Sharon Ann Rose 11/2019
I’m putting pressure on myself.
The kind of pressure that holds you down. And holds you back.
Keeps defining your future steps in a certain way.
The kind of pressure that quakes in the face of death.
And runs hiding from the face of life.
You know… THAT kind of pressure.
And my chest burns with its impact.
Feeling all the well-intentioned and well-meaning selective actions I’ve taken.
Measured. Thought out. Like a cinched waistline that doesn’t want to reveal any curves.
Forge the Tiniest Crack
There is a place we each must journey to.
To face things we’ve been running from
our whole lives.
To face things that caused us to believe we were unworthy. Of love.
So we can settle in to something. To anything.
And rest our tired shoulders upon the unmovable. The essential.
To hunker in to some real kind of warmth.
The kind that darkness and stillness can only provide.
To unfurl within us a welcoming. A startling softness.
Throughout our body
underneath hard edges and encrusted layers,
jagged corners. The ones we’ve been avoiding. Side stepping.
Because we were so afraid to reach out a hand
and feel what rests below their surface.
For in our innocence, we had fully come to believe
they would cut and pierce us to the core.
Standing in front of a glass sliding door. Moonlight streaming in. I’d come downstairs before the sun. Wrapped a long sheer scarf around my body. My bare feet stood atop a black sheep skin poised in the center of the room.
I turned the music on. Quiet. Not to wake anyone.
And began to feel it. Slow and deep. Generating from somewhere between my hips. Pulsating. Circling out from my pelvis. Traveling down my arms. Radiating throughout my belly. Into my legs.
I began to sway. Eyes closed. Head tossed back.
And couldn't stop caressing my own skin. Slow and sincere.
Weeping at the beauty I could feel
inside my own flesh.
This dance wasn’t about anyone or anything outside me.
Nor was my nudity a seductive enticement.
It was about me.
And my connection to the universe.
To the raw force of my aliveness. And the darkness of the sky. The glowing moonlight.
I still somehow remembered.
onto what you claim as love.
Let it slip right from you
so you can ache with its longing
and let that communicate a deeper truth
about our existence.
There are things about Life that are constantly changing.
And things that will forever be the same.
Know the difference.
Breathe with it. Bleed with it.
She said it's much more than about building a house.
It's a lifestyle. It's a movement.
And Portland is at the epicenter.
This is my son. His name is Kordan. And he's 13.
For many years, he's had a dream.
To build a tiny house.
And this year, during 8th grade at his Waldorf school, students are asked to take on a year-long project to deepen their mastery of a skill, grow a passion, and be of service to the community.
So Kordan is building his Tiny Dream.
I was like a wild ravaged woman
legs and arms enmeshed and entwined
around this earth as her lover.
Holding tight. Holding on. Not wanting to let go.
It was time to let go.
I’d given my soul to this land.
Poured my blood each month onto trees
we’d planted on our sons’ birthdays.
I’d buried creatures in the soil.
Painted stones in remembrance with their names.
Resurrected life in ways I can’t explain.
It was time to let go.
Sharon lives by the guidance of her wild heart. And supports humanity in listening to the Feminine Soul of the Earth. Entrusting ourselves to the power and beauty that creates all life from deep within.