When I die This is what I wish Please sing to me Until your voices join
In the ocean of becoming. All life rises together. Falls together. Not one without the other. Not other without the one.
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?
Do not fight life Fight with all that is within you, that is against Life. Abuse, cruelty, injustices, homelessness, war, ignorance.
Sitting here among my blooms, knowing Autumn will come too soon. Overworked bees diligently strive to carry nectar to the hive.
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.
How to write about such a thing as a master plant intelligence, consciousness.
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.
My breath is the wind. Let it soothe and touch you. My eyes the stars