Tag Archives: nature

Finding the Forgotten Magic

As the seasons shift, the world enters its slow exhale—trees shedding what no longer serves them, nights growing longer, and the air carrying that quiet hum of winter’s approach. It’s within these seasonal transitions that the Crow often appears in my work: the watcher, the reminder, the truth-teller perched just outside the noise.

And in the distance, the Flame flickers—steady, warm, unwavering.

A symbol of what remains when everything else feels uncertain.

This time of year used to hold a softer magic.

Not the kind sold in commercials or packaged in glittering aisles, but the kind that lived inside simple moments:

Cider simmering on the stove.

Cinnamon, sugar, and butter perfuming the house.

The hum of music mixing with the gentle chaos of cookie dough and warm hands.

Laughter that sounded like bells.

Hot chocolate.

Christmas lights.

The glow of something that didn’t need to be earned, posted, or perfected.

But somewhere between growing up and simply trying to get by, we traded that magic for something else.

The holidays became louder, faster, heavier.

A season once rooted in connection shifted into a frantic scramble of obligation, comparison, and consumer pressure.

The Crow observes this shift from its branch—tilting its head, asking the question we avoid:

“What did you lose when you started rushing?”

The Flame answers softly:

“What mattered most was never supposed to be hurried.”

As adults carrying grief, expectations, estranged relationships, financial stress, old wounds, and the exhaustion of being “on” all the time, holiday magic can feel far away. For some, it even feels painful. The season highlights what’s missing as much as what remains.

But the Crow & Flame remind us:

Magic doesn’t vanish.

Presence does.

So this year, I offer you a gentle challenge—a reclamation:

Slow down. Even a little. Especially when it feels impossible.

Pause long enough to savor something small:

a candle flickering, a nostalgic song, a warm cup between your palms, a quiet moment where no one needs anything from you.

Let the Crow guide you back to awareness.

Let the Flame guide you back to warmth.

Ask yourself:

What do I want my holidays to feel like—not look like, not perform like, but truly feel like?

What traditions still feel nourishing? Which ones feel like obligation?

Where can I invite more meaning and less noise?

Maybe this year, you give yourself permission to celebrate differently.

Maybe you honor grief instead of pretending it’s not there.

Maybe you choose rest over rushing.

Maybe you choose presence over perfection.

Maybe you allow magic to be simple again.

The Crow watches. The Flame glows.

Both remind you of the same truth:

The season’s meaning was never found in hurry—it was always hidden in the quiet places of your own heart.

Take it back.

Slowly.

Tenderly.

One small sacred moment at a time.

The Wolf and the Raven: A Wild Lesson in Companionship, Healing, and the Parts of Ourselves That Still Believe in Each Other

There’s a language spoken in the forests long before humans learned to name their wounds. A quiet, instinctive agreement between a creature of the sky and a creature of the earth:

the raven and the wolf.

They move through the world like a promise made in the dark—

one who sees,

one who hunts,

both who trust.

And if you listen closely, their partnership begins to echo something almost unbearably human.

Ravens call to wolves with a voice sharp as cold air, guiding them toward what waits beyond the next ridge. They are the mapmakers of the sky, tracing possibilities into the wind.

Sometimes, in our hardest seasons, we need a “raven” in our lives—

someone whose view isn’t blurred by the storm in our chest.

Someone who can see the exit when all we see are walls.

Someone who whispers, “This way. There’s more for you than the fear you’re standing in.”

It is sacred work, letting another person widen your world.

And terrifying, if you spent years learning not to rely on anyone.

Wolves crack open the heavy carcasses that ravens cannot enter alone. They make the impossible reachable.

Healing feels like that sometimes—

standing before a memory too large to approach,

a grief too dense to hold,

a story your hands are too tired to pry open.

Then someone sits beside you—

a friend, a therapist, a partner,

someone who doesn’t flinch at your trembling—

and their presence becomes the strength you borrow.

Not because you are weak,

but because some doors were never meant to be unlocked alone.

Ravens have been known to watch over wolf pups—dark wings protecting small bodies, calling warnings into the trees.

Wolves return the favor simply by being wolves:

loyal, fierce, unyielding in their devotion.

In human terms, this looks like the people who check on you after the panic attack hits.

The ones who notice when your voice goes small.

The ones who remind you what’s real when trauma drags you into yesterday.

The ones who say, “I’m here,” and mean it with their whole being.

Healing is not self-sufficiency.

Healing is safe connection.

