Falling Into Fascination

Marion Woodman

One of my quirks seems to be that I fall suddenly into fascination with certain authors, both fiction and non-fiction. In the past, it's been with the marvelous and wise Jungian Marion Woodman (born in 1928, published her first book when she was 52) or with the evocative naturalist Terry Tempest Williams; I end up buying every single one of their books to read sequentially, and google articles, essays, and videos on them, just to obtain a more in-depth feeling for these people. It's sort of like falling in love:

"There was I, sitting at one side of a long table, quietly listening to a Geography lesson and doing (as they say) nobody any harm, when suddenly the world was filled with a wonderful and quite unaccountable light and warmth. Trying to make out where this radiance came from, I gradually realized that it centered on Daphne, who was sitting opposite. We beamed at each other."

The above quote was written (about a time when she was a child) by my new love, Mary Midgley, a philosopher born in 1919 (published her first book when she was 59), in her memoir The Owl of Minerva. I "met" Mary while reading a series of books on nature by Stephen Harrod Buhner; he mentioned Mary quite often and with every quote he shared, I fell more in love with her until the momentum carried me into getting as many of her books as I could. I've never ended up meeting any of my author-loves, and maybe I don't need to ... I hear their voices in my heart and head, almost as if they are happy to guide and bless me from afar like distant mentors.

Mary Midgley

As it happens, however, I don't fall in love only with writers, but also with topics or subjects, and when I do, then comes immersion within those as well. When I began to show dogs in my 20s, I read hundreds of books on canid behavior as well as those specific to training and breeding; almost 10 years later, I did the same with felines, and then came the energy medicines (homeopathy and flower essences) followed by Ayurveda in my fourth decade. All of these were built upon the continual scaffold-shifting that is my spiritual Self seeking the Divine. Thus, while my study of topics or subjects (or authors) is intense and immersive, I come up for air to explore my own intuition and imagination to apply these ideas in the context of my own life. 

So, what occasionally appears to be indecisive or waffling behavior is, rather, a whole-life view--the Big Picture--of what this all means to me instead of a reductionist approach in perspective. I dive deep but try not to become mired down, thus allowing my fascination or love to guide me, hopefully, into being a more loving, embodied, and empowered woman who is more at ease with the ebb and flow that is Nature.

Healing Our Wild Hearts

During this past year, I've often struggled to have faith that humans are worthy of the gifts of our magnificent planet and universe. The vicious comments to and about other people, from all points of view and all sides of the political conversation (if one can even call it a conversation, which I doubt), have triggered my tendencies toward melancholy and misanthropy. And, if it weren't bad enough that we treat each other badly, we destroy other species and the planet that provides so abundantly for us.

Winter in the Ozarks

Whenever I could manage it, I have always chosen to live "in the country," whether that was our new home here in the southwest Missouri Ozarks, or in the woods of Maine, or the mountains of Colorado. Even these areas, though not wild, retain enough residual wildness to soothe my soul when I am unable to visit true wilderness areas.

I worry that this next administration of our government will harm our environment even more than we've already done, by prioritizing short-term gains over long-term losses. I would like to think that humans can control our greed so that we do as little harm as possible to others and our planet, but, sadly, most people when given free rein will think short-sightedly only about themselves, whether farmers or corporations or the average worker buying as much stuff as they possibly can.

Winter Woods in Maine

If we further allow our country to invade, harvest, and destroy even our wild places -- national parks, forests, and refuges -- our souls, the wild magic within each of us, whether we know it is there or not, will die along with our resources. There have been multitudes of books and movies about what could happen, yet many of us see them as entertainment rather than warnings, pretending they couldn't possibly happen.

I may not visit those wild places very often, but I am deeply comforted knowing they are there -- for their own sake as part of the Divine Whole, but also in case I need them. If they disappear, where will we go to heal? Where will our hearts be able to feel a sanctuary of natural wilderness even if we cannot see it with our eyes?

