Lies

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A constellation gathers

After years of isolation

Smoke rises and secret questions

Slither

Assumptions cement

Words speak as if real

.

Swirling

The energies are pressing

Mind murky I feel the pull

To assimilate

To conform

Into rally

Against

.

Tapdancing

On fragile fragments

Avoiding the sword’s blade

Creeping up my throat

Seeking

Sweating

Pushing

Through ancient

Unwanted

Seminality

This

Mediating

Peacekeeper

Says

Nothing

.

A body advances

Challenging

Pries fingers into mouth

Demanding

Demanding yet not

Demanding

But the sword has already retreated

And only goo remains

.

From this puddle

Little perfect dancers assemble

They spin and piroette

On cue

Delivering a grand performance

Both wanted

And reviled

.

No one wants the sword

At least not here

The singular retreats

Satisfied

Kind of

And I slither

With those unsaid tendrils

Pooling

Where a shaft of annihilating

Steel

Was once

Almost

Free

Radio Interview!

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Greetings, beings :}

Just wanted to share that I was on a radio show called “Healing Journeys” this week, and aside from some lovely “um’s” I think the conversation went pretty well!

Along with discussing what I “do” in the world, we covered a broad variety of issues–eating disorders, body/illness advocation, shadow work, even the concept of “nothingness sessions” and the perplexity of how to market such a thing.

If you choose to tune in, I’m on the November 17th episode. Enjoy!

http://ksco.com/shows/58929-healing-journeys

The Unsayable

“Great Chariot” by Alessandro Sisioldr

“The unconscious insists, repeats, and practically breaks down the door, to be heard. The only way to hear it, to invite it into the room, is to stop imposing something over it–mostly in the form of your own ideas–and instead listen for the unsayable, which is everywhere, in speech, in enactments, in dreams, and in the body.” ~Annie G. Rogers

.

I want

To sit here with you

And just allow

What it is

To rise

Between us

Bring words

To the long unspoken

From past

But ah, yes

From right now

The things you feel you can’t say

The things you don’t even know

You can’t say

Sitting here

With our tools

Together

Listening

Daring to reveal

Daring to hold

Space

A Nothingness

Allowing

Womb

For these forgotten ones

To finally

Become

Receiving

Photo by Brenda Timmermans on Pexels.com

According to census

On November 8, 2021

At 1:21PM Pacific Standard time

There were 7,801,470,370 people on Planet Earth

.

That’s a lot of people

.

And I wonder

Out of all of them

Who wants “more” in their life?

Who feels lucky to receive

More money

More food

More choices

More intimacy

More sex

More blah blah blah

More

.

And I wonder

Why it is

That I live in such a land of plenty

And yet watch as

This body cringes

At most advances to receive

“More”

.

Running

Away

Wanting to quiet

Wanting to clear

Wanting to settle

Wanting to simplify

Wanting the whirlwind

The whirlwind

The whirlwind

To stop

.

Receiving, overwhelm

Receiving, anxiety

Receiving, nausea

Receiving, vomit

Receiving, illness

It always comes

Eventually

.

I’ve tried

Many times to battle

To strengthen

To transform

To understand

To push through

To gain

Freedom

But eventually

Sickness

This resistance

Finds a way to whittle

.

I wonder how many bodies

Hold these stories

That dam up the center

To process receiving

Digesting

These old, old traumas

Unspoken

That resist any and all

Sense of “more”

Stories so embedded

As if thorn wriggled

Into flesh that’s given up

Fighting

Embedded

And part of

And extremely difficult

To extract

.

To speak of

Even

This is speaking the unspeakable

What this is,

Not vanity

Not desire for thinness

But fear

Of gargantuan

Roiling responses

Of this body

That holds eons

.

Eons of suffering

Eons of manipulation

Eons of separation

Eons of ostracization

Eons of repeated experiences

Ending in tragedy

I can’t even know

How many threads

I am attached to

.

Breaking

Breaking this

Breaking this open

Scalpel in hand

Ready to carve

Ready to be the whittler

A hovering salivation

Yet questioning

How this will be done

Location long forgotten

.

The location of fear

The location of trauma

The location of terror

The location of hiding

The location

Where it all began

Hovering

This scalpel

She wants to dig in

For all her relations

.

But without location

She risks death

Circling her body

Plotting entrypoints

A carving

A carving

A carving

Away at all the locations

Where the unspeakable

May be housed within

.

