My altar hosts many artefacts of the path, my heart is held, and as we close the circle of witnessing, my eyes are bursting with tears that keep flowing through. They carry the sea, the sap, the honey dew. They carry what is beyond words, beyond timelines, beyond understanding. ‘Tears are nourishment’, why can’t they belong also here? Waterways, I trust them the most.
The haunting question comes back again as a sunflower turned around with time: what’s your medicine? Whats’s your medicine?
It’s the rabbit from Alice in Wonderland coming after me with the urgency only serious guardians carry.
I don’t want to know how to monetize it, or to finally feel that I have a birthright to be in this world. I don’t want to know it because otherwise I can’t have intrinsic value or do something meaningful. I want to touch it like I touch my lover’s lips and the eyes of the beloved, for I feel without participating in and serving this world with beauty and tenderness and wonder and care, I’m really missing the point, the vital heartbeat. I’m a wasteland of cells, a waste of a miracle. I know, it sounds so radical. It is.
Does the world need what I have to offer?
Can I make peace with myself at last?

Looking back, I realize now I didn’t arrive at the place I secretly expected to end up at. The truth within the cliche of the journey’s gifts surpassing the destination. I’ve lived enough to have experienced it in various forms of pilgrimage.
I didn’t unleash my unwavering creative spirit in a manner that is highly productive, unapologetic, confident or bold. I didn’t figure out what medium is my message, or what’s my unique artistic language or what message is my medium, or even if that really matters at all, I’m rather consecrated a humble student of uncertainty and trust with closed eyes in the mysterious ways of love. Maybe that’s been the message all along, and my body and heart the medium? Why doesn’t that feel enough? Why do I crave for something else, something to be acknowledged for, to be celebrated for, leaving a legacy that is lasting and releases magic heart to heart.

I didn’t undergo a complete makeover, I’m still recognizably me, with my soft edges and easily flowing tears, with my troubled relation with words, a tension that keeps my curiosity kindled like a flame that wishes to burn away the dread and just become a voice of honesty.
No pretending, no pushing, no polishing. Raw as raw milk. Fat and giving.
Can I let the judgement that keeps me silent melt away?

The transformation was not flashy but so profound it feels like karmic reparation, like mending bones from ancestor’s stories, using charcoal from their burnt memories to draw my own songlines, clearing a space for the fertility of those and that yet to come.

I didn’t write a book or made something epic, but I said the big YES to life. I’m gestating a being that was deeply called for within my own for long. I didn’t know if I could host life in my body, in the same way I doubted all my creative expressions as dull or unimportant. And throughout this journey I played and drank from the joy of effortless flow many times, innocent like a child.

The major teaching has been to stay true to my impulses, to make room and be in as much honesty as I can with the spirit that creates in me, for me, with me, through me. That honesty to listen deeply, to not perform even when I would like my availability to be different. To honour as much the not doing as the doing, to honour the gestation that is invisible, the archives that will keep fermenting until their time is ripe.

I feel so much gratitude for the remembering of tending to the invisible, the nourishment that feeds the soil of soul, the silent conversation with the unconscious, with a life’s intelligence that is wild and can’t be commodified or tamed, or contained.
Only touched with awe and reverence.
With prayers and simplicity, kindness and generosity.

So much gratitude my heart aches. Is that the mystic heart’s path?
I honor the protection of moon and the sea, the Milky Way, all the mothering that wrapped and cradled this journey, and made me meet the mothering principle the great mother archetype in its multitudes over and over again. The love that is unsurpassable, the care that asks for fierce advocacy like a wild animal. The softening that brings the aliveness of eros back to every fibre of our primal and transcendental bodies.

I notice that I don’t want this work to end, that I don’t feel ready to fly on my own, that the hive is a nest to grow with, even when I feel like the ugly duckling (because that’s my wound to lick and tend to) - thinking of Sarah.

I read my initial intentions, I read again the invitation for the seed.
A place in nature to anchor my presence. The earth as a lover, I declared my love, and I arrive at the spacious altar of our togetherness ready to embrace wholeness, to accept moments of pause and unease - like this one - to, as my partner said, accept that maybe my beginnings and endings are not linear. But an expression of the eternal spiral. This is still the real story.