Summer in the Rocky Mountains

I was blessed to grow up visiting these wilderness places each summer; they became a part of me, places I always knew were out there healing us through their vital existence. Further, I was blessed that these visits were journeys across our amazing America, from sea to ocean, from mountains to deserts--these were road trips. The insightful naturalist and author Terry Tempest Williams writes about this eloquently in her latest book, The Hour of Land: A Personal Topography of America's National Parks:

     To be an American once meant unending possibility, and the land reflected that possibility. Always the next bend--the next ridge--the mountain range descending into the depth of canyons carved by water an wind and time.
     Now, we say we have too little time, not enough time for road trips. We used to visit our national parks most often by car. Families took time and experienced the gradual approach to the park being visited. Anticipation was part of the journey as was the wildness of a family spending time together for hours and days, traversing the states. Today we arrive by plane. We miss the trek across the vast expanse of this nation. I sometimes wonder whether these special landscapes now appear as "pop-up parks," a spot of entertainment and commerce instead of an unfolding geography.

This past weekend, I pulled out some books by an author I used to enjoy but had yet to read her four most recent novels. I had paused in reading her books because I felt like she went into a darker mental space than I cared to visit anymore; Nevada Barr writes about the intersection of wilderness (national parks) with humans-gone-wrong in her mystery series. I found myself wanting to read her stories now, though, for the very reason that her protagonist somehow always finds her way through to the other side, to where she still has faith in beauty and love and how wildness can help us to heal.

I wish more people would travel, would make space in their lives for experiencing the wonders of our natural, wild places. Unlike our ancestors once thought, the beauty and resources of our world are finite and we need to treasure them. Many people forget that our bodies and minds careen into the wastelands without the nourishment provided through our souls, our wild and divine hearts that are revitalized through our connection to our sacred earth.

Grand Canyon

Healing

Ten weeks. That is how long it's been since I had my accident, nine weeks since surgery on my arm/wrist. Thankfully, yesterday I received exciting news! My broken bones are healed in both arm and leg (although the leg doctor says because of where the fractures were, he wants me to take at least four weeks getting to full weight-bearing), and I've been given therapy instructions for both. I was grinning ear-to-ear at the doctor's office, and practically vibrating all over with joy.

I haven't been typing much these past couple months because the single-hand process was so frustrating for me it was hardly worth the effort. Now, however, I'm eager to begin getting my left hand back to functionality. And, in a few more weeks, I hope to be able to drive again as my leg ought to be stable enough to do so.

I have been spending gobs of time reading and binge-watching Netflix and Hulu, and, while those are things I sincerely enjoy, I'm tickled to pieces to start returning myself to normal … and getting our household back to normal, as well. Hubby has taken excellent care of me (doing all the grocery shopping, cooking, cleaning, laundry, etc., while also working a stressful full-time job) but I'm tired of it and I'm sure he is, too.

One new hobby I have to look forward to is playing piano again. I took lessons as a kid, and enjoyed playing off and on once I reached adult-hood even though I never had my own piano (we did consider buying one when we were living in Maine but just never got around to it). A couple weeks ago, though, I was able to obtain the piano I had originally learned on; my younger brother had it for the past decade or so, but since no one in his family bothered to play it much, he graciously sent it to me. This will be wonderful therapy for my hand as well as for my heart. I can hardly wait to begin!

With the setback of the accident, I'm not sure I will be able to complete by Christmas the genealogy book I had been writing. It was supposed to be a gift for my nieces and nephew, but I may have to resort to giving them a sort of preview-book instead. I'm disappointed, although I know they will understand. If I do miss this deadline, maybe I can shoot for a Memorial Day gift? We'll see.

For anyone else working on genealogy, or even simply interested in it, I highly recommend the book American Nations by Colin Woodard. It is a fantastic perspective on the cultural and ethnic colonization of early America, and the migration patterns. Whether or not many of your ancestors have been here since the 17th century (like mine), this book can help you better understand Americans and our political growth. The book has a broad scope and is, of course, shaped from the author's own viewpoint, nevertheless, I was delighted in it from start to finish. It's also an enjoyably fast read; the author doesn't bog down the narrative with too many details (though there are plenty of footnotes if you want to explore anything in greater depth, which I probably will).

The Vitality of Listening

It's strange to me that I've never read the works of Terry Tempest Williams, and yet, here I am; apparently now is when her words speak to me … and I listen. 

I recently listened to her interview in 2011 by Krista Tippett at OnBeing and wanted to share this quote (from the unedited version):

"If we can ask ourselves the question, then we are going to move toward the answer. And that's where, for me, it really is about listening, and being curious, and speaking [listening] from our umbilicus, not our mind, and sometimes not even our heart because that's where it gets so emotional that we *can't* hear one another. But if I'm listening to you with my hand on my belly, you know, of where I was first connected to breath which was my mother, you know, then I really can sit in the seat of presence and hear what you are saying, not what I want to say to you, but to really listen and to find that point of humanity, that connective truth."