She is grateful

She is healthy

She no longer qualifies

She is no longer emergency

But like the Steppenwolf

This pacing

Salivating

Hunger

Haunts her

.

As of November 8, 2021

At 1:34pm Pacific Standard Time

According to census information

There were 7, 801, 472, 470 people

On planet Earth

How many of them are asking

This question

Scalpel in hand

Hovering

Pacing

Is there something wrong with receiving?

Is there something wrong with how I’m receiving?

Is there something wrong with how we’re receiving?

More

More

More

How many?

How many?

How many?

Serving From The Abyss

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How is it

That this deep, deep yearning

To serve

Can come from such a place

Of Emptiness

.

How is it

That I am to guide others

If the center that leads

Is of Nothingness–

No form

No vision

No solid

Identity?

.

How is it

That I am to reach others

For You

If the marketing plan

Requires somethingness to advertise?

.

How is it

That what seems to be the yearning

To serve in some particular way

Is annihilated by the very source

Of this yearning?

.

Sometimes I wonder

Whether I’m toeing a tight line

Between dissociation

Of forgetting myself

Why I am here

What I am here to do

What I want to do

As compared

To a state of Emptiness

That so many teachers

Have taught is the Way

.

Toeing the line

Between diagnosis

And channeling

Or some other

Sacred

Strange

Thing

.

A Thing

That keeps me forgetting

That keeps me from re-membering

Why I am here

What I am doing here

What I want to do here

What do I want to do here?

Why do I keep

Forgetting?

.

Tell me

Please

If I am to serve, this yearning

How do I post

How do I gram

How do I module

Something that is…

Nothing?

.

Something I keep grasping

Just for one moment

And then watch it slipping

Slithering

Evanescent

Away?

.

Is it a call to presence

To hold space for another

Without any plan?

Carved

And carved

And carved

Until presence

Is all I can offer?

.

Tell me

How does one serve

How does one serve

How does one serve

From the Emptiness

From the Void

From

.

The Abyss?

