What is this occurring?
A change, a transition, a happening;
A movement; a revolution; a contraction;

Why do they call it a sun set?
It is an earth spin: a sun re(turning)

I hold fast to the dream I had when I was a child, before traumas and systemic loopholes were known to me, just subtle impressions pressed upon a sensitive psyche in a periphery;

I wanted to write and be in the wilderness, and advocate for wolves and predators and our kinship and relatability with these beings, and paint them, and teach children how to track and skin animals ~ and I didn’t want any kids of my own, and if I found a partner he would have to live in a separate house ~ and I was in love with Wyoming, and Wyoming was where all of this would take place;

I dreamt of this and wrote for it and spoke of it often, the song of my heart, this great need so bigger than any identity that was carved upon my own authenticity ~ and through wild circumstance, collaboration, and heart full following;

Found myself here, on the stolen lands of the Apsáalooke, in ever-changing Wyoming. 

Found, by following. 

Never lost, although often astray, curious to the scents and sensations so sweetly serenaded in the sidetracks ~

But I always come back here, always feel safe in the communions of sprawling sage, drawing water up from desert arid soils to relieve like a parent amongst its smaller flora kin –

And I am gathered up by the lure of the terrestrial tributaries and their terraforming carvings of canyon crawls;

Beloved is this place, our common ground, and I touch the land with my hands to feel the stability of their force and I bow to the impermanence of my glaring mortality. How wholly is this, that I will return, that I can even be, and how marvelous and humbling it is to see;

That I am shaped by the kinship with these beings around and within me,
That I am a guest here,
That I am bound by design to give back to the soils
And come around again through the mycelial gestation
Into the roots of a cottonwood tree.

Here are the names of these entities as they have been identified to me;

But what are the names but a singular identity and often, we come to realize, such a topical thing, previously dismissive of the greater connectivity ~

That one cannot exist without another.
We cannot persist
Without participation in this.

Warming up a way with words requires a careful conscience in consciousness.

How to create narrative without the urge to dictate;
Classify;
Dissect;
thereby Nullify in essence.
How to translate and transform and transcend
Not by bypassing,
not by assigning literal meaning,
but my unfolding fully
into the breadth of discomforts,

Accountability. Activity.

Ceremonious living in the heart
of touching our surroundings purely.

This is what pulses beneath all that labeling.

Blood flows to my fingers.

I have not been entirely atrophied, but patiently, there is the unfurling from metabolizing in a skillful torpor of deep

Wholehearted
Wholebodied
Listening.
Harvesting. Gathering.

My impulse is to sabotage every entry and start over, start fresh, perfect it, fine-tune the nuances of these creations ~

But this is a loophole habit built by an unsustainable loophole system that i am mending in the process of returning:

The experience of belonging beyond the rhetoric of our reckless, selfish claiming.

This narrative that chases me but not just me, but many, l have come to see, those who honor and hone our sensitivities to hear and be in tune with this great being that supports us, made us, and gave us the tools to be ~

this earth – our environmental harmonium:

(And for that, we owe our complete allegiance to in our collaborative response-ability)

But I look down this passageway from whence I blazed:
this is where we come from, and this is the path taken, and this is growth, an expansion, a development, an imperfect, unfettered;
beautifully messy
manic maybe
(Collaborative Narration still becoming)
But what’s manic when it’s just a term for wild impulsive meandering;
(and privilege; and cleverness; and feeling how people are just raised to lie and live in blissful dishonesty as part of the bewilderment from the trajectory that brought us all here to this unfolding catastrophe – this self-consuming cycle idea that it has to be this way for change:
Bull.shit.)

What myths are we collectively upending?

The myth that catastrophe must always be the catalyst for change.

I’m not suggesting utopia, as lessons in the wilderness has taught me the true spiraling cycle of things, what might be considered indifference, but I am furthering my writing to disengage from the slanders that bewilder that meaning ~

And the damage in the labeling is rendered from a severance from our nature, and a nurturing is necessary ~

I keep repeating.

This is the loophole that was built upon the behaviors of our impressionable psyche as those who have benefitted greatly and gratefully from the mistakes made by our historic tragedies.

This not guilt from which I am speaking. This is addressing how this narrative continues to impact our ability to relate to this day.

How do you expect to not carry on the effects of being raised on lies in our language –

Observe with me here;

The myth of the breakdown: breakthrough ~
(and what it takes to mend this tattered tapestry
is conscious communications in glaring glowing heart space)

If his/story was built upon stolen bodies on stolen land;
Observe with me how the trail of this trauma
That pampered our privilege
and controlled the narrative
and marginalized the voices
and wrought harm on Black + Indigenous bodies
who have carried the rest of us through
every tumultuous tempest
of our slipstream riding fast currently:

Has made us passive or neutral
in our interactions with our world ~

Written, and forged, under the oppressive reign of white supremacy.
Illusions crafted in superiority, in the dominion over all and the entitlement of dominion – such a farce, such fallacy! Imagine what manipulations that requires to uphold this poisoned legacy! 