Her reference to speaking and listening from our umbilicus really touched me.

Lay Healers

http://memory.loc.gov/ammem/today/nov12.html

"A popular homeopathic lay healer within her community … , Elizabeth Cady Stanton doctored family, friends, and neighbors armed with a homeopathic domestic medical kit … Stanton was proud of her self-reliance, successfully managing her own parturitions, and of nursing her children through malaria, whooping cough, mumps, and broken limbs. After the 1852 birth of her daughter, Stanton wrote to her friend … 'Dear me, how much cruel bondage of mind and suffering of body poor woman will escape when she takes the liberty of being her own physician of both body and soul!' Stanton denounced both the Protestant and 'medical ministries' for their manipulation of women, arguing that the 'genteel' and 'civilized' woman was made ill and unnecessarily dependent upon their authority." 

The above is an excerpt from the engaging book A Vital Force: Women in American Homeopathy by Anne Taylor Kirschmann. I have been reading this book while working on my assignments in this semester's English class, which focus upon rhetoric, controversy, and, as my topic of choice, homeopathy.

Imagination Instead of Blame

Southern Cross, Australian Bush Flower (wikimedia commons)

"In recent years some have spoken against a metaphoric view of disease because they don't want us 'blaming' patients for their physical problems. If cancer is related to a person's way of life, they complain, we will hold the individual responsible for an illness over which he has no control. It is true that blaming a person for his disease only leads to guilt, and no increase in imagination. Yet, in Sardello's words, 'The object of therapeutic treatment is to return imagination to the things that have become only physical.' Whenever we place blame, we are looking for a scapegoat for a real dislocation which is difficult to find and in which we ourselves, as individuals and as a society, are implicated. Blame is a defensive substitute for an honest examination of life that seeks guidance in our mistakes. Fundamentally it is a way of averting consciousness of error. Sardello recommends that if our hearts are attacking us or if cancer is immersing us in fantasies of death, then we should listen to these symptoms and adjust life accordingly. Rather than blame, we could respond. Listening to the messages of the body is not the same as blaming the patient."

~ Thomas Moore in Care of the Soul

What I like about this view is that it provides us with the ability to step back from standard thoughts about ourselves and others; to allow some relational space between body and soul; to realize that there is more to life than what we can see or touch, or even feel. With each passing year, energy medicine gains ground and more people awaken to the possibility that we each have let circumstances influence and control us on an unconscious level. Imagination is powerful and empowering...

Blood Flowing Into Forbidden Realms

Wikimedia Commons

Blood red and flowing from where it should not be and going into forbidden realms. A passage unauthorized yet still the intrusion happens, filling the space and crowding the individuals closer together in distress. 

Ungainly and rough, a limb reaches out to the side from a dis-eased trunk that isn’t supporting its needs and, feeling betrayed, is unable to offer further support in itself. 

Rivers of thick and thin, now thin and seeping into all the crevices once immune to its teasing, trickling until a shallow bowl is brimming with unfamiliar dampness and the slightest tilt spills the fluid into ever more channels. Mopping it up, the sponge turns from light pink to dark burgundy, saturated and with nowhere to release the excess, trying to transmute the glistening paint into other shapes and forms that might be useful -- a box, a triangle, a star.

As the red flows over its banks and slides down cracks that weren’t there before, the pace of the source begins to slow, falling into a stupor and not even possible to move. The rushing force that was rhythmic, begins to stutter, to drain, to disappear its vitality into the cracks and crevices. 

What we need is a new plan, to create a template to be overlaid so the stream knows the way home and the river tired of leaking can tumble once more in rapid joy around corners and up the neck of the beast. Running uphill where forbidden or welcome?

There isn’t any red mud in the yellow river anymore; all that’s left is the silt so light and thin that brings color but no substance, it is an illusion of the spectacular, pretending to be something that it no longer is.

And yet the whole still retains the song; the notes may be off-key or even dormant, non-vibrational, but they can be re-tuned and played into harmony if we just find the fork, the right one, the note. For the illusory fluid retains the memory of what it once was, it remembers how it used to flow thick and fast, filled with strength and depth where one could look into its center and see the nucleus of life, of renewal. I can see its reflection even now, the memories of play and vigor. Yet as long as the red river cascades out of bounds, he continues to weaken and falter. 

