I was thinking about the thousand different ways to wear a story this past week, as I celebrated one of my favorite collections of holidays: Groundhog Day/Imbolc and Candlemas.
I’m so on the surface. I grow and grow and I’m feeling muddy and ruddy. red earth. from the belly to the belly. clay and jungle bugs and mystery and awakening.
Have you noticed the light? Here, the pink has been kissing the dawn. Soft, so soft, and at dusk, it also blushes.
Persephone doesn’t feel timeless. She looks in the mirror and sees the wrinkles of bark tracing lines on her skin. Underground has its own season.
Spirit Whispers her voice into my ear often. Daily. Sometimes in the night. When I ask her for what she knows, she tells me.
I had a particular crisis. It was around the tail end of my Saturn return and I thought I was going to die.
What stories are inside you mama? What stories are you pregnant with? What stories live and breathe inside of you? What stories are you caught inside of? What stories are you navigating?
It began with a story. It always does, doesn’t it? Sometimes a Story walks into a Room. Sometimes you have to hunt for the Wolf with a bloated belly full of stories and cut open to get to the marrow of Story.
You know the story. The foundation cracks open. The first time was sudden. Shocking perhaps. A maiden, daughter of a goddess, descends to the underworld. To the land of the shades.
Stasha is a storyteller in the rewilded, mythopoetic, feral tradition. She is the maker of The Wild Matryoshka (fb and insta). Home to Wild words, ephemerals at the edges.