In old stories, the wolf and raven appear as sacred companions.

Strength and sight.

Instinct and intuition.

Earth and sky.

Together, they represent a truth we resist but desperately need:

We are not meant to heal the parts of us that howl without also listening to the parts that know how to fly.

Inside you, there is a wolf—

the survivor,

the fighter,

the part that made sure you stayed alive.

Inside you, there is a raven—

the intuitive one,

the watcher,

the part that knows when it’s time to soften.

Healing happens when they stop tearing each other apart.

When your strength learns to trust your sensitivity.

When your vigilance stops mistaking safety for danger.

When your intuition is no longer exiled from the pack.

The Wild Truth: We Heal Through Partnership, Not Isolation.

The wolf does not apologize for needing the raven.

The raven does not shrink for needing the wolf.

There is no shame in interdependence.

Only survival woven into something beautiful.

Maybe we are more like them than we realize—

built for connection,

wired for companionship,

meant to be seen from above and protected from beside.

Maybe the part of you that is tired of being strong is simply longing for a raven.

Maybe the part of you that sees too much from the sky is longing for a wolf.

Either way, both parts belong.

Both parts are sacred.

Both parts deserve a place in the story of your healing.

Feral Instinct

There’s a moment trauma survivors know all too well: that sudden snap inside the body, the way your chest tightens, the world narrows, and something ancient wakes up behind your ribs. It’s not logic. It’s not personality. It’s instinct.

Being triggered isn’t a dramatic response — it’s a survival response.

It feels like being an animal suddenly backed into a corner.

A quiet room becomes a cave with no exits.

A raised voice becomes the sound of snapping branches.

A harmless question becomes the echo of a threat you didn’t choose to remember.

Inside, the nervous system goes feral.

Not unhinged.

Not irrational.

Just scared.

And like any cornered creature, you don’t rise into grace — you shrink, bare teeth, freeze, or scramble for any way out. Your body floods with the same chemicals it would use if it were trying to escape a predator. You become adrenaline and instinct. Your heart beats so loud you swear it could warn the whole forest.

But here’s the part trauma survivors rarely get told:

You’re not reacting to the present. You’re reacting to a past you never got to escape.

Your body learned what danger felt like the hard way.

It learned what to fear.

It learned that sometimes the world is not safe — and that survival means moving fast, protecting yourself, shutting down, or disappearing.

So when you feel triggered, your body isn’t being dramatic.

It’s being loyal.

It’s being protective.

It’s being the animal you had to become to survive.

But healing is learning that you’re not cornered anymore.

Little by little, breath by breath, experience by experience, you teach your body that the walls aren’t closing in. You teach your instinct that this time you’re safe. You teach your nervous system that it can soften without being swallowed.

And eventually, the wild creature inside learns she doesn’t have to roar, freeze, run, or hide at every shadow.

She can rest.

She can look around.

She can trust her surroundings.

She can step out of the corner and back into the open.

You are not the scared animal you once had to be — you are the one tending to her now.

And that is the quiet, feral miracle of healing.

The Apology that I Keep Chasing

There is a particular weight my tongue knows too well—

the shape of sorry before the story even unfolds.

I have carried it like a feather soaked in rain,

heavy, drooping, always threatening to fall at the slightest tremor of life.

Somewhere along the way, I taught myself that existing required explanation,

that breathing required justification,

that any ripple I caused—intentional or not—

demanded an immediate bow, a whispered apology,

a shrinking.

The Crow in me learned this first.

She perched on the fence line of all my younger years,

watching the world with sharp eyes, always calculating the safest path.

She knew that peace could be purchased with quick repentance,

that “sorry” was a shield against anger, disappointment, abandonment.

She meant well—she always does.

But ever since, she has mistaken her survival instincts

for a personality trait.

And then there is the Flame.

The part of me that burns bright and honest,

that wants to speak, to take up space, to exist without permission.

But every time she leans forward, warming the room,

the Crow swoops in with the same old offering:

Sorry.

Sorry for having needs.

Sorry for taking a moment too long.

Sorry for the tone I didn’t mean.

Sorry for the tone I didn’t even have.

Sorry for asking a question.

Sorry for not asking a question.

Sorry for being too much.

Sorry for not being enough.

The apology becomes a smoke signal—

but not the kind that calls for help.

The kind that warns people away from the fire

before they ever feel its warmth.

Lately, though, I’ve been listening to the Flame more.

She flickers against my ribs, whispering that maybe the world

doesn’t crumble when I exist without shrinking.