Notice the controlling aspects of how we converse: we tell you what to do, and how to be, and make such divisive judgements accordingly – all a mind game, smoke and mirrors, pressing that confusion with shame and distortion.

The truth was never pretty, but what made you think that ignoring it through empty platitudes would ever make it easy?

I was made in this false image. Their facades were my illusions too: my normalization of abuse, my pressure to desensitize;

And I remember for as far back as I could recall the refusal to deny the wrench in my gut and my resistance give into the institutions of thinking built upon this destructive, consumer-centric entity;

(It’s why I always ran, it’s why I was the loner in every space, it’s why I always destroyed my own foundations: I was raised without roots, without knowing how to truly care for anything; did not know how it was that my depression came from the painful re-arrangements that I had to make to just be in the company of my kin ~ but always distant too, feeling without guidance, just made my own way; before I knew how to protect myself, before I knew the tools of boundaries; where all the access was white-washed in the depthless image that had been driven forcefully to manipulate it all – and I knew, somewhere, but I did not know, until the narrative expanded past my own influenced lens and I read the stories and heard the voices of those who have been under this oppression longer than I have known life and there was the missing key that solved the riddle that I could not name on my own)

As I observe again with feeling this arriving to be concise with my writing and my words;

I recognize the amount of bullshit that is so deeply layered and impressed upon our behaviors and see just how deep the damage goes:

But find resistance not in the dramatic obsession with the depression identity:

But the liberation from it:
The fearless recognition of where it comes from and why it is
That I lived in their loopholes;

Their vicious cycles became mine
and by this naming
can set it free

respin, go a different way:

here we are, once again, standing at the ruins of our need for opportunity

What a myth. What a delusion. What a travesty.

find balance: clarity: patiently.

I dream of a life where I chase wild animals
and write for the love of this earth
(for that is love, indeed, giving into the joys of collaborating)

And that is the beautiful anchor in the drift
that I hold fast for in the wreckage of our waking.

This is my touchstone when the all-consuming
ravenous creature conjured from the swamps
of this invention, this cesspool
Looms so high, so big, so disgusting
All around me, high above me.

But never alone, as I was molded to fear
Together, every impact a ripple cast
on the finest web of our making.

Take heart, and watch – it is changing.
Transitioning
And what is shape shifting is never without
the discomforts of waking up and coming back
to our sensations of feeling.

That’s all it is.

The call to be wilder of these bewilderments
starts with the spark of paying attention to how it is
that we build our relationships through our communicating.

What do you say, and how do you listen – the give and receive that is inherent of any exchange.

What I have noticed are our quick dismissals into passive assumption without direct access to truth and when I hear the exasperated excuse of those who don’t know what truth is the offering is to surrender into the feeling: the common sensing.

Shake off the arrogant claim that weighs when we say that reality is an illusion.
Refuse the words that disenchant and disengage.
Pay attention to those who speak with heart and in alignment with their darkness, in the balance of imperfections, who name their loopholes, who study a field with passion and empathy ~

Recognize:
Depression: a mental loophole of judging self worth by unnatural standards (haunted still by the internalizations of the past as it was made and our voices choked by the means made to keep it a loophole spinning in the same way)
Anxiety: a projection of the worst before it ever arrives (a fear of a future known only to be on the same inward spin as what came before us and shaped this particular continous projectioning)

And our bodies carry the score and we were conditioned to resist our need to love in and through our beloved bodies.
A simple address to return to a mindful presence with whatever tools necessary for healing:
but not without acknowledging the process to how we got here and what still needs caretaking.

There is a great need to build a bridge between science and spiritual nuance.

Words arrive with baggage and carry an outdated meaning and when I say spirit I mean the sensation of connection and unique instinct that resides in every being. When you see where we come from, and what fabricated our separation from source and place and community:

Those finer threads can be gathered back together.
A reconciliation of our understanding.

Healing at the roots of our imaginings that were falsely re-written

To uphold a system that exploits, extracts, and uses fear as a way of wrapping it all up in an obscurity. Apocalyptic Ingenuity. What a poison with toxins that can paralyze.

Touch the ground, this is real.
Feel that hurt, it is our teacher.
Curate our words, they are our tools.

Listen closely, carefully –
not just with your ears and your mind
but with your body, an ecosystem,

Woven from multitudes
Dimensions of perspectives
our communion in belonging.

A great, glorious, wild cacophony.

Here’s the point, following the edge:
If we have been down this road before,
as made evident by the truths we are unveiling:
where do we go now, and how do we lead
out of the loophole and into a wholeness –
Walk in stride with a spiral unwinding ~
Centering again, keep going, keep moving

Never stop creating, never stop pulling
change change the only constant is change
become fluid with our liberations

Wake up, they say ~

take our hands

and come back
and touch the place
that holds us.