She still grows through cracks in the pavement. Each petal of her wholeness blossoming from a sensual vortex of dusted gold. Calling in her melissae to pollinate the Earth with a message of her return.
I was a child living with an unfathomable free spirit mother and was uncomfortable with Bowie’s colourful strangeness. Part elegant alien, part harlequin he looked like something out of a renaissance Alice in Wonderland court.
Communion is not when we reach out to another, join them in their space, dump the contents of our soul and lose ourselves. Communion is holding so strongly to the self that we are concentrated essence moving through space.
We are rising in a language that is full of emotion, anger and love that it’s as heady as the oils and sage we use. What about the women we are not reaching because we’re so busy speaking our soul’s language that we’ve forgotten the human one?