You stood before me, held my hands in yours truly. You spoke with an unwavering faith in WE...
Without Joan of Arc, there may be no France. Both her tongue and wit were as sharp as the sword she later carried.
Winter is the womb where Spring finds the room, to give way to Summer where she is in full bloom. Then falls into Autumn like the leaves to their resting tomb. Home again. We find ourselves. In the deep Winter of our womb.
Guest Writer This Week! Featuring a poem about women who not only run with wolves, they dance.
"Compassion is a call, a demand of nature, to relieve the unhappy as hunger is a natural call for food." - The Patron Saint of Prostitutes
Guest Writer, Lilith Lavender writes on reconciling with misogyny. Thank you for inspiring me to show up in the world and to dare to be seen.
A quote from the inner landscape - the wild that brings you home.
To those who dare to wander and find, your truth to no longer feel hopelessly blind.