Maybe the people who love me

don’t need my constant self-erasure to stay.

Maybe I don’t owe anyone an apology

for simply being human.

The Crow resists, of course.

Old survival patterns die like stars—

slowly, beautifully, in bursts of light and grief.

But even she is learning that presence is not a crime,

and taking up space is not an act of war.

And so I practice new words:

“Thank you for waiting.”

“I appreciate your patience.”

“I hear you.”

“I’m here.”

And sometimes—beautifully, bravely—

I say nothing at all.

No shrinking.

No bending.

No burning myself down just to make others comfortable.

The Flame glows a little brighter.

The Crow settles her wings, unafraid to perch in the open.

And for the first time,

I feel like I’m learning the language of living

without apology.

Guided Meditation- Campfire

Find a comfortable position—sitting or lying down. Let your body settle.

Take a slow, gentle breath in… and out.

Again… in… and out.

Now, imagine yourself stepping into a quiet clearing in the woods.

It’s night, and the air carries that crisp, unmistakable scent of autumn—cool, earthy, clean.

The sky is deep and dark, sprinkled with stars that seem to shimmer with their own soft breath.

In front of you is a campfire.

The flames are low and steady, glowing amber and gold, dancing in slow, deliberate waves.

You walk toward it and feel the warmth reach you before you even sit down.

Choose a place close enough to feel comforted, far enough to feel safe.

You settle in.

The ground beneath you is cool, the air just a hint cold on your cheeks,

but the fire casts a gentle blanket of warmth over your front side.

Breathe into that contrast—everything balanced, everything in harmony.

Listen.

There’s the soft crackle of wood, each pop like a tiny spark of life.

A log shifts, glowing deeper, and the fire responds with a warm sigh.

The wind moves through the trees, slow and hushed, as if the whole forest is exhaling with you.

Breathing in…

you inhale the scent of burning cedar and fallen leaves.

Breathing out…

you release whatever weight you brought with you tonight.

Feel your shoulders drop.

Feel your jaw soften.

Feel the muscles around your eyes ease.

Let your belly expand naturally with each breath—no forcing, no striving.

Above you, a leaf drifts down, landing near your foot.

You notice its shape, its faded color, its edges curled from the season’s chill.

Let it remind you: it is natural to change.

It is natural to let go.

It is natural to rest.

The fire glows brighter for a moment,

as if it recognizes you—your tiredness, your effort, your bravery.

It doesn’t ask anything of you.

It simply burns, offering warmth without demand.

Let yourself mirror that simplicity.

Nothing to solve right now.

Nothing to prove.

Just the quiet presence of your breath

and the steady heartbeat of the fire.

Take another slow inhale…

and exhale even slower.

Feel the peace of this moment settle into you, like warm embers beneath your ribs.

Let it linger.

Let it stay.

When you’re ready, gently bring awareness back to your body.

Wiggle your fingers, your toes.

Feel whatever surface supports you.

Carry this warmth with you as you return.

It is yours whenever you need it—

this fire, this stillness, this breath.

When the Heart Thinks and the Mind Feels

Earlier today, I was listening to a podcast about the duality of the heart and the brain—how we tend to separate them, as if one is logic and one is emotion, as if they play tug-of-war inside us. But the host mentioned that in many ancient cultures, the divide wasn’t seen as a battle at all. The heart and the brain were partners, each with their own kind of intelligence.

And that lingered with me long after the episode ended.

I thought of the Mayan worldview, how they believed the heart wasn’t just a source of feeling but the very center of consciousness. The heart was where intention lived. It’s where truth spoke first. The brain, meanwhile, was memory, story, pattern, the keeper of vision. You needed both to move through the world with clarity and meaning.

For so long, I lived as if I had to choose.

Be rational. Be emotional. Be guarded. Be open.

Pick one. Stay in the lines. Survive.

Sometimes survival made me all brain—overthinking, controlling, scanning the horizon for danger like a crow perched high above. Other times, trauma cracked me wide open, and I became all heart—raw flame, burning too hot, spilling emotion everywhere because I didn’t know where to place it.

But the longer I sat with that podcast idea, the longer I thought about the Maya, the more I realized:

I was never meant to be one or the other.

None of us are.

The heart holds a kind of knowing that can’t be explained.

The mind holds a kind of feeling that can’t be denied.

And when they work together, life becomes something fuller—less about surviving and more about experiencing.

It mirrors my crow-and-flame symbolism perfectly.

