The passage into womanhood is not a climb to a summit but a descent to the depths.

My journal is a love letter I write to my muse almost daily. He and I rarely speak so it is how I communicate through the distance, through the hope and fear, through the doubt, through holding too tightly and giving up entirely.

The truth isn’t something static; it is a living, breathing forest in and of itself. Sometimes, we don’t want to hear the truth because the truth is always inconvenient in some ways. But many of us find that living closer to truth or dharma is just a plain relief. It’s a plain relief not holding ourselves back, not having to pretend, not having to force things, and not having to make anything happen, just being able to relax. 

It wasn’t until the dear ones 

Dressed as dragons and bedevilments

Arrived at my door with packing boxes 

…

1 I worked knowing this day would come. The day after the end of the world.

2 I worked in silence and in haste, unsure if what I saw ahead was a mirage, the mirage of a re-emergence or the madness of having made a descent.

I want to say that I have held death and while uncompromising in that not only will it take you when it is your time, it will also not take you when it is not your time. It cannot be coerced or pleaded to on either count, it is honest.

To be woman is to be defined by accommodation, the unconscious and acquiescent adherence to non-native habitats, or the unconscious swing of the pendulum of backlash that is the predictable result of any animal living in a state of perpetual adjustment, lost in translation.