Posts tagged Rebelle Society
Lessons From the Ocean Current

Hawaii. This place where the sleepy parts of me — those that hide under where concrete covers the song of the land and there is no soil for burying — are stirred to the bone… roused through flower scents, little feral piglets, and Koki frog lullabies.

This place that births through fire and threatens the very patch of land I find myself nestled and fed. Where the ocean is a force that demands reciprocity or else.

Where our kuleana — our sacred duty, is like the ocean current, subtle and strong, and underneath, hidden and a gift, and only reconciled by releasing the struggle of everyday to glide along the path of least resistance. Everything else, and every other effort, is futile and exhausting.

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Crow Medicine

I felt ungainly, awkward next to this creature, as I had been for weeks, grappling with self-directed and deprecating apologies for not enough.

This not enough story was in the final throes of its struggle, reconciling months — no, years — of painful disregard for the fulness one possesses at the center of things, that leads us always… sometimes into those dark spaces that smell of decay.

For this reason, the crow modeled a surrender I was yet to find and longed for under surface composure and Holiday wishes.

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A Fearless Heart : Trust What you Came Here to Do

My mother gave me a necklace on the day of my first moon blood.

September 19, 1996. I am 14 years old. The last of my girlfriends to initiate into womanhood. I don’t remember caring so much. “You’re a woman now,” my mom said, riding in the family van to horse-riding lessons — our weekly mother-daughter pilgrimage to what is wild and free on the inside.

I thought of how being a woman meant mess, and uncomfortable scents and limitations to the frivolity of childhood play. Whether that moment was fueled by a barrage of hormones or a deeper lament for the passing of time I do not know.

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The Rhythm Way

The plains of Navajo sandstone spread their great wings over the land.

Gnarled piñon and juniper trees dodge their Goliath reach to root a tenuous hold in the waffled crypto — sand-swept soil. Gathered ’round their elder council, two little flowers the color of fire, one honeybee, and a thousand unheard stories.

Brother wind, sweeping in great and grainy gusts, travels along the swirls and eddies of ancient rock flow, twisted tree, and made-to-fit stone-washes, continuing his time-honored task of stripping flesh from bones of all who pause in the shadow of forgetfulness.

I am a guest in this harsh landscape.

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Stalking the Wild of Me

This is the power that truly will transform. And it’s clear in those moments, that although I’ve been doing my own messy work in my private messy way, I rarely share it or show it. Surrendering to the rigid and ailing confines of our social and cultural landscape. Thus appearing/being/dancing sterile.

Untouchable. The messy of me hasn’t belonged for fear of the power it possesses.

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Modern Woman. Ancient Wisdom.

"I, like you, am a modern woman. A modern woman with a side of Witch that lives with the benefits and the burdens of a modern world. I, like you, navigate the crevasses of a western culture that has forgotten how to be in rhythm with the earth, and so has forgotten how to be in conversation with soul. I have recognized the incongruencies of my behavior, and so am not exempt. Surprised by my own smallness, my shallow needs to be seen. One day, in spite of me and all the parameters of our modern world, it will burst through me, as it will burst through you and there will be no more small me, as there will be no more small you."

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