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A fire that doesn't Burn

There is a quiet knowing that lives beneath the noise of the world. It does not shout. It does not beg. It simply waits—like a flame that neither flickers nor fades, holding its place in the dark until I am ready to remember. Some days, I wonder what it would be like to live without questions. To move through the world with a script, a guide, a certainty. But purpose, I’ve come to learn, is not always a destination. It is a return. A remembering. A commitment to walk with the unseen, even when the path disappears beneath my feet. My purpose does not announce itself in grand gestures or accolades. It comes in stillness. In the ache to write what can’t be spoken, to love what has been forgotten, to listen when everything else begs for attention. It is the pull I feel when my hands touch the earth, when my words reach another soul, when I choose truth over comfort—again and again. There are days when doubt knocks louder than clarity. When I am tempted to measure my worth by what I produce...
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A search for Sisterhood and Sacred Wisdom

 There are dreams that come like whispers, soft and symbolic. And then there are those that arrive with weight, with presence, with messages wrapped in discomfort. This one unsettled me—not for its strangeness, but for what it stirred in my spirit. In my dream, I saw a Muslim woman—her presence serene, her demeanor modest. I saw her and felt drawn. Not to her outward image alone, but to what she seemed to represent: a chance at sacred friendship, a guide in faith, someone I could learn from and walk with. She approached me and spoke not of God, not of prayer, but of her desire to visit a man and make love to prove her love to him. Then, unexpectedly, she turned to me and asked for my opinion. I began to speak gently, “You see, I have ...” I barely began, when she silenced me with a kiss. It wasn’t a kiss of affection—it was a kiss of interruption. Her lips were covered in painful pimples, full of pus, and as she pulled away, some of it was left on mine. I stood frozen. She told me ...
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Ashes Breathe the Cane

 Some dreams don’t visit—they descend. They tear open something quiet within you and leave you weeping in the dark, unsure if what you felt was past or prophecy, your pain or that of generations. This was such a dream. I didn’t wake gently. I woke drenched in grief, a cry rising from my belly, as if mourning something far older than me. I was back in my village, in a place where the soil still holds stories. An elder grandmother—one whose presence is both familiar and enigmatic—stood speaking softly with someone. Her voice was calm, too calm, as she mentioned my siblings. “They were burned,” she said, “in the sugarcane field.” I froze. Something in me shattered. I walked toward her, heart pounding, demanding answers—“What happened? Where are they?” Her face did not shift. There was no urgency, no grief. Just a haunting stillness. And then—suddenly—I was there. Not just hearing of the place, but in it. The sugarcane field towered around me, thick, dry, ominous. I wasn’t alone. My si...
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When Shadows Aim for Light

In the nights that followed, another dream came. I found myself in a crowded hall, perhaps a conference, when sudden gunshots  shattered the air. Panic erupted around me as everyone scrambled to hide. But strangely, I realized—the bullets were not random. They were aimed at me. I cried out, my heart pounding against my ribs, feeling utterly exposed. Time itself seemed to slow as I watched three bullets speed toward me. And somehow—by instinct, by unseen grace—I dodged each one, narrowly escaping what felt inevitable.When I woke, the fear still clung to my body like a second skin. But beneath the fear, a quiet knowing stirred. The bullets were not just dangers from the outside world—they were old wounds, old fears, aimed at the parts of me still learning to stand tall. Dodging them was not about running from life’s challenges, but about moving differently—listening deeply, trusting the unseen, allowing grace to guide my steps even when the world felt hostile. It became clear: the wo...
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A New Dawn

There are moments when the Earth speaks not through the winds or the rivers, but through the secret corridors of dreams. One such night, when my soul was aching for guidance, a dream came to me—strange, potent, and alive with meaning. In the dream, a green snake appeared. It fixed its gaze upon me—sharp, steady, almost knowing. Before I could move or understand, it lunged forward. Its tongue struck my own, sharp and sudden, as though weaving something unseen between us. Then it began to coil around my chest, my arms, my hands, leaving behind small, swollen marks—boils blooming with pus like infected flowers upon my skin. I woke trembling, the sensation of the snake's touch lingering beneath my ribs. At first, fear gripped me. What had it meant? Was it a warning? A wound? But in the quiet spaces of the following days, a different knowing surfaced. The snake—the ancient symbol of transformation—had not come to harm me. It had come to awaken me. Its bite upon my tongue: a severing of ...
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Her Kneeling Heart

Before the noise,before the forgetting, there was only this:barefoot against the warm soil,breathe tangled with wind and a deep knowing in the bones that the Earth was not something to walk upon- but something to walk with. She walked barefoot across the damp earth, each step a silent prayer. The morning air wrapped around her like a shawl, cool and sacred, filled with breath that was not just her own—but the breath of the living world. She didn’t speak aloud. Words felt too fragile to hold the weight of what she carried. Instead, her body became the offering—feet pressed to soil, hands open to the sky, heart bare to the wind. She did not need to see the Sacred One to know She was there. The Earth had always been more than ground beneath her; She was mother, memory, witness, and womb. No temple ever felt holier than the forest canopy above her. No jewel more radiant than the rivers catching sunlight like secrets in motion. Here, in this quiet remembrance, she understood: the Earth was ...
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When Absence Teaches Presence

She noticed it first in the silence-the way it settled, not heavy but sacred.He was no longer there,yet everything spoke of him.The space he left behind pulsed with memory,not in words or touch,but in breathe.It was in the way her chest ached when she reached for something to say and found only stillness.In the way the wind rustled the trees as if whispering secrets she once shared aloud. She had thought his presence was what grounded her.But now in his absence she began to see.What remained was not emptiness-but invitation. To feel fully.To sit with longing without grasping.To listen to his own heartbeat without the echo of his.For the first time,she was not running.Not filling the space with noise.She stayed.And in staying,she found him again-not in form,but in essence.Not in conversation, but in quiet recognition. Perhaps abeence was never about loss.Perhaps it was the oldest teacher of all,pointing not to what is missing but to what is always here. Not all presence is meant to stay...
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