She goes to the Deep, Untamed parts of the Forest & is Reborn.

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She goes to the deep parts of the forest—the parts you fear, where the thickets are wild and prickly.

The parts of the forest that are uncharted, untouched, and untamed—where the truth lies wild and unvarnished, split-open and out in the open, like her feelings.

Oh, yes.

She goes to the place where she can feel the ancient fire inside her soul.

And that’s when the drums start

And she dances

And cries

And finally lets herself feel it all

She falls to the earth, she rises towards the sky.

She does not fear being too gritty

She does not fear coming undone

She does not fear how she looks

It does not matter.

For once, it is all about how it feels.

It is all about the pure and utter realness, the honest expression of it all.

It is about the primal joy, the sweaty pain, the laughter and anger

The truth,

Her truth.

'Cause the parts of her that other people have tried to take

Well, they never succeeded—not really.

Not at all.

For she is intact—full as the ripe moon.

She is glorious, this phoenix rising.

She is here.

She roars into the night—

And the mountains, the cool breeze, the damp, dewy grass, the mud and fresh, fragrant blooms in every color—they hear her.

She is heard.

The earth is there, in this darkest yet most precious hour.

The hour of her undoing, the hour where she says f*ck it to the laundry list of other people’s expectations.

Who she once tried to be

To please everyone else

Burns to the ground

And who she truly is, emerges, fresh, bare and soaked in the jeweled richness of moonlight.

It is incredible. Fierce and dripping in those dangerous aquamarine waters of authenticity.

And she can lay her head down onto the earth.

And rest

And be held, finally.

And be seen.

And fall asleep knowing how powerful she truly is—

As the heartbeat of the earth

Reaches up to meet her

Like ivy.

She is so held.

If there was one thing she would never forget—it is that.

She is held.

Through it all.

The earth welcomes her laughter, her howls, her pain, her rage, whispers, and her tears.

She is not too much.

Not. At. All.

She is not too passionate, too emotional, too raw, too vulnerable, too sensitive, too anything.

In this most raw hour—she is completely herself.

All sparkly masks cease to exist

They go up in smoke

She unfolds naked into the breathless wonder that was always written inside her soul, in permanent, midnight blue ink.

And goddamn, there was nothing so completely beautifiul.

Photo: PxHere

©Sarah L. Harvey 2019