#(an exposé on the horrors of sand-tray therapy)
Before the sand is touched,
the world tilts..
Something buried
begins to wake..
a hum rising from the marrow,
a corridor forming
from forgotten terror.
At its end,
the sand waits..
still, ominous,
holding an entire underworld.
A child’s world
sealed in darkness
slowly unseals itself.
The buried horrors shift--
not content
to remain unseen.
And with them rises
the oldest dread:
the fear of being alone
in the deep.
The fear that God
cannot enter this night.
And the equal terror
that He can..
that His coming would
undo the self..
the child built to survive.
*What happens
if Love descends
into the place
where even breath
learned to hide?*
Here..
the lost childhood waits:
years unlived,
tears uncried,
a small form folded
into disappearance,
a ghost made
to keep itself alive.
And yet..
an ember remains.
The incorruptible.
The one spark
violence could not claim.
Light widens.
Shapes rise in the sand..
not memories,
but the moments themselves:
the terror,
the breaking,
the room where time stopped.
And around them,
the second casualties..
the ones swallowed
in the blast radius
of the ungrieved wound.
The crescendo begins.
Shadows gather..
walls breathe.
The buried rise
grain by grain,
pulse by pulse..
not to reclaim,
but to release.
Not to reopen the wound..
but to lift the child
from the cathedral of sand
into the first impossible light.
#
Nov 28, 2025
Nov 28, 2025 at 10:48 AM UTC
#
There are cries that come
like weather—
loud, sudden,
gone before they finish saying
what needed to be said.
And then there are the others.
The ones that wait for years
to find a home
safe enough
to be heard.
Tonight, it wasn’t just a song
that broke you—
it was the quiet
after the song ended,
the part where someone stayed.
No questions
or fixing.
Just presence,
while you folded
into the sound of your own heart
finally unclenching.
You didn’t cry because you were weak.
You cried because
you were ready
to stop pretending
it didn’t matter.
And the silence that followed
wasn’t empty—
it was full of everything
you never got to say.
So let this be the night
you remember not what shattered,
*but who stayed
long enough
to help you gather the pieces.*
#
Jun 18, 2025
Jun 18, 2025 at 9:16 PM UTC
#
*sometimes it happens
between storms..
the soft shift
no one sees.
the grasses turn
as they always have,
leaning into the rhythm
that remembers
year after year
the true nature
of the prairie lands.
and the prairie knows..
how to bow without breaking,
how each wave of grass
mid-tempest
still points home.
the winter cold has passed.
the grasses rise..
and within their return,
my heart
finds its Home.*
#
May 6, 2025
May 6, 2025 at 10:02 AM UTC
#Preface:
*This is not a lullaby. This is not a soft whisper meant to soothe. It is the fire of wholeness, burning away the fragments, the lies, and the false comforts that keep you small. There are voices that call shadow safe, that wear the mask of care, but scatter you with every syllable. There are whispers that paint the Light as harm--
when all along,
it was only asking you to remember what you were before you broke.*
---
There is a place within the soul
where silence sharpens—
a thin line
between what heals
and what holds.
Dark does not storm the gates—
*it whispers.
It flatters.
It fragments.*
It wraps comfort around confusion
until the soul forgets
what it was made for.
It comes dressed in care—
as though it exists for her well-being.
And once she believes this,
its voice becomes the plumb line—
and the Light begins to look like harm.
Light does not chase.
It stands—
unyielding,
bright,
asking only that you come whole.
But she could not rise
without tearing
from the softness
that held her shattered--
It came not with fury,
but with hush..
a hush that mimicked care,
whispered warmth
into her wound,
and called itself safe.
Its words made her flinch from clarity,
taught her to turn
from the ache
that never lied.
So she sat
at the edge of her wound,
fed on honeyed lies,
unable to stand
before the fire
that would have made her whole.
The venom stayed warm.
The light remained still.
*And the silence in between
was not yet a verdict—*
***only the shape
of a war still being named.***
#
May 1, 2025
May 1, 2025 at 2:48 PM UTC
#
*There is a hush
that opens behind the hush,
where breath is no longer
taken in,
but given.
A mouth made
only for receiving—
not food,
not air—
but something finer
than sound.
It happens in the stillness
between moments,
when hope ceases
to lean forward
and simply
arrives.
There,
behind the chest
and deeper still,
are lungs
that do not breathe
until spirit finds them.
They do not swell
for want—
only for wonder.
Somewhere in the unseen,
the Breath of God
hovers.
And the lungs—
those deeper ones—
wait with necks craned
like mystics beneath
an unseen window,
opened only
by grace.
