As I read The Great Cosmic Mother by Monica Sjöö and Barbara Mor, I approached the literature with a tender heart and an open mind.

I rose later than I’d planned, or than I desired, if I’m being honest. You know those days when you set intentions, sketch a rhythm, even imagine the energy you want to feel by bedtime, and then it slips? That was today.

Lately, I’ve been exploring the caverns of my psyche, unintentionally in the conscious sense, but undeniably led by the undercurrent of my soul. There were questions lodged in my spirit that no spreadsheet, no sermon, no well-meaning friend could resolve.

i don’t know who needs to hear this. maybe it’s a reminder for me. but crumbs? we’re not receiving that. not in this timeline. not in this frequency. not in this version of you who has walked through fire, bathed in ash, risen like a whole phoenix and still managed to serve softness on a silver platter.

Today, I found myself wrapped in the kind of simplicity that reminds you you’re alive. Warm coffee in hand. Soft jazz murmuring in the background. And a worn paperback copy of The Awakening by Kate Chopin resting gently in my lap. I made it to page 21 when something stilled me.

I’ve been thinking a lot about ships lately — how they’re meant to carry us somewhere. How they aren’t just structures floating for the sake of floating, but vessels. Made to move. Made to navigate. Made to arrive. They call it a relation-ship for a reason.

beneath what eyes can see lies her inner chamber, a sacred sanctuary where her soul is at ease, thriving freely. the only home she'll ever truly know as she's divinely guided. in her solitude, weaving her tapestry with threads of genius and independence of thought.