The boomerang has become a ball, not only taking up too much space but also not returning to its own sense of perspective, self and respect for duty; it’s pretending to be what it’s not, imagining itself another shape and needs to be reminded of who it really is, what its purpose remains to be. 

The magenta waterfall grows and expands, washing away the integrity of the clay and the walls, filling the cavity taut like a balloon of sludge rather than screening it. Exhaustion follows reluctantly, confused and dismayed, carried along a red current that divides and floods. 

Where’s the architect? Where are the plans? So many to choose from, and so I dig into the archives, reading, selecting scroll after scroll, ancient earth templates of health to be melded into the flood, where the vibrations will sink into alignment and somehow restore vitality, balance and ease.

Pooka

__________

The above is a reflective stream written four days ago regarding Pooka's sudden illness; a week ago, he collapsed and diagnostics were unclear as well as conflicting. The only thing we know for sure is that his spleen is enlarged by a mass, and there is internal bleeding so he is/was anemic. My thoughts during the reflection were from an energetic perspective, and were simply an attempt to align my own energy with his condition as I sought the appropriate Homeopathic remedies to support him. 

I'm happy to say that he is -- as of the past couple days -- alert, comfortable, and doing quite well all things considered. :-) 

To Hear into Healing

There is power in listening. There is good in being the best listener possible ... to be open, caring, receptive, accepting, non-judgmental ... to hear the voices into healing. To value the ear, the voices and expressions of all life. To listen. To write what I hear. To share the voices of Gaia. 

Before I can write the truth, mine or anyone/anything else’s, I have to hear it ... through the voices, songs, colors, expressions of joy and pain. Really HEAR the cries and laughter within and without. Listen into Love. Hear into Healing.

Hear the voice of Goddess through Her world, animals, plants. Hear people in what they say but also how they behave ... to see into the hearing of their voice disguised. To allow the voices to flow through me ... to be mirrored or reflected back into the world, slightly shifted to be revealed in a different way, new notes, words that are more articulate for those who cannot speak clearly. Including myself, my own inner voice.

How does it happen that we cease to hear? Is it because we’ve reached a point where everyone is clamoring and so we tune it all out? How did I stop listening that time? What made me stop hearing for a while? Was it because I wanted to be heard? Did I think that if I stopped listening that I would somehow be heard more easily? Did I think that pretending to listen was the same as truly hearing? Or that taking turns in talking automatically means each one is also being heard?

And if that sad confusion happens with people, it’s even easier to comprehend how it can happen among different species and indeed all life. When Gaia speaks softly through a gentle rain in drought or through blooming wildflowers in a field of beans, or through autumn leaves decaying underfoot on a concrete path ... do we listen? Or do we not listen until She begins to cry torrents of tears in hurricane winds and Her bones crack open from mining and fracking? Do we say we’re sorry and do better? Or do we fall back into selfish habits hearing only our own demands of empty grasping because we don’t even listen to our own hearts when they speak of love and kindness toward self and other people?

We can open and truly hear. It’s not a weakness or a waste of time or a distraction. Hearing is healing. 

How many people pay to be listened to? Because they aren’t heard in their jobs or families or lifestyles of hectic to and fro? And even then, how often are they really heard? 

We can be taught how to listen but only the heart knows how to hear ... the words are differentiated by a single letter that holds the space for Truth.

Is the ability to hear the true beginning of sharing? How can I possibly share anything of value if I haven’t heard what the world is saying? If I don’t hear the love and compassion that calls out from within my own heart?

I’ve often been told that I’m a good listener. Looking to past relationships, I was often listening more than speaking. Though, at times, I felt resentful because I felt ‘used’ without my full permission. I allowed others to create the boundaries that often lacked balance. This was on me, not them. They had a need and tried to fill their emptiness by voicing in whatever way they could; my responsibility is to find my own balance.

Speaking is ‘active’ and today’s society is all about the action, the doing. Everyone talking yet few are listening because they’ve burned out and finally the listeners need to be heard as well! The listeners, like the introverts (often one and the same), are not valued. 

And so we find ourselves in a world where no one listens, everyone talks, and the heart of hearing is absent.

