kokyangwuti

         Spiderwoman/Thought Woman. 

              Art by Jade Red Moon.

I have always dreamed of spiders. They are usually in my bed with me but sometimes they take a more active role in their medicine. Last night I dreamed of two, or maybe more. One was a beautiful blue-green iridescent little being that climbed up onto a dog's nose, over his left eye, and up into his head. The dog didn't mind at all. The other was a small black tarantula that I found sleeping under my pillow. They were both beautiful and I felt, as I often do in these spider dreams, a tender pointed attention on these beings in my dream state, as though I were listening, as though captivated. The tarantula was shy and when discovered, she began to leave. In the dream I had been sleeping outside on the ground, on a thin blanket with a pillow. Under the pillow were my usual gem stones and sleep things and much to my surprise, a black spider about the total size of my palm. As she walked off the blanket and onto the ground I followed her with my attention and if I remember correctly, I might have been asking her not to leave. Today, as I continue to sit very uncomfortably on the fence between a soul bone desire to run off into the wilds of my beloved Mojave or to stay here in Austin and continue to find a way to energetically harmonize with the collective of density (although here, it's not that strong) but it physically hurts to not be in raw, bare nature. Solitude is not solitude at all when communication extends outside the realm of people. There is, probably, income here and I decree that I will create my Truth, shine my Light, no matter where and no matter how absolutely blind I feel, and I will keep weaving words and heart songs until I have a web of Home that even I can see was woven by the Divine, and I can know that She is me. Taking care of myself as though I were a precious thing, because that is the truth of all of us, is what I am navigating. Sometimes I feel like the masculine must dominate, bringing in income so that there can be a home and food, with less regard to whether I am truly happy or filled with joy, because it's time to take care of the little family of me. I will keep asking the question "how can great abundance come through my joy?". My feminine heart wants to run free and wild through the desert without a single possession, with only me, God, guides, and my greatest lover, Nature. I live in the in-between and I try each moment to not strain here, even when I strain to try not to strain. Today it's Sunday. I've been in Austin for a week. I worked a gig for sxsw. I am taking the day off. Maybe tomorrow, too. I can do this, whatever it is, and I'll keep stepping aside until the trying becomes the total surrender I dream of, until I remember. 

the whole

The whole thing is a journey of self-love. Capital L, not an emotion, Love. Love is the consciousness that make the particles that make the entirety. 

You are the totality of all this and nothing can stop you. You've come so far, come further, touch your fingertips to mine. Everything appears within the embodied belief that not only are you good enough, but that you are God, and that inner dialogue is a river that leads to the service that serves you first. 

Lovely star children, you are first. 

shaman awakenings

              an extraordinary vision by  

            aquariansolarium, Instagram

I keep stretching my wings and testing for flight, notice me, I am nowhere but present here. This deep and steady hereness doesn't leave, it has seeped into the iron of my blood, I cannot leave this now and put myself into that later or that before. This. Now. The ecstasy of it is a joy that lifts my feathers as I open wider the conduit of love and whisper thank you for a fullness that has burst through the remains of an outdated dimension. Here in the all encompassing somatic presence of falling in love with the where that is right here, and letting my own inner universe spin new stars, the love that moves itself through my body is not an emotion. It is the substance of me. I am only marking a space for it, and only that, if you see me here. 

moon haus

Who is into the idea of a moon time garden lounge where we go to let our bodies do what they do each month? Where we can read, write, make and contemplate arts, have tea and fantastic raw chocolate and fresh pressed juices, and put our sweet bodies on the earth, tend to plants and tiny fauna, and reset. Let's build it in each of our lives. Let's support each other to create this cultivation of slow, sacred ritual and gently but firmly demand our schedules back, claiming the rhythms that are quite literally our birthright. 

full moon

     instagram photo by @moontomoon

    of an excerpt from The Year In Moons 

                  by Jenny Sherbie.

Wiggle. Stretch. Leave hibernation for the thrill of the bloom. This spring is blooming the writer, the teacher, the healer and I'm opening my light wide, shining, to the You who is already whole and in need of no writing, teaching, or healing because sharing light just begets more light. Things become clear from the inside out. Knowingness is the knowledge born from within. We are deep silence and skillful love, unconditional and unmeasured and very choosy. There is no need to strain to be heard or seen or known. Most of us will have to let more light in this weekend as we add an hour to our days. Might as well sunbathe our insides as well. 

training wheels off

My whole life I've been doing what others have suggested I do, or what they've told me I would do. My whole life has been made up of my trying to be what I was supposed to be. FUCK THAT. 

musings of a llama

                alpacas by john farnan

I want to live where the police officers ride on four-legged mounts and carry neon colored foam batons as their only weapons. When they come down the road with their clickety-clack the children run out to take candy from strangers and the colors of skin, and foam, and candy wrappers fill the air with no room for anything less than tenderness. 

I want to comb beaches, setting up huts and forts and gathering collections of very specific things to lay out on the deck at night by the light of the fire, and go to sleep counting waves and stars. On waking there is fog and damp and we whisper to each other all day, counting the quiet within ourselves as beings, and according them their respect. 

I want to wear the earth in my hair and on my body and let my own strength radiate out as though my skin were underlayed with diamonds and crushed gems. With gold on my nose, feathers given to me one by one from a thousand birds, with the brown eyes I carry blazing with wet dripping stars, I turn to you and reach out my hand. 

I want to ride on two wheels through the windiest canyon roads and across the great flat sandy plains and over the hills of the mountain pass where the air smells of wet pine and eagle feathers and mycelia and the exhaust of the engine and I warm my hands under the leather on your back. 

I want to talk story with my elders forever and let their guileless wisdom come at me sometimes too late and sometimes right on time and remind them that their place is still with me, always with me, still brimming with the usefulness so necessary to the culture we are building in plain sight of the culture we have left behind. 

I want to turn the hose on in the yard and make a puddle of mud and get way way down and revel in the slimey warmth, making all the animal sounds that we can conjure while painting our faces and breathing and saying no honey, you never need a mirror, I'll show you how beautiful you are. 

I want to grasp within my own hands the very stuff of this life, these things that I can both hold and that slip right through, invisible but tangible, and never treat time and effort as enemies of another camp but instead dance out my restlessness, calling on my own drum, training my eyes to see in slow motion the dust that kicks up as each footfall lands home. I dance because I know magic, and this creation has revealed itself to me, and I must move. 

I want to walk through you undetected, you never knowing that under my petticoats my spine is made of snake, my breasts of earth, my thighs of chocolate, my belly of gold, and that I carry rainbows and the seeds and fruits of labors in my pockets and have entire worlds of mystical creatures taking sweet refuge in all the corners of my being. 

I want you to know I may never notice you or look at you or land in the exact spot you are wanting. I may never compliment you or share with you or choose to create with you what you want to create. I may not agree with your imagination or the very essence of your being and I may always do the exact opposite of what you wish I would do. I want you to know I don't love you any less for that.