dispatches from the wild interior: Sept. 12, 2020

The Queen of Pentacles asks: What is your work? What makes your hands fire and your feet grass, your heart an arrow and your eyes two oceans conjoined at one narrow but unseverable point? What pulls you so far inward that you become the universe and all its inhabitants, the whole starry mass of us? The only way there is a path made of breath. There is no there, only here and but here is a journey too. Everything soft in you knows the way.