet Rumi wrote, “The cure for pain is in the pain.” A universal truth declares, “The only way out is through.” Perhaps the way of paradox is the way of redemption. Spirit and flesh. Human and divine. The known unknown. Full of empty. 

As I tenderly gather my words and create new ways of expressing my language, my embodied spirituality, and my embrace of the Divine, I marvel at how empty ground becomes a place seeds can thrust their tender roots into. And this requires a halting sort of faith that feels uncomfortably blind, at least for a conventional sort of sight. But one thing I do know: there are many ways to see.


How to Wash the Dishes

Saturday, April 9, 2016

I went to get my oil changed today. The guys at the Kwik Kar always push hard to sell me more: my brakes need to be replaced, my coolant is leaking, my inspection is due and my check engine light is on.

The sad part is, all of it is true. “I'm sorry; I just can't today,” I said as I paid my bill.

Tears are close to the surface these days as I embody the rhythms of my life. I feel the both-and so clearly: glorious, spring-scented mornings give way to almost-too-warm languid afternoons. I am custom-blending anointing oils with poetry and adoring the co-creation process. I've been exploring new-to-me spices in Indian cooking and I am enraptured by the fragrance on my hands when I dust Kesoori Methi over cardamom rice & malai curry. Life is beautiful and good.

And: I'm behind on my taxes & walking through some intense, personal challenges. Questions outweigh answers. Someone I love is not doing well. My heart speeds up & reminds me to pause. Breathe. Still. Tough decisions need making and I'm holding off as long as I can. So much is unknown. My inspection is due and my check engine light is on ... a perfect parallel to life.

“This is my living faith, an active faith, a faith of verbs: to question, explore, experiment, experience, walk, run, dance, play, eat, love, learn, dare, taste, touch, smell, listen, speak, write, read, draw, provoke, emote, scream, sin, repent, cry, kneel, pray, bow, rise, stand, look, laugh, cajole, create, confront, confound, walk back, walk forward, circle, hide, and seek.”
—Terry Tempest Williams, Leap

Living is made up by rhythms, like drumbeats, like heartbeats, like keeping time in the earth with feet made of clay and bone. Like the tide rushing in and leaving kelp and seaweed and debris and beautiful shells and pearls and lots of smelly ocean things on the shore. To say yes to life is to say yes to it all, and here I am with tears on my cheeks whispering yes yes yes.

Yes is my dark faith.

Yes is the answer to both-and.

And this new moon I am dwelling in the living paradox of dark faith. Here, the undulant rhythms of all I know sway alongside all of the unknown. I release and receive: rhythm. I answer and ask: rhythm. I resist and allow: rhythm. I surrender and fight: rhythm. There is laughter and lament, heartache and hope, hunger and fulness, stark barren ground and staggering beauty. And all of it belongs. All of it is love.

So here's to the ones well-acquainted with the hard and the holy:

How to Wash the Dishes

How to Wash the Dishes by Hillary Rain
by Hillary Rain

Go to Trader Joe's and buy some daffodils. They are pure, sweet yellow spring wrapped in a bundle for a dollar forty-nine. Put them in a jar above your sink before you wash dishes tonight. Light a candle, that special one you save because it reminds you of her. Mix some lavender flowers into your evening tea. Gather a clean cloth, a scrubbing pad and your favorite cleansing essential oil. I like lemon with verbena. Fill your sink with hot soapy water, add a few drops of EOs and whisper the holiest prayer: yes yes yes. Breathe. Then scrub your pots and pans as if they are portals for alchemy, for healing, for grace. (They are.) Pause often to inhale daffodils and lavender. Forget about the glowing red check-engine light. (Cars don't belong in kitchens.) When you are done, wrap your hands with oils or cream and feel the palms, the fingers, the muscles, the hardworking bones of your hand. Here is warmth. Here is presence. Here is aliveness. You are here. Here is safe. Here is love.


Note: The above comes from my free monthly Rhythms & Rituals New Moon Letters. AND I am working on a book tentatively titled How to Wash the Dishes featuring new ways to soulfully embrace our sacred mundane + embody our everyday rituals with grace. To keep in touch & hear more, sign up here! 

Winter is Past

Sunday, March 20, 2016
Winter is past.

This first day of spring finds me feeling all the feelings. 

I've recently received news which makes me stagger beneath the weight of it and, in the midst of unprecedented unknowns, I am being asked to trust. Trust deep. Believe. Keep breathing.

I also received, a few weeks ago, in a beautiful, sacred way I hold close to my soul, a divine message...

Winter is past.

Winter is scarcity. Coldness. Bleak and aloneness. Winter is shivering, needing, wanting. Winter is surviving.

I am taking baby steps today. Baby breaths. Finding my way. Finding my words. Uncertain about everything but still here, still pulsing with aliveness.

Flowers Appear on the Earth

Wednesday, March 16, 2016
Flowers Appear on the Earth

A few years ago I wrote—

I am flooded with a sudden and deep hunger to do things differently.

What if I choose to believe I have everything I need whether I see or feel it, or not? What if I believe I am loved and wanted despite the uncertainty and pain of “it’s complicated” …? What if I choose to believe that I can lose the weight I carry—and keep it off? What if I choose to believe that money will not be an issue?

What if I just do what feels good to my body? Stretching my limbs gently in pools of sunlight on the floor, curvy hips swaying to sultry rhythms, warm, soothing oils on my skin.

What if I believe I am enough? That I am where I need to be, whether that means in this body, in this apartment, in this city, in my work?