The crow is the brain:

the observer, the analyst, the survivor with sharp eyes and sharper instincts. It sees what others miss. It remembers what others forget. It protects.

The flame is the heart:

the heat, the color, the pulsing impulse to love, to hope, to rise again even after everything falls apart. It burns with truth. It transforms.

Neither is enough alone.

But together?

Together they are a whole human, a complete story, a person who can feel deeply and still make sense of the world, who can see clearly and still allow themselves to open.

The Maya understood that thousands of years ago—that the heart thinks, the mind feels, and the real wisdom is letting both speak, letting both guide.

And today, listening to that podcast, I felt something loosen in me.

Something soften.

Something click.

Maybe I am not too much.

Maybe I am not “conflicted.”

Maybe I am simply human—complex, layered, ancient in my own way.

A crow with vision.

A flame with purpose.

A woman learning how to hold both without apology.

Because the truth is, the heart and the brain were never enemies.

They were always meant to carry the weight together—

two voices, two truths, one life lived with both clarity and fire.

The Sky To Me

There are some people who come into your life and feel like more than just a person — they feel like a force of nature.  They shift the air when they enter a room, they bring color to the gray, and they remind you that beauty can be found in both calm and chaos.  To love them is to feel both grounded and free, like standing beneath a vast, open sky that somehow knows your name.

When I say you’re the sky to me, I’m saying you are the breath that steadies me — the exhale that softens my edges and brings me home to calm. You are the quiet miracle that unfolds across the horizon, colors blooming like confessions at dawn. You are the shimmer of stars that pull me into wonder, the gentle breeze that wraps around me — cool, warm, and impossibly tender — like the memory of a touch I never want to fade.

When I say you’re the sky to me, I think of summer storms and their wild beauty — the violet clouds, the silver flashes that light the heavens, the thunder that feels like a heartbeat I’ve always known. You are that power — fierce, breathtaking, alive — and yet you are also the soft rain that falls against my skin, the reason I want to dance barefoot in the dark.

You are fireflies and starlight, thunder and lightning, every sunrise that dares to begin again, every sunset that aches with beauty. You are bright blue horizons and glowing moons — infinite, untamed, and the quiet ache between what is seen and what is felt.

When I say you’re the sky to me, I mean you are everything — vast and wild and endless — and still, somehow, you feel like home.

Because love, real love, isn’t about possession or perfection. It’s about awe. It’s about looking at someone and realizing they hold both the calm and the storm, the light and the shadow — and loving them for all of it.

Even my coffee tastes flat

This morning, I woke up wrapped in gray.

Not darkness — just that dull, colorless fog that drapes itself across my thoughts. Nothing feels quite right or wrong, just muted. Blah.

Even the coffee tastes like static. The sunlight barely touches me. My body moves, but my spirit lags behind, watching from a distance. There’s no rush of inspiration, no surge of purpose — only the soft hum of going through the motions.

It’s not sadness exactly. It’s more like the quiet between breaths, the pause between endings and beginnings. The crow within me — that wild, watchful part that usually soars through storms — feels grounded, wings heavy, feathers damp with apathy. It’s not that I’ve forgotten how to fly. It’s just that for now, the sky feels too far away.

The flame, too, flickers low. Not extinguished, just small — a single ember buried beneath the ashes of fatigue and routine. I used to panic when the light dimmed, as if my worth depended on my fire staying bright. But now I know: even embers still burn. Even in the quiet, there’s life waiting to rise again.

So I let the crow rest. I let the flame breathe.

I stop demanding that motivation appear like magic.

Instead, I make room for stillness — the kind that heals instead of hides.

Maybe today is about the simplest things:

a shower that rinses away yesterday’s noise,

a deep breath that reminds me I’m still here,

a cup of tea sipped slowly, like a peace offering to myself.

I used to think I had to earn my light.

Now I know it’s still mine, even when it’s dim.

The crow will fly again when the wind shifts.

The flame will rise when it’s ready.

And until then, I will honor the in-between —

the gray days that ask nothing of me but presence.

Because even the quiet carries healing.

Even the dull days are sacred.

Coping With Stress

Coping with Stress: Grounding Yourself When the World Feels Heavy

Stress doesn’t always come crashing in. Sometimes it creeps — a slow tightening of your chest, the hum of anxious thoughts you can’t quiet, the sense that you might shatter if one more thing goes wrong.