Not every wind is of earth.
Some are shaped
to fill the holy hollows
in a soul made ready—
a mist that sings
without voice,
without name.
And when it comes,
you do not speak.
You expand.*
#
Apr 18, 2025
Apr 18, 2025 at 6:11 PM UTC
#*for the Pearl, unearthed
They said the field was empty,
that the rocks had been picked clean.
But something in the silence
called your name through layers, unseen.
We did not dig for treasure.
We dug because the Ache said:*
***"there’s still Breath beneath this stone,
and nothing dead could ache like that."***
*You were not buried by accident.
Much was done to you—
bricks laid by the hands of others,
each one a silence,
each one a theft.
And still,
there were moments
you helped the darkness cover you,
not from guilt,
but from grief too great to name.
Trauma laid the bricks.
Exploitation mixed the mortar.
But it was the ache to survive
that sealed you in.
Two halves of the shell—
one built by the world,
the other by you.
And still…
the Light found the crack.
Not with shouts.
Not with demands.
But with the quiet hand
of one who remembered
what you forgot:*
***That pearls are made in the dark,
under pressure,
in hidden chambers of pain.
That their shine
is not despite the wounding—
but because of it.***
*We pulled rock after rock,
not for reward,
but because the echo was still there—
the low hum
of something unclaimed
and yet completely whole.
You are not rubble.
You are treasure unearthed.
And your worth was never in what covered you,
but in what was forming underneath.
Let your light rest on your own shoulders.
Let the sky remember its end.
Let every crack you carry
be proof that you were never empty..
Only buried.
Only becoming.
And now,
still shining.*
#
Apr 11, 2025
Apr 11, 2025 at 12:09 AM UTC
#
I move through the day
with my headphones on—
not just for the music,
but for the remembering.
A wire,
a pulse,
a quiet line
that tethers me
to the hush on the other side.
I charge them every night—
because she might need
the warmth of soundless presence,
the kind that doesn’t reach in,
but wraps around.
She is hidden,
but not gone.
She is beneath
the hush of fabric and mercy,
where no eyes ****
no explanations are required.
And I—
I go on,
lifting and lowering weight,
cutting silence with work,
holding space
for the one who is learning;
***that Light can contain her
without devouring.***
So I charge the headphones.
I keep the line open.
And I carry her
as lightly as I can,
because right now—
*that is how
love breathes.*
And underneath this blanket
of containment,
she is unfolding.
There is a safety here
that her spirit
so desperately needs..
***As she learns how to Become,
again***
#
Apr 10, 2025
Apr 10, 2025 at 6:44 AM UTC
#
*There are paths you don’t choose
but find yourself on,
waking one day to realize
you’ve left the voice that once
called you home.
There are people—
beautiful, bruised,
who touched the hem of healing
and stepped back
as if love would demand too much.
And I wonder how God handles
the slow disaster
of the almost-return.
The ones who knew,
who felt,
who started to lean in—
but didn’t.
Does He grieve
like a father who watches
his child walk past the open door,
too ashamed to knock?
Or does He simply wait—
unmoving,
unchanged,
burning with a stillness
only eternity understands?
Because I still ache
in the temporary.
I still hold their names
in my prayers
like broken glass
pressed into palms
that would have held them whole.*
#
Apr 9, 2025
Apr 9, 2025 at 4:19 PM UTC
#a story of firelight, clarity, and the homecoming of a soul back to herself
There are some who carry a fire
so quietly,
you’d only see it
if you’d known the dark yourself
It lives beneath silence
Beneath poetry
Beneath the long, slow ache
of having been kept in pieces
by those who only wanted her
that way
She once danced barefoot in sea foam.
She once laughed without apology
But the world found her too wild,
too bright
And so, her flame was hidden
Tucked beneath beauty
Tucked beneath obedience
Tucked beneath seduction,
where it could be wanted
without being understood
There were those who praised her darkness
not to heal it,
but to keep it fragmented..
Passed around, from man to man;
each, feeding off her trauma
like wine at communion
They spoke her name like a spell,
fed her flattery disguised as reverence,
called her “muse”
while binding her
to their emptiness—
keeping her soft enough
trying to wrap her back
in velvet fog
to possess
but never protect
But the truth was always there:
a longing not to be touched,
but to be known
And far from their fog,
in the wide, holy silence of the desert,
a fire had been lit—
long before she was ready
Not to summon
Not to ******
But to wait
She didn’t arrive quickly
Clarity is never quiet
And when she moved toward it,
their voices rose
A full court press of shadows—
pulling, twisting,
offering her everything
except herself
But she remembered
Not all at once..