What if I truly believed the best about others and their intentions? What would that look like; how would it feel? What if I moved beyond the fear of being taken advantage of, and simply loved—and loved well? What if I could have the softest and most immense compassion for those who criticize, judge, imitate, debate, and react, knowing these things explicitly show their own fear, terror, insecurity and shame?

What if the soft expanse of my arms is the only circle I need and so I am never “in” or “out” … I am, just simply, I AM?

What if I could show mercy first?

What if the very breath in my lungs is gratitude—inhale—compassion—exhale? What if I moved through life as embodied prayer? What if my life is the altar, my sacrament is gentleness, and the reinvention I crave is wholeness?

What if I learned to love my kitchen and the cozy space it offers? What if I became inspired to create lush, nourishing meals full of life and light, using fresh offerings from the earth as a path of wholeness? What if I truly cared for my body as a sacred temple, blessed it, adorned it, honored it, loved it for the holy light within? What if I embodied the Spirit and the breath and used my words to stop writing what is beautiful and write what is true?

What if I could be, really be, the hands of the holy—that my touch, my presence, my embrace, my work would be direct portals for the divine to pour through with healing, transformation, and comfort?

What if I believed that I could sort through the accumulation of years that weigh heavy upon me—the material things which pile up collecting stress and dust, the emotions which swell my body with their vastness and intricacy, my deeply-ingrained default settings of futility and ennui that follow my creativity like a shadow?

What if things could be different? What if I don't have to settle? What if I could heal my mental default of scarcity? What if I could live from heart-soaked abundance and trust and joy? What if I could make magic with my time and press sweet nectar out of every juicy moment so that I can do all that I desire? What if I could embrace longing as a spiritual practice? What if I believed that this immense tiredness and physical exhaustion in my body is only temporary and that I can, and I will, glow with vitality and energy and passion? 

I want my soul to burst with flowers appearing, those seeds planted in the dark cold ground at last leaping into light. I want my body to sing its wild hymns and to bring forth the poems written on the inside of my bones. I want my voice to ring out with grace and truth. I want to create new rituals and ways of being, to go forward with wisdom and gentleness. I want to approach new opportunities with thankfulness and eager creativity. I want the fortitude to make needed life-changes and to gracefully surrender to the highest good.

I name this my year of tender mercies. This is my year to, as my dear friend Mandy calls it, “make belief.” This is my year to do everything differently. To let down my guard. Let light in. To look for magic. To be surprised. To believe the best. To hope. To live creatively with sparkling inspiration. And in the hard moments, to seek new ways of being so that I may release or embrace, surrender or resist, run or rest as needed.

It's taken years to get me here, and now it's time. Life is calling. Life is my calling. I dwell in Rumi's field, the wild fields of grace.

I read these words to myself now and when I come to the part which says, “I want my soul to burst with flowers appearing, those seeds planted in the dark cold ground at last leaping into light...” I can't help but look up in wonder. I just came through what I call my time in the cave where I quietly chose to name this year “Flowers Appear on the Earth.” It comes from a secret message from the Divine and I feel so tender that these words I wrote, in what feels like another life, are now bursting into truth and being.

As I make my way in this new space, softly laying words, gently exploring, allowing myself stay vulnerable and embodied, I want these words here, too, because they are so much; they are everything. 

Gypsy by the River

Monday, March 14, 2016

I want to love how the river loves.

Love is expanding herself to me, opening, inviting me to peer into the mysteries I'm only beginning to understand. This is why I'm dwelling here, a gypsy by the river, a wanderess who is always home within herself and her God, because I want to learn the ways and the poems of water: fluidity. Laughter. Lightness. Dark mysterious depths. Nourisher. Destroyer. Life giving and life returning. Softly caressing stones, softening hard edges, wrapping over, around, through, giving and forgiving.

Being all and only what Is.

Dr. E writes—

“When I was in middle age,
I learnt from the water coursing,
real lovemaking,
not the fake kind
they sell in plastic pictures.

I walked miles
up the Cache La Poudre,
climbing over tree lairs,
boulders half in water,
half not.
There I saw and learnt to imitate
how the river loved
every rock frill and ledge,
that the water would lave as high up,
as low down,
as water could reach…
and how it ruffled up patient,
next urgent, growing in mass
till completely swollen,
then rushing in with
a long smooth hand
along the flanks of the nether banks,
and there the water lingered and eddied,
here and here and here
with a slow back and forth,
lifting back lace from stones,
all hollows and openings finally found.

Downriver water does not only rush
but snaps its hips
and slaps and claps in joyous noise
finally spilling its all everything
over the precipice… freeing everything
that needs freeing,
filling everything that needs filling.

And after that long thrall,
you can see with your own eyes,
the sudden smooth withdrawal,
the coursing into quiet pools
just the thing …
that long rest of lovers
in spangled water,
in the place where the soul
ever remembers
in the River beneath the river.”Dr. Clarissa Pinkola Estes

Today, I am terrified to reveal my holy-human hungers, the eyes flashing divine fire, the tongue of a prophetess, the strength of a warrioress. And today I want to engrave in the earth all the memoirs of the body: the faded love notes written on the walls of once-youthful hope, the darkened vines of I Am entwined along the base of deep-rooted sheltering trees, the spirit-smoke of sandalwood and cinnamon, alchemy and love.

I am terrified and yet I must, because the river flows, unafraid of drought or winter; at the mercy of the ways of man yet baptizing him with tenderness. She bravely courses on, just as she was made to do.

I dwell at her side, a gypsy witness, listening.

New space coming soon!

Sunday, March 13, 2016

I'm weaving in the dark...check back soon!