I’ve lived in that space — the one where you feel pulled between survival and surrender. But I’ve learned that even in chaos, there are ways to come home to yourself. Coping isn’t about escaping; it’s about returning.

Here are some of the grounding tools that help me find my center when life begins to tilt:

1. The Five Senses Grounding Technique

When your thoughts spiral, return to your senses — the things that root you in now.

5 things you can see: notice color, shape, light, movement. 4 things you can touch: feel texture, weight, warmth. 3 things you can hear: distant sounds, your breath, rustling leaves. 2 things you can smell: coffee, candle smoke, rain in the air. 1 thing you can taste: a sip of water, mint, tea.

It seems simple, but it works. It’s a small ritual of presence, a way to remind your body: we are here, we are safe.

2. Name Five

When stress feels like static, I use “Name Five” to pull myself out of the fog.

Name five things in the room, or five people you love, or five reasons you’ve made it this far.

It doesn’t have to be profound — just honest.

Each name is a thread that ties you back to reality, back to meaning.

3. The Temperature Reset

If your heart races or panic starts to bloom, use temperature to ground yourself.

Hold an ice cube. Splash cool water on your face. Step outside and breathe in cold air.

This helps calm your body’s stress response — a physical signal to your nervous system that you are not in danger anymore.

4. Box Breathing

When your thoughts are running wild, control what you can — your breath.

Inhale for 4 counts, hold for 4, exhale for 4, hold for 4.

Repeat.

It’s called box breathing — a steady rhythm that slows your heartbeat and clears the static.

You can do it anywhere — in traffic, in bed, in the middle of a storm.

5. Move Gently

When stress lives in your body, movement is medicine.

Stretch your arms overhead. Roll your shoulders. Go for a walk.

Or move in bigger ways — dance, punch a bag, run until the noise in your head softens into breath.

Movement tells your body that energy has somewhere to go.

6. Anchor Words

Sometimes I repeat simple phrases under my breath:

“I am safe.”

“I am here.”

“This feeling will pass.”

Mantras can become anchors — soft, steady reminders that you are more than the moment you’re in.

7. Comfort Object

Keep something small with you — a smooth stone, a piece of jewelry, a token that feels like home.

Touching it can remind you that you’re not lost; you’re tethered.

8. The Crow and Flame Reminder

In my own practice, I imagine the crow — dark, watchful, resilient — perched within me, guiding me to awareness.

And the flame — small, fierce, enduring — burning even in the wind.

Together, they remind me: I can carry my darkness and my light.

That balance is coping. It’s strength.

When Stress Returns (and It Always Does)

You won’t always get it perfect. Some days you’ll forget the tools, the breath, the grounding.

But that’s okay.

The work isn’t to never feel stress — it’s to meet it differently.

With awareness. With compassion. With a hand on your heart whispering, “You’re okay. You’re trying. You’re still here.”

Tuesday Morning Musings

Hold Your Head High

I used to walk with my head down, and sometimes still do when I forget.

It wasn’t just shyness — it was survival. I thought that if people saw me, really saw me, they’d glimpse the storm behind my eyes: the intrusive thoughts, the quiet self-loathing, the shame that curled around my ribs like a vice. They’d see the girl who struggled with an eating disorder, who was assaulted and turned blame inward, who used pain to feel in control, who mistook punishment for penance. They’d see the woman who endured domestic violence and learned to move softly, to take up as little space as possible — as if silence could make her safe.

For so long, I believed my struggles made me less.

Less deserving of tenderness, less worthy of being seen.

So I folded in on myself. I apologized with my posture. I kept my eyes on the ground, convinced that invisibility was protection.

But healing — real healing — is the slow act of learning that your scars do not make you unworthy; they make you real. It’s understanding that the parts of you you’ve hidden are not too much, but precisely the proof that you’ve survived.

It doesn’t happen all at once. Some days I still catch my reflection and see the ghost of the girl who flinched at her own shadow. Some mornings my head dips low before I remember who I’ve become. But then I breathe, lift my chin, and remind myself:

I have walked through things that tried to erase me.

I have been buried and still found the strength to bloom.

I have earned my space here.

So today, start with your head held high.

Walk into the world like someone who has overcome, because you have.

You are not less because of your challenges — you are more.

More compassionate, more aware, more radiant because you know the cost of light.

The world doesn’t need you smaller.

It needs the full truth of you — brave, imperfect, human, and healing.

What would it look like for you to hold your head high today — not because everything is perfect, but because you’ve survived enough to know you deserve to be seen?