thoughts on moving out of a dark, basement apartment

I write to you from the holy well of my own information, my own knowing. The instinctual, wild, intuitive self that does not ask "why?", or want details, or to know the logic of things. But just follows the smell, the track, the scent of what is true.

I write to you from a place of deep, internal slowness. Slowness that can manifest as quickness, or pause on the outside. A slowness that is not dictated by speed, in and of itself, but stretches vast, across space, encompassing time.

There is tremor in me, a quiver. That speaks to me when I imagine myself encountering the world. The world, I mean, the world outside of me. Outside of my own inner oasis.

I am breaking down the barrier between “internal” and “external”, while knowing how to have energetic sovereignty, or the discernment between what is mine and what is not mine.

There is one who wants to hide inside. Who wants to stay in the dark basement, with only glimpses of the light.

And there is me. Who is so ready to be saturated in the light. To be engulfed and to savor this penetration.

Like warm sunlight caressing and sweetening the skin of my leg this morning.

Enveloping, dancing. I am ready, for the light. I am ready to be warm.

I am ready to be seen.

Written Sept. 2021

WA, USA