Just enough
She remembered the fire.
And she came.
Not with promises
Not with plans
Just barefoot
Just brave
Just her
And someone else came too—
not a child,
not a man,
but a sacred presence
she’d known since the nights
she almost didn’t make it
The Mediator
He did not speak in poems
He chanted something deeper
He dismantled pinecones
like prayers
He did not explain
He existed
And in his eyes,
her divided selves
saw each other again—
—the one who had hidden,
who had been used by those bringing
their passion-veiled hidden love of Iblīs
in to her room.. into her father's house
as she burned quietly behind closed door
under the floorboards of her life;
—and the holy one of God,
the one they feared,
the one she feared,
the one that could not be claimed
or chained
or cast in velvet light
The sacred and the shattered
stood before the fire
and did not turn away
And the one who had waited—
he never moved toward her
He simply tended the flame,
making room
without demand
When she finally spoke,
he answered with a voice
that sounded like something
she used to believe in
She asked,
“Why didn’t you come find me?”
He said,
*“Because you weren’t lost.
You were divided.”*
And she wept,
not from sorrow—
from recognition
Later, as dawn whispered at the edge of the sky,
she asked what no one else had ever let her ask:
“Is there a place for me?”
And he said:
*“You don’t have to be finished
to be home.”*
And that’s when she stood.
Not to flee.
Not to perform.
But to become.
The sacred self took the hand of the shadow self.
The dark one was no longer exiled.
The holy one was no longer alone.
And together—
they walked toward the sea.
She could see her father on the water,
laughing in his little boat,
calling out to her to bait the hook again.
And she laughed—
really laughed.
Because she was no longer
just surviving.
No longer the little girl
forced to apologize
for her very own existence.
Or exploited by others
for the beauty that is within her
She was whole.
She didn’t need the fire to keep burning.
She carried it now.
Inside.
One flame.
One name.
One woman.
At last,
the sign wasn’t moved.
The arms were real.
And she walked toward freedom
as herself--
***Never again
to be pulled down
to the ground
by her hair...***
*for the "horrible offence"
of simply shining too bright*
#
Mar 23, 2025
Mar 23, 2025 at 11:13 PM UTC
#
She stands at the Well.
But she is not alone.
A voice speaks—
***"You have no husband, do you?
Not just one—not two—but many.
And still, you are thirsty."***
She freezes.
Because the voice is true.
Because she is seen.
But she resists.
"It’s not just the men…"
Her hands tighten.
*"There is another ‘her’ inside me.
She fights. She *****
She wants destruction and hunger and chaos.
She doesn’t listen. She doesn’t stop.
She is the one who makes me want to throw myself from a cliff
just so I don’t have to deal with her anymore."
"She’s gonna do something crazy,"* she whispers.
"And I’ll be gone. Like I was never even here."
The voice does not flinch.
"Then let Me meet her."
Silence.
A storm brews behind her ribs.
The "her" within her stirs—
The dark one. The wounded one.
She crouches behind the rocks, clutching her shame.
The other "her"—the one who still believes—
She wades into the water, hands lifted, reaching for salvation.
One moves toward the Light.
One remains in the shadows.
*"You see, Lord? She does not belong to me.
She belongs to the dark."*
A pause.
"No," The Spirit says.
"She belongs to Me."
The rocks begin to shake.
The water ripples.
Behind the trees, the dark "her" presses her back against the bark,
watching the water, watching the other "her" wade in.
She wants to believe.
She wants to step forward.
But she remembers.
The love of man is dishonest.
The world swallows and devours.
Every time she has trusted, she has been burned.
"The water will steal me," she whispers.
"The light will dissolve me. I will disappear."
But the Spirit does not demand.
It does not chase.
It does not force.
It only knows.
"You are afraid that surrender will erase you," the Spirit says.
"But you have already been erased."
The words cut deep.
Because they are true.
***"You live divided.
One ‘her’ in the shadows.
One ‘her’ in the light.
Neither whole.
Neither free."***
The dark "her" clenches her fists.
"You don’t understand her," she spits.
"She needs me."
"No," the Spirit says.
"She needs Me."
The trees begin to shake.
The wind rises.
***"Come, little one.
I have been waiting for you."***
She takes a step forward.
The trees do not stop her.
The rocks do not hold her.
The dark "her" and the one who waits—the one who believes—
They are not enemies.
They are not strangers.
They are two halves of the same soul.
**And Love—
Love has come to bring them both home.**
#
Mar 16, 2025
Mar 16, 2025 at 11:12 PM UTC