are not found in
in questions asked
but in you
swirling of arms
and a willingness –
a terrifying willingness –
to put aside
guidelines and maps
in favour of wearing
her form vague
“I don’t know
I don’t know”
you must follow
into the strangest
reaches of your
I have been ducking and diving, weaving away from the soul work calling to be embraced.
For I am afraid that to stop, to witness, to wade into will be futile.
What if I am void of answers, incapable of connection, adrift rather than anchored by my spiritual path?
And so I turn away, how I run, into the ageing pages of well-worn books, fingers tracing shapes along cracked spine and weathered cover.
Into cards, frayed edges comforting in my palm, little paper tears and the smoothness of a satisfying shuffle.
I search for faces, words, concepts, revelations set to enlighten my spirit, soothe my soul, bring longed for answers into conscious awareness.
But I come up short, fully knowing (yet hiding) that there is only one way into the comfort I seek.
I must journey into myself, and I think how funny it is that turning to external sources for support seems easier somehow. Less of a risk.
Receiving knowledge from those who have walked before and who therefore must know the way.
I fear that to turn towards myself in search of whatever it is I'm aching for will only end in upset. I do not know if I have it in me, and yet in me is the only route worth travelling if I am to experience the peace I seek.
What if my connection to self, to source, is weak? What if I can't find the words or sense the nudges or understand the images brought forth?
The uncertainty of it all is unbearable - give me an answer, dear book! Dear cards! Give me something to ease the tender wounds I wrestle with.
The journey ahead feels dangerous, unsettling, uprooting, outrageously so. Who shall I discover within the deepest depths of myself? Who am I in this moment? Who am I becoming?
Will I recognise her? Will she welcome me? Will she know what I do not and gift it to me willingly or will there be battle, bloodshed, womb-deep release?
I have nothing left to lose, as the old saying goes. I am empty yet full of scarring in need of healing. I am ready for receiving. I am ready for losing, ready for winning.
Ready for brambles thick and pine cones cool, for needles underfoot and sacred water pooling.
For lashings of rain and thunder, for the tide to pull me under, for arms outstretched to fumble through rain-drenched forest, for warm rays of sunshine to reach me as the temperature turns.
I do not know where I am going, nor what it shall look like when standing in the middle of it, but I must set off now or else risk forever resisting.
Perhaps it will be a long journey, many days and nights spent wandering. I do sense so.
I must walk tool-less, prop-less, naked into the woods, trees thickening as one step gives into the next.
This is the only way, She cries.
(Is She me? Is She waiting?)
I watch me go.