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“Therefore, dark past,
I’m about to do it.
I’m about to forgive you
for everything.”
―
I’m about to do it.
I’m about to forgive you
for everything.”
―
“In the beginning I was so young and such a stranger to myself I hardly existed. I had to go out into the world and see it and hear it and react to it, before I knew at all who I was, what I was, what I wanted to be.”
― Upstream: Selected Essays
― Upstream: Selected Essays
“You know that crazy heart of yours? The one with lightning crackling and moonlight shining through it. The one you’ve been told not to trust because it often led you off the beaten path. The one so many have misunderstood your entire life. Trust it. Feed it. Grow it. It’s your greatest treasure and will point the way to your highest destiny. It is the voice of your soul.”
―
―
“The soul of us is never confused about why it is here.
It only asks us to wake up and see the breadcrumb clues it has been leaving all along.
It asks us to have courage to face the wounds we have been hiding, allow it to heal them and untangle the heavy, snarled patterns.
Because the soul of us has no doubt whatever that it can and, if we allow it to express fully, can live a life of such power and joy through us that our human selves will be astonished.”
―
It only asks us to wake up and see the breadcrumb clues it has been leaving all along.
It asks us to have courage to face the wounds we have been hiding, allow it to heal them and untangle the heavy, snarled patterns.
Because the soul of us has no doubt whatever that it can and, if we allow it to express fully, can live a life of such power and joy through us that our human selves will be astonished.”
―
“imagine the desert
mothers, with hair tangled
tighter than their theology
and breasts that flowed milk
and mystic wisdom. they
knew how to draw the singing
sigils in the sand, how to dig
rough and bitten fingers
into desiccated dirt for water
to wet the lips of their young.
women of hips and heft, who
learned how to burn
beneath the wild and searing
sun, who made loud love
against the star-flecked threat
of night, who knew that strength
is not always a matter of muscle.
imagine your ancestresses,
the prophetesses of the arid
lands, before these starched
traditions and pews too hard
to pray from, who bled true
ritual and birthed their own fierce
souls at creation's crowning --”
― Night Cycles: Poetry for a Dark Night of the Soul
mothers, with hair tangled
tighter than their theology
and breasts that flowed milk
and mystic wisdom. they
knew how to draw the singing
sigils in the sand, how to dig
rough and bitten fingers
into desiccated dirt for water
to wet the lips of their young.
women of hips and heft, who
learned how to burn
beneath the wild and searing
sun, who made loud love
against the star-flecked threat
of night, who knew that strength
is not always a matter of muscle.
imagine your ancestresses,
the prophetesses of the arid
lands, before these starched
traditions and pews too hard
to pray from, who bled true
ritual and birthed their own fierce
souls at creation's crowning --”
― Night Cycles: Poetry for a Dark Night of the Soul
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