Let it reach into the cobwebbed strewn corners of the back closet of your heart and wake you up.
Life is happening. Life is happening!
Love is happening. Love is happening!
Death washes your eyes.
A film you didn’t know was there, drops.
Colors. Vivid bolds are everywhere.
The wind is in an eternal dance with the branches of the trees—how much of this holy waltz have I missed?
My skin is shimmering like Sun rays kissing a river.
The flower garden holds almost too much beauty to bear. I long to be alive enough to see it this way every day.
Death is Life.
Last week they found his body.
Yesterday I found out she’s pregnant.
Today my grandmother is dying.
Tomorrow I facilitate a blessingway.
Life is Death.
The late summer Sun beats strong. Autumn whispers.
Death always seems to come just as the echinaceas are transitioning from full bloom to slightly burned.
Not soon after the time, we found our cat dead in the street. A blind angel returning to the Spirit world.
Not long before the day I was born.
The moment my Mother found out she was dying.
The afternoon Nonna laid down for a nap and took her last breath.
My soulmates.
If I named them all, we’d run out of room. One half of our truest point of interconnection. Look me in the fucking eyes, Death screams.
Death always arrives. It needs no sealed invitation. Bags packed. It’s already on its way.
I don’t know what to do with myself.
Oh, right—clear my calendar so that I may grieve the only way I know how—by being with Life.
I think I should be more uncomfortable here.
This liminal space is a cottage perched on a stormy cliffside where forest becomes ocean.
An inherited home I expect to find myself in again and again.
Did the last version of me who lived here remember to turn off the stove?
I hope there are beeswax candles.
I wonder if anyone watches me behind curtains as I scream and sob and let the waves take my body.
I am more above and more below than ever before.
Did taking large doses of psychedelics prepare me for this? Or did this—this incessant desire to be born through Death—prepare me for that?
Like a good lover—Death is cleaning me out.
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