Roots and Wings

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...

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 ...

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 ...

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...

There comes a time when no answers could be found in words,and no comfort in movement.Only silence remained-vast,ancient,alive... She no longer seeks outward validation, nor does she yearn for the destruction of the past. Her body, once restless in its longing, now speaks a different language—a calling not of fleeting desires but of something higher. Celibacy is not a denial; it is a vessel for deeper connection with herself and the unseen forces guiding her. It is a cleansing, a renewal. In this stillness, she listens, attuned to the rhythm of her body, its wisdom, its quiet power. She discovers an energy more potent than anything she has ever known. But the journey is not without trials. There are days when loneliness moves like an old wound, aching to be reopened. She watches as relationships bloom around her, as people find comfort in each other while she walks alone. Her body sometimes aches—not just for touch, but for the warmth of deep connection. Yet, she understands now: true ...