I’ve spent most of my adult life speaking through writing, usually only privately, in my journal, because I was listening to others and no one was listening to me. Or so I thought and felt. 

Yet now I realize that I was being heard. There was a reason I wrote and then felt better. Because, by writing, I was hearing myself, hearing my heart, working things out, and, I also knew on some level that when I wrote it was, and is, a sort of prayer, a conversation with Goddess. I write the words and their unspoken vibrations are embraced by The Divine. She hears me, She always has ... in dark times or light, She cries with me and dances with me.

And when I am in nature, She hears my Soul and heart resonating ... and She retunes me like a harp, plucking the strings and tightening or loosening them until I am once more at ease. I’ve been heard. 

Now it’s my turn to hear Her. Maybe that’s where my contemplative writing comes in. I was/do express myself but also I mirror Her calls and concerns, Her needs and gifts, how we dance together. We are One, and when we listen to each other, the stillness is deafening as it becomes a universal symphony spiraling us into galaxies of the heart. Can I share our dance, our song, with others?

Let’s find the balance to listen and truly hear through the heart.

the backpack

I sure would love to take this residual stuff that's making a sticky mess in the bottom of my pack and leave it behind. 
It's hard to get out, though, as it's just a layer of goo at the bottom that hardens in winter and melts again in summer, getting all sticky--it clings to everything it comes in contact with. Although that can be good, because I can put an old belief on it like a rag and wipe up a little bit more each time as they bind together.
In the winter when it hardens, if I bang the pack against a more solid surface, some belief or memory stronger and more empowering, then bits break off and I can up-end the pack and shake and the bits come tumbling out like sharp pebbles that have been weighing me down. But if I'm not careful, they fall and get caught in my shoes, crippling me when I try to walk until I have to pause, look inside, and remove the pesky things.
What I'm looking for right now, though, is the 'goo-be-gone' that smells so citrus-fresh and comes from the Source of Love--from the fruits of all the blessings in my life, the sweetness and juiciness, the beautiful green softness that is the nest of rebirth and renewal. I know I have that bottle of 'goo-be-gone' somewhere; I've caught a glimpse of it before when cleaning out my pack and it took off the rough mud that had built up over years of hiking in all kinds of weather, and it dissolved the gum of all those repetitive thoughts I chewed on and worried over--the thoughts that stuck like burrs to the inside, along the zipper that kept me silent.
But I have to wonder . . . Even if I manage to remove all the goo that is in the bottom of my pack, will it not really matter? I mean, here I am in the midst of changing backpacks! I've been taking out of the old pack the few things that I treasure, that I want to keep, gently placing them inside the new pack. And I plan on just leaving the old one behind, thank it for its service and toss it in the dumpster where it will be buried and composted by the immense power of Mother Earth.
So, really, that old pack with its sticky goo in the bottom is of no use to me anymore. It contains the past that no longer serves, and do I really want to keep digging at the stubborn mess in the bottom? Nah.
I will just toss away the old pack of the past and create new memories of the present wearing the bright purple pack I just bought--the one with all the flowers on it! No need at all to keep picking at the goo trying to get it out, or covering it up constantly with pretty bandannas and yummy snacks. Just let it go, leave it behind. It's as simple as that.
Gosh, how we want to make things so complicated and hard sometimes. Trying to get at it, pick at it, find it again, going back to it over and over ad nauseum. What a waste of precious time and energy that could be spent exploring new trails.
Yup. I've changed packs before so why not again? I change my clothes, so why not the pack?
New backpack for new trails. Move on. Let go.
After all, it's not the pack or what it contains that is important. 
It is the journey--here, now, in the present--that dances my soul ... that is what is important. 
____________________
This piece was inspired from a writing prompt via a 30-day course I'm participating in...

Jan Lundy--Writing for the Health of It.

Yarrow

www.fesflowers.com

A few years ago, Yarrow seemed to be reaching out to me, asking me to include her in the sunshine flower bed. I accepted her invitation and selected four varieties. I was fascinated by them -- their strength and subtlety, the smallness of the flowers belying their sturdiness, and I loved how they created a delightful canopy of blooms atop the tall stem.

With all the issues recently relating to environmental stress and potential radiation increases, I turned to Gaia and Her flowers. Within the world of vibration and energy, the flowers sing of harmony and healing, flooding our being with joy. And Flower Essences are able to share these blessings from blooms across the country or around the world.

