She is I and I am her, often forgetting my worth. Working the world of shadows. Merging, rebirthing, dividing. Stripped of a selfhood as I change clothes. Writing words offers a solace reminder of the journey. My place a bead of dew on the web of Life.

My joy, I relish in it. I’m nurturing it to expand and root into me, to penetrate the deepest layers of my realized self. To stroke the back of my wounded parts and accept the feel good nature of being good, at my core.

On my back I have but one sack. What can fit may go, leave everything else behind. Is there anything I need to keep me safe? Is there anything I want to keep me entertained? Or is the road ahead paved with those prizes? I guess that’s the scariest part of all is not knowing what I’ll face.

Freedom in commitment. Freedom in consistency. Maturing the masculine requires self created boundaries. A container, a structure for which the wild woman, the free spirit can thrive. Without clear definition I am lost amongst the swirl of emotional tides.