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.
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 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
'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 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
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.