There are many vibrational remedies and essences that will help to alleviate the imbalances created within our systems by an overload of radiation and/or environmental toxins. Which one(s) I use and what approach I take with myself, the animals or clients, depends upon where my inner guide is leading me in each individual situation.

Because I was once again feeling a strong call by Yarrow, I sought out options for this particular Flower Essence. Recalling that FES had created a blend, although I hadn't explored very many of their essences (there are many flower essence lines available!), I bought a bottle of Yarrow Environmental Essence ("YES") and waited eagerly for its arrival.

YES is a fabulous formula! With the first four drops, I felt it moving through my system smoothly and powerfully; and I loved the odd taste which confirmed that I needed the cleansing, self-healing energy shared by the flowers, plants and crystalline structures within this blend. The sensation reminded me of how, when the Yarrow in my flower bed blooms, I immediately feel like a breath of fresh air has moved through me like Mother Nature's broom! I will continue dosing for a week or so, or until I sense that the clearing I needed can continue on its own without the subtle catalyst shared by the flowers.

Just say YES!

Together We Pray

I stand before you, stripped of all pretense, naked in my Self, my heart full of love.

I stand here in supplication, offering my Self, to receive wisdom and guidance.

I look up and become lost Your radiance, my heart open and waiting. We are One. I feel a rush of energy sweep up and over, and I am filled with color.

She wraps her cloak around me and together we pray.

We stand before the Light, beaming down to draw our highest good into clarity and focus. I see Her before me and yet She is within. She becomes the One who sheds her cocoon, dropping the cloak, and it falls like a river of silk, landing in a puddle of folds at my feet. She shows me my own divinity. I see my Self in Her eyes and feel Her love. Together we pray, our hearts open.

She is my larger Self, the grand dame of our shared vision, and I am in awe of Her potential. She moves unafraid and confident, facing each moment in perfect equanimity and wisdom. She is the fairy of the garden, soaring and hovering, always near but rarely seen until I pause in stillness. When I pause, I feel Her gentle cloak, Her sparkling hair as the tendrils float upon the air, Her face glows as if drenched in morning sun and diamond dewdrops, and her hands are the vessels that catch and hold my tears. Her hands caress my heart, cradling the ache, cupping my pain until it melts from Her warmth to dribble away through Her fingers, falling harmlessly now, cleansed and seen - visible tears, crystal clear. She sees me in my Truth, She sees the real me and still She loves me. The wonder I feel in Her presence is one of such deep gratitude and peace that I could stay with Her forever in the these moments of bliss. And together we pray.

Our hearts are One. She is not 'out there' but is instead always right here as I clasp my hands over my heart and feel Her within. Knowing this gift is almost more than I can bear but yet makes all the suffering that has gone before knowing worth it. Knowing now that Her hands were clasping within mine, our hearts were beating in Unity, She was smiling through my tears and her hands touching, holding, were and are my solace.

She is my Self and Spirit and Source of All without separation or limitation.

Her hands write the story of my life and carry the love in my heart. Her hands touch me on all levels of being, and Her touch tells me I am fine, loved, beautiful, smart, strong, confident here and now. Her hands hold me when I stumble, and She waits until I am steady again. And She is always here. And together we pray.

As I bring my hands together I feel Her presence, Her hands are an overlay upon mine like the thinnest of silk gloves woven from the gossamer of angels' wings released to grow anew. Gloves of love.

And when my time comes to depart this body, She will rise with me and we will hold hands, mine in Hers and Hers in mine for She is the pure love in touching.

She is the healing energy within our hands, and She is with me whenever I reach out to others or inward to Self. Every touch is a prayer.

And together we pray.

______________________

As someone who is a spiritual eclectic, I used to feel uncomfortable with the word "pray" as it brought me into thoughts of religious dogma. However, I feel grateful to have reached a point in my spiritual journey where I can feel the purity of prayer in all its myriad forms (from meditation to contemplation, from ritual to spells, and beyond). I also open to the non-gendered Infinite Spirit, Source of all that is ever within and without everything that exists or is the unseen. My heart and spirit know 'that which cannot be named' yet I relate to Her, the Sacred Feminine, in order to connect with Source. May we all know peace in The Divine.

___________

SoulCards® Deborah Koff-Chapin, Center for Touch Drawing