what comes after the falling away.
As the colder months set in back in 2025, my body stopped whispering and began SCREAMING at me through my pain biofield - forcing me to slow waaaay tf down. In my state of whiplash, I had no other choice than to listen deeply to my body’s needs - learn to be with the pain that comes with physical and energetic inflammation.
My body tender tender. My heart breaking open to the horrors of this world, anxiety on high, my compassion well drying up, my wounds oozing and my energy leaks gushing. This physical/ancestral body was past the point of asking. It was pleading to be heard and acknowledged! Not to perform, nor produce, nor conjure. Nope. It wanted presence (and still does). To feel my way into the uncertainty of my life. To feel my way into the domestic and global unravelings/veilings. To listen for my OWN thoughts. To be with MY sensorium
“Let it fall away. Down down down.”
This includes the times where I feed the dark spiral of my on making all the way to the epicenter where all that falls away goes to die & decompose. I stay here for awhile, curled up like a roly-poly bug, surrounded by the damp matter(s) of this human existence. Present. Sensing. Unbeknownst to what is being “sown” across the timelines and dimensions I’m yet to sync up with. After a time, a pin prick of light appears and I slowly spiral my way back up to meet myself - sometimes finding a path to trusted healers and practitioners who have gone before me (bless their gifts, witnessing and council).
The care + aftercare I’m learning to cultivate for myself within and outside of these cycles is precious and beautiful and essential for the world I want to help create. These careways are the anchor points for when the spiralic journey begins again. For when my vitality returns and there are self & Spirit led directives to act upon!
image by @motherwortandrose
As glimpses of spring have their way with me here in the Midwest, as it usually goes this time of year, I’m pulled up and out of the goop just long enough to feel some kind of buzz of contemplation.
What comes after the falling away, this time? This is a question I’ve been suspended inside of these last few weeks. The answer is still floating somewhere. I’m not rushing to create one, either. But what I do feel are two things: 1). there’s an energy here that’s percolating, differently. 2). my dead of winter compost cauldron is reaching it’s maturation phase. Ripening and rife with the breakdown of fallen illusions, identities, relationships, realities, losses, fragmentations. Holding the deepest shed of my lifetime, thus far.
I wonder what’s inside your cauldron? Can you make out their shapes. Feel into their impressions? Remember why they had to fall away? What comes after the falling away for you?
This next part is what I’m excited to share. As I titrate my way up from the depths of my pain biofield, I have space to widen and feel “more” again. And what feels revitalizing to me is the frequency of what’s rising and bubbling from my cauldron. It’s what I’m sensing as the holy effervescence - all fizzy, fermenty, tart - no bullshit of a punch on the tongue - pungent and nutrient-dense-kind-of-thick, if I dare to take a sip and bless myself with it. And, I dare. In the name of the Great Mother, the sun, and the holy cosmos. Amen.
The vibes I’m catching from this holy effervescent - part slurry part soil - booch, is like being drunk with attunement of another kind without the days, weeks, months, years long emotional and energetic hangover that can happen when we fall out of alignement with ourselves and each other. It’s giving, sharpened attunement. To ourselves and each other. To our words, our tongues and throats. To how we make our art, make love and play. To our kinks. To our queerness. To our way of creating and expressing. To our weirdo and our freak. To Spirit and our ancestors. To the currents of the land. To the children. To our human and non human council. To our bodies and organs, cells and dna. To the codes. To our grief, pain and rage. To that which feels discordant, and decaying. To what cannot be seen. To our boundaries, capacity and margin. To rupture, repair, resolution and endings. To our mortality. To the political moment. To the fall of empires.
Say what?!?!? Aren’t we already doing this?!?!
Nah baby. Not like this. This is a leveling up in refinement - the finest of our chord tuning. Oh boi. Yea. I can get in sync and drink to that. But for now, I’ll wait for this winter’s batch to reach full maturation, ready to bestow the blessings of what comes next on my tongue.
And how about for you, what is bubbling up from your cauldron? Do you dare to take a sip? I’m listening.