Mothers & Fathers

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My Mother, Ereshkigal

Her moans pull me down

Into that spiral well

Compassion, curiousity…obligation

In my pack as I start the journey


But on the way down

My back starts to ache

And I start to lose parts

Of myself

The closer I get


When I arrive at her lair

My mother, Ereshkigal

Sits on her smoke shrouded throne

Lamenting, lamenting


The moans get louder

And slowly I forget

Who I am

Why I’ve come

Tools to help

DrainedDrainedDrained


My Mother, Ereshkigal

Doesn’t mean to

But impales me

With the despair

hopelessness

And lonely grief

She’s carried for so long


This burden, implanted

Until there’s no longer

Room for me

Or hope

Or hunger

Or love


My mother, Ereshkigal

Ranting from her

Smoke shrouded throne

I can’t reach her

I sit frozen

Distance between us

I sit frozen

This blankness

Forgetting


Full of Her pain

Small light flickering

Struggling to break free


My mother, Ereshkigal

Not sure if I’ll ever save Her

Not sure if She’s meant to be saved

But I know

I’m not meant here

She’s not all of who I am

And I’ve got to ascend


While She may have birthed me

I know I must leave Her

I’ve got to ascend

I’ve got to ascend

~~~~

God, The Father


Why

do

you

come so close

then

disappear

Feel so present

then

abandon

How could you

show such

lack of interest

in showing up

for me


Leaving me to

wander

wonder

get lost

confused

invaded

by

this

cold

world


By

my

own

cold

hand


How could you

be so absent

God, The Father

In my times

of despair


You come

occasionally

such

joy

arises

we pretend its all good

but you know what


FUCK THIS


God, The Father

My father

WHAT FATHER

WHAT GOD


Yet I pray, grateful

I keep hoping

like a

good

little

girl

asking for your HELP

starving

for your HELP

wandering dark forests

thirsting in great deserts

crying

for just a vision

of You


All I want is

my Papa

be here with me

show me

the Way

comfort

and guide me

in this overwhelming

and chaotic world

to

never

be

alone


God, The Father

God, The Father

God, The Father

WTF


Where

Are

You

Birch

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I am in my childhood home

At the door, a man

He has left truck-sized books in my driveway

He says

There are some trees he needs inside

I tell him I’ve no idea

Of what he speaks,

But I trust him

And let him in

.

We travel into the bedroom of my youth

Which shapeshifted regularly

As both my mother’s and my own

Today

It is mine

.

The man says there are trees

Inside a box

And points in through the threshold

I turn the corner and

Before me, lying beside the bed

Tall, thin, white trunks

Bark peeling fragile

I know them somehow

They lay waiting

.

I’m surprised they are here

And how they can possibly fit into this small cage

Such old, ancestral beauty

And I watch as the man

Walks to them, gently

And begins to break them down

Twisting, breaking

.

He shows me his muscles as he does this

And I get the sense

That the overwhelming force

Of this ancient Birch mother

Holds the hidden gifts

Of all the mothers who couldn’t be seen

.

I get the sense, that there’s a destruction

Yet also creation going down

That these trees are ready

To be revealed

To be processed

To be written upon, with

To be seen

And that this man

He as me

Shows me that there is strength enough

To accomplish this gargantuan task

.

Breaking it down

Verbalizing the unspoken

That was once burned for

This something

Long seemingly dead

Coming back to life

Through me

Risking to be seen

By the General

.

These smaller, digestible chunks

Of Her Celtic, knowing body

She of protection

First letter, magick

And renewal

In my room

In my mother’s room

In my grandmother’s room

Her blood

In my hand

Tearing

Through the wood that writes me

.

Instead of overwhelming

Instead of nauseating

Instead of terrifying

These beautiful pieces

These birch fibers woven

With hidden, suppressed, traumatized

Dark/light giftings

.

They

Are finally ready to be shared

Acknowledgments

Photo by Maksim Goncharenok on Pexels.com

To the first peoples of Switzerland, who were colonized

To the first peoples of Germany, who were colonized

To the first peoples of Scandinavia, who were colonized

To the first peoples of Lithuania, who were colonized

To the first peoples of the Netherlands, who were colonized

To the first peoples of the British Isles, who were colonized

To the first peoples of the Americas, who were colonized

To the first peoples of The Great Utah Basin, who were colonized

To the first peoples of the West Coast of the Americas, where I now stand, who were colonized

.

To the first plant, animal and living beings, who were colonized

To the meat, vegetable, herb, tree, crops, who were colonized

To the plots of land that will never see the sun, under concrete, colonized

To the trauma, disconnection and forgetting that lives on in my bones, blood and gut, colonized

.

To the sicknesses that are trying to help me see

.

May I find a way to understand

May I find a way to respect

May I find a way to honor

May I find a way to clear

May I find a way to remember

.

These hands

These white hands, open

These blue eyes, open

This raw, beating heart, open

Aching

.

To all who have been a part of me

To all who have suffered

And to all I am a part of

May we find a way

To remember

Our privilege

This privilege

This Body

This Earth

May we find

A way

.

From Food Memories, by Reagan Lakins. Posted in honor of Indigenous People’s Day, October 11, 2021.

Queen of Wands: Raspberry Leaf and The Strength to Birthe Dreams

From The Herbal Tarot by Michael and Lesley Tierra

“Raspberry Leaf is an astringent and an anti-inflammatory. Raspberry Leaf aids pelvic circulation in the female reproductive organs and also aids in childbirth. As an anti-inflammatory, Raspberry Leaf is used for fevers and is good for nausea and motion sickness.”

.

I chose this card in hopes of finding some sort of inspiration for writing today…I seem to have been dropped into a wide Void this week as far as creative confidence goes.

