This came to me one evening, whole.
As a writer, these moments of inspired frenzy are like a port wine buzz or the adrenaline rush of riding river rapids.
When the muse sings, you drop everything else and pick up your pen.
They don’t need to burn us.
We do it to ourselves…
We burn down our passion, conflagrate our intuition, flambé our sense of self.
They don’t need to hunt us.
We hunt ourselves mercilessly,
Gutting our truths, skinning our hearts…
until we are burned out, burned up, burned down.
Until there is only shame and guilt.
Until we no longer know the woman in the mirror.
Put down the matches, sister.
Kindle your intuition, your inner knowing, your bone-deep truths.
Live from your gut, your heart.
You are a wisdom keeper, you are moon-called, you are a witch.
Don’t do their work of fire and fear.
Kindle your candle,
your hearth, your heart.
You were born to truth.