I am a priestess.


A priestess of this land, of the cedar tree, of the waterfall.

I give offerings of heart-shaped stones.


My heart.


I am stone. I carry the wisdom of generations.

Of centuries.

I carry memories of tumbling rivers and

lava flows and

moss growing slowly,



I come to the water for healing.

The wind lifts me

up up up

to see the grander view.

I hover over tree tops.


I am an eagle.

My vision is clear.

My wings are freedom.

My voice is truth.


There is joy here under this rushing waterfall.

There is a remembering of love,

of gratitude,

of connecting with my sisters.


My sister priestesses.


I love them and they love me.


Our temple is this body,

the embodiment of earth magic—

curves and twists and juicy flowing delicious gorgeousness

of smooth skin

hard bone


shining eyes


truth and divinity and

sacred dark places

where mystery lives.


Where magic lives.


Our temple is the waterfall

the cedar tree

the muddy decay in moss and soil and pine cones.


Our temple is the sky

the volcano

the rose.


It is all holy.

It is all of the Goddess.

It is all possibility and

loving and

grieving and


singing a song you didn’t know was in you.


My sacred gift is to speak,

to write,

to honor the temple of the Goddess.

To live a truth that had long been forgotten.


The heart remembers.