Of course, The Queen of Wands would come, to stare at me, to give me a complete opposite to gaze upon–she of utter passion, determination, motivation and confidence. She, surrounded by Raspberry Leaf, the herb of fertility and preparing the body for birth.

It makes me think of the birthing process, and if, once again, I am in another one. It makes me wonder (having never birthed physical children) whether pregnant mothers come upon these strange pockets of blankness, of “what the hell am I doing?” during their pregnancies. Whether they hit long stretches of doubt, cloudiness and lack of surety about what they’ve decided to enter into creating.

That’s how I feel now.

You see, I’ve decided to create a workshop around the Food Memories book/process…I actually have the whole thing written out. My business mentor asked me last week, “Ok, so now we need to get really clear on who this is for.”

And that’s when the blankness set in. Or rather, the swirl of possibilities–but nothing clear. I spent time at the drawing board, trying to mentally plot out objectives and goals for each of the clientele I felt come into my mind. But then those swirled wildly around too. Now there was a lot of goals, and a lot of client types, flying around like wicked monkeys in here.

So I stopped. I stepped back. I asked the deeper parts of myself and whatever may be co-creating with me to send me clues about who the hell my offering would best serve. And waited.

And only silence met me.

Again I think back to the pregnant mother, drinking her Raspberry Leaf tea, preparing her body, all the while feeling a blankness as to how she’ll ever be able to do this. I think about the courage it takes for a woman to face that risk, not knowing what may happen, but committing to the gargantuan task anyway.

And I think of her praying in the dark of night, calling out for support, and feeling only silence. Wondering if she’s making a mistake, wondering if bad things will happen, if she is healthy enough, or if she decided to conceive too soon. Wishing, yearning for her internal guidance, and external forces to show her the way through her doubt and fear. But hearing only silence. What must she feel in those moments, those terrifyingly silent moments in the night?

Again I look to the card. I see this woman, who seems grounded and wise, facing forward. She holds the staff firmly in hand, but not to prop herself–it is an extension of her internal power. I see the Raspberry plant winding around her, framing her, supporting her. I see the white cat, her familiar, by her side.

Looking into her eyes, and upon this whole scene, I feel my sense of lostness transform into hope again. She seems to be saying to me that I have her in me, that I am on this birthing process, and that I just need to keep going, keep trusting in that process. She seems to be holding one of the Raspberries in hand…almost like she is offering it to me.

It’s all a very non-linear directive, but I’m trying. I’m going to go make myself a cup of Raspberry leaf tea right now, envisioning it nourishing my creative centers, my deep internal strength. Despite my internal agnostic, snickering, I will also make space for the possibility that I too, have a spirit familiar, helping me somehow.

I will sip and let the possibilities grow, and let the blankness be okay. I will let the Raspberry and the energies of the Queen of Wands infuse me, and see what happens.

.

Thanks for reading :}

Her Hunger

Photo by Daria Sannikova on Pexels.com

Free me

From the old, outdated

Despotic government

Within my own tissues

The linear

Rule and fear based

Trajectory decision

Making factories

Housed within

.

Free me from the fear

That I will have nothing

Beyond worrying about food

If I eat enough to not be starving

Beyond the plotting, planning

.

Free me from the fear

Of feeling too full

Of old, archaic terrors

I’ve no real understanding of

Nor skill of navigating through

Alone

.

Free me from feeling unattended

Lost

Abandoned

With this struggle

Unmet and misunderstood

.

Free me from eating less

In fear of all of this terrifying mystery

Arising

In fear of whatever this is

That keeps me in this hidden

Non-emergency

Yet ever-whittling

Cycle

Of depending on measuring spoons

And calories

And minutes

To hold me

To hold it

At bay

.

Free me

From whatever it is

That keeps me focused on this

And distracted

From the fullness

Of what I could be living

Of what I really desire

Of the sheer and overwhelming

Vision manifested

.

FREEDOM

Would look like

Truly feeling my body tell me its hungers

Truly knowing what would feed it

Truly giving myself that

Truly knowing when it is enough

Truly feeling the result of a met desire

Satiation

My

Little

Girl

Fed

.

Her

Beyond the calories

And meal plans

And minutes

And cups

And measuring spoons

And fear of fullness

And orchestrating my whole entire fucking existence

Around this constant

Fear

Of fullness

Around this constant

Fear

Of…

Freedom?

.

Some days

When I haven’t just collapsed into numbness

Of just accepting that this

Is

all

there

is

I pray so hard

So goddamned hard

The spit chokes me

I pray so goddamned hard

For something to support me

In this unimaginable transformation

One it seems I have tried

Every position of attempt

And arrived at

Nothing

.

Covered in this slimy residue

Of grievings

I wail

FREEDOM

I want it so bad

To hear this desire

Spontaneous

To know how to feed it

To feel myself feeding it

To feel myself feeling full of it

To feel myself enjoying that fullness

.

This

FREEDOM

Is it possible

Is it possible

Is it possible

To feel something

Beyond this?

.

I’m praying

Again

I’m wailing

Again

I’m risking

Your complete and utter

Lack of response

Again

I’m crying out

Anyway

To you.

.

~Written for “Liberty: Breath, Death, Soul” ed. Pamela Eakins. If you’d like to view or purchase this literary collection, you can find it here: https://www.amazon.com/Liberty-Sisters-Holy-Pamela-Eakins/dp/B098GV1D19