#i have been burdened with a heavy and profound longing for the past several weeks it has been Making Me Sick

[the-holy-ghosted]

I want to live where Soul meets Body

[omg-imagine]

⊱ Nightmares ⊰

Pairing: John Wick x Reader

Summary: John comforts his daughter after she wakes up from a nightmare.

Warnings: a smidge of angst, but major fluff

Words: 2.3k

A/N:  I was in a dad!john mood these last couple of days and ended up writing this fic. This is set a few years after Perfect to Me, which takes place in a universe that I'll be expanding with more of these family blurbs. Hope you enjoy!

Daylight has come and gone; an inky blackness speckled with countless shimmering, twinkling lights now fills the late midnight skies above. The air is calm, so serene—it’s tranquil silence lulling John to a deep, deep slumber, one that was very much needed after a tiresome day. Beneath the thick duvet, sleep is just a touch away following a brief bout of tossing and turning in bed. It always takes a little more time for him to retire when your body isn’t next to his during the night.

Eyelids heavy with fatigue, John was teetering on the edge of consciousness when a distant scream from down the hall pierces the quietude, causing him to jolt awake. In an instant, he pushes himself up and out of the mattress, his bare feet swiftly dashing across the hardwood as he heads to the source of the worrying sound. 

A familiar adrenaline fuels John’s hasty sprint, his mind already assuming that something terrible has happened. Sadly, it was a burden he still carries as a result of his past. He knows of the horrors in reality; he had been one of them at one point. Though time has passed since he walked away from that horrid life, John remains wary, afraid that there will come a day when this beautiful paradise he has found would be taken away.

John pushes the door open with enough force that it slams harshly against the wall, his heart hammering against his chest at the sight of the empty, disheveled bed in the middle of the room. “Ellie?!” He yells her name out loud, his voice frantic, trembling as panic starts to creep in. Before he could run to check the rest of the house, John hears faint shuffling coming from behind.

“Daddy?”

A sigh of relief falls from John’s lips once he sees his five-year-old curled up in the closet, seemingly distraught as he is. She was shaking, her lashes wet with fresh tears as she glances up at her father. Kneeling down, John joins her on the floor, his rapid breathing steadied following the recent fright. Ellie immediately crawls closer to him, her short arms wrapping around his mid as she buries her face into his shirt, finding comfort in his presence.

“Hey, sweetheart, what’s wrong?” John murmurs low as he tenderly strokes Ellie’s hair. Her tiny frame quivers while she stifles her sobs, the mere sound of her cries shattering his heart. 

“I had a bad dream,” she responds, tone soft and weary. John’s shirt is stained with her tears, but he pays it no mind. Instead, he holds her closer, tilting his lips down to place a kiss on her forehead, which aided in relaxing his darling daughter. With his warm embrace growing tight, he assures her that she is safe from harm. 

Yet, as they sit there on the carpeted floor, John feels a crushing pain from seeing her so scared. Since becoming a father, he often frets about Ellie. There would be nights when John would wake late in the evening to check on his baby, only to find her sleeping peacefully. He has this constant unsettling anxiety that looms over his head, a rooted fear that he could not shake off easily. 

“Come,” he eventually whispers, his utterance as delicate as the way he lifts her up from the ground, carrying her back to bed. 

Gently, John lays Ellie down on the mattress, drawing the pink blanket up to her body. He then switches on the lamp on the nightstand, its soft glow illuminating what should be a haven for her. John doesn’t even wait for her to ask him to stay; he could not leave her so soon. Sighing, he sits on the edge of the bed, the palm of his hand coming to rest on the side of her angelic face with features still tainted with terror.

“What was your nightmare about?” John probes, hoping that she would answer. 

Whenever he experiences nightmares of his own, you would pose to him the same question. At first, he was reluctant to share, not wanting to have you be a part of the torment his mind poisons him with. You, however, wouldn’t sleep until John opened up, and when he finally did, you always knew exactly what to say to bring him peace, never without fail.

“I-I was outside in the dark,” Ellie recounts with a whimper, her little fingers curling around the edge of the sheet. “A big monster was chasing me, and I screamed for help, but nobody came. I couldn’t find you or mommy anywhere.”

John’s heart is heavy as he pictures her completely helpless. Ellie is so young, innocent and vulnerable. She was too pure to witness or even dream about evil, but that he has no control over. John would do anything and everything if it means keeping her safe, but what could he do in a situation like this?

“Honey, I’m sorry to hear that,” he soothes, lightly running the pad of his thumb under her eye to wipe the remaining tears away. She resembles you more, he thinks, both reminders of all the good there is in this world. “But you’re alright now. It was just a bad dream, Ellie-bear. None of it was real.”

“Are you sure?” She wearily asks. “The monster looked real, daddy. What if it shows up again when I go to sleep?”

“I’m sure, baby. If you see the monster again, I promise I will be here to protect you. Your mother and I love you so much; we will never, ever let anything bad happen to you, El. Okay?”

Ellie wordlessly responds with a nod, reaching for John’s calloused hand then clutching it tightly with her softer one. “Daddy, do you get nightmares, too?”

“Sometimes,” he reveals, rubbing circles on the back of her hand. It still amazes John how much she’s grown over the last several years. He recalls how small her hands were when she was a mere few days old and how much love he had at the time for such a tiny precious thing.

A profound love that has since multiplied immensely even to this day.

“What happens when you wake up?” 

John pauses to ponder as Ellie’s curious chocolate eyes stare at him. They mirror his own in a way, and he smiles the slightest bit, his free hand moving to tuck a loose strand of hair behind her ear. “Well, mommy usually talks to me for a bit, just like what we’re doing right now. She reminds me each time that nightmares aren’t real and we shouldn’t be scared of them.”

“You get scared of nightmares?” 

“I do,” he truthfully states. “But you don’t have to worry. All that matters is that you’re safe now.”

Gaze faltering, John could tell that she’s not wholly convinced by the pout on her lips as she fiddles with the shiny silver band on his ring finger. His eyes briefly dart to the stuffed animal that must have fallen when Ellie jumped out of bed and scampered to the closet. Leaning down, John retrieves the toy bear, softly smiling to himself at a passing memory.

“You know, I got Mr. Teddy right after mommy told me she was pregnant with you.” 

He remembers that moment as clear as day. The two of you have long desired for a family, and following a hard year of trying, you had surprised John on his birthday. He would never forget the indescribable feeling he had when you told him he was going to be a father. 

That night, you and John had gone on a lovely walk under the stars, imagining what the near future would look like. The bear caught his attention as you passed by a children’s store, and unable to contain his utter excitement, he had purchased it for the baby to play with one day.

“I always sleep with Mr. Teddy by my side,” Ellie notes as John places the bear in her arms. It was beginning to wear out after all these years, the brown faux fur fading into a dullish color. She could have any toy she wants, but her teddy bear would forever remain. Ellie could never part with it, and it means greatly to her as much as it does to John.

“You love Mr. Teddy, don’t you?” She nods, yes. “Well, from now on, Mr. Teddy will make sure that the monster never comes back. At night, when your mother and I are sleeping in the other room, Mr. Teddy will be our eyes and ears. Even if you don’t see us, he’ll be here to keep you safe.”

The corner of Ellie’s mouth turned up in a small smile, yet it was sweet enough to reassure John. He watches his little girl bring the bear up to her lips, giving the top of its head a brief kiss before holding it out towards him. John furrows his brow in confusion as she pushes Mr. Teddy into his hand. “What’s this?”

“You said you have nightmares,” Ellie replies, her voice soft like the plush in his grasp. “Since mommy’s at work, you can bring Mr. Teddy to your room. I know you’ll always protect me, but who’s going to protect you?”

John is caught off-guard by her simple query. Ellie was incredibly bright for her age, ever so inquisitive at most times. He spends four to five seconds contemplating, but in the end, he’s unsure of what to say. It truly warms his heart knowing that she was concerned about him and was willing to give up her favorite toy that she sleeps with every night. “It’s alright, honey. You need Mr. Teddy more than I do. I’ll be fine.”

“But what if you get a bad dream later?”

“I’ll be okay,” he affirms with a tender smile. “Nightmares aren’t real, but you are. Knowing that you’re here safe and sound is all I need to remind myself not to be afraid.”

For a while, John mulls over his words, absorbing the same truth he had tried to persuade Ellie to believe in. Days, weeks, months, and years have gone by since he quit doing business in the underground world, and so far, no threat has ever come to his family. His worried mind drove this trepidation he had, and to overcome it, he needed to listen to his own advice.

Nightmares aren’t real.

But you and Ellie are.

“Daddy, can you sleep here tonight?” 

Ellie looks up at him with her adorable pair of doe eyes, and John was powerless to them. He couldn’t turn down her request; he could never say “no” to his one and only princess. “Of course. Can you scoot over for me?”

Doing so, she gives him just enough room to lay down beside her. Though the bed was too small and cramped for John’s larger self, he couldn’t care less. Once he’s settled, Ellie snuggles up against him while she holds Mr. Teddy close to her heart, letting out a yawn as exhaustion sets in.

“I love you, daddy,” she mumbles sleepily, ready for blissful dreams to follow.

“I love you too, Ellie,” John returns, exhaling a content sigh. 

Soon after, Ellie’s fast asleep, her small body relaxed, and her rhythmic breathing slowing John’s. His arms cuddle her in, cocooning her as if he’s shielding her away from any and all danger. Within moments, his consciousness begins to ebb, this time unafraid of what was to come.

---

Dawn breaks.

The skies are bright and blue.

In glorious light, John’s eyes slowly flutter open, and he is greeted by the morning sunrise. It’s still quite early, he concludes, and he decides to stay in bed for now so that he doesn’t disturb Ellie. But before he could doze off again, he hears the squeaky creak of the floorboard coming from outside. 

“Hey,” you say quietly once John notices you standing in the doorway. “I was wondering where you were.”

John beams as you tiptoe inside the room, careful not to wake your daughter. Smiling, you bend down to kiss him on the lips. “How did your shift go?”

“It was a slow night in the ER, but I’m glad to be home,” you answer, brushing John’s lengthy locks away from his face. “What happened last night?”

“Ellie had a nightmare,” he states, keeping his volume very low. “I couldn’t let her sleep alone afterwards.”

At the mention of her name, Ellie stirs awake, nose crinkling as her fists rise to rub at her tired eyes. Once adjusted to the brightness of the room, her attention falls on you, and her rosy lips promptly quirked into a gentle smile. “Mommy, you’re home!”

“I am, baby,” you cooed as you shifted to kiss her forehead. “You can go back to bed, Ellie. I just wanted to check up on you two before I sleep for a bit.”

“Mommy, can you sleep here, too?”

You glance at your husband, who only gives you a pleading look similar to Ellie’s, and quickly, you concede defeat. 

Just like John, it was impossible for you to deny her of such. 

With a nod, your feet pads to the other side, peeling back the covers as he and Ellie move to allow you enough space to join. Crawling into bed, you rest on your side while John reaches for your hand, the three of you now laying in comfortable silence.

John waits until you and Ellie drift off to sleep, his heart soaring when he realizes he’s surrounded by the loves of his life. 

And as the sun continues to rise above the horizon once again, vibrant hues of yellow and gold shining down on the earth below, John falls back to a deep, deep slumber; memories of his nightmares now long forgotten, replaced by treasured moments like this. 

Permanent Tags: @penwieldingdreamer @keandrews @feminine-machinegun @fanficsrusz @thehumanistsdiary @flaminasteroid @rowserein @unaspiringwritings @planetkt @breakthenight​ @baphometwolf666 @rdjloverxxx

[rainharaposavermelha]

Achtober #1 (Dragon & Treasure)

So, some good news and some bad news. 

Good News: I have my first Achtober post, and it incorporates not one, but TWO prompts (it just worked out that way) both from Inktober.

Bad News: It is unfinished.  It kills me to post  unfinished work, but I need to hold myself to what I said I was going to do, and I’ve already given myself a few extra days trying to finish it. Time to move on* to the next prompt.

It is in what I call a “vomit draft” stage.  I write non-linear, working on scenes as they come to me or as they catch my emotions and attention. So IF you opt to read this unfinished version, on top of the expected proofreading errors,  you will see placeholders for some scenes or dialogue like [Character X fights with Character Y over revealing the secret] or [Wedding scene].  You will also see a lot of places where I’ve tried out different wordings one right after the other (or sometimes in the middle of each other which can make them real fun for anyone who isn’t me to try to parse), and places where I’ve made notes to myself of things to consider or questions I have.

So, if you choose to click beyond, be prepared.

*This doesn’t mean I’m never going to finish this piece.  I am ABSOLUTELY going to finish it. If you want to wait to read the finished version, PLEASE DO. I will go back to working on it when this month is over.

She has made herself small today, a size that can move among the smaller hallways and corridors of her castle. Human.  She sweeps into the infirmary, still regal in this form, iridescent white hair an echo and reminder of her true nature. 

“How fares he, doctor?”

“He is…” the doctor hesitates, knowing how she will feel about the answer.  “Old, my lady. Your presence has granted him extended life, but even in the presence of timelessness, the human frame can only take so much.  

She frowns.  She does NOT like the answer.  She can hear what he is not saying. The shade of remonstrance in his tone.  It says “You know this.  We’ve talked about it before.”  And she does.  Long before the doctor ever came to live on her staff even, she had known this, had been through this/she’s been through this before.  She knows. But something in her rejects it.

“My lady,” the patient wheezes and she moves to his side/stands by his bed (and) clasps his hand.  “I am here, Hadrigan.”

“Please my lady...remember me.”

She stiffens, then strokes his hand.  “However small, you still have time left, think on that.”

“No, please…” he coughs and she waits through it.  

“Please…” he begs when he has breath again. “I want you to remember me. Please mistress…”

She squeezes his hand.  “I will.  I promise.”  He settles then, and soon slips into a fragile sleep.

She turns to the doctor, “Is he coherent enough to understand what he is asking?” 

“I believe so, yes.  Nothing in his condition includes delirium/dementia.”

She frowned. “How soon?”

“If you plan to/want to hold the ceremony, you will need to do it soon. (The ceremony would have to be soon)  I doubt he will last another week.”

She nodded, accepting this. “Keep him comfortable.” she said as she sweeps from the room.

She paced the length of the human halls.  “Remember me he asks”/ so he knew what he asked of her.  Pondering to herself, (as soon as she reaches the regular halls one of the grand corridors, She stretched out into true form (strode into her true form) with relief, shakes her wings, flexing her legs, setting prisms bouncing (prisms tht sent rainbows bouncing)

[She heads to her hoard]

The room is more neatly kept than any (other) dragon’s hoard (has a right to be), but she finds it makes it easier, but she likes being able to see all her treasures at once.  The room is filled to the brim with her treasure.  Shelves along the walls, counters, every conceivable space is filled, but not with gold, or anything humans would normally find valuable.  There is a book of poetry, a doll with no legs.  a large kitchen spoon a gold pendant, and so on.  Mundane mixed with m(?) a menagerie of the mundane and...meaningful (trivial/ miscellany/ profound)

Memories are such precious things to humans.  Her kind has no use for them. When you live for millennia, there is no way to store it all.  It sludges up the mind if left alone, clouds emotion, clouds judgment, sends one mad.  It must be shed.  Her kind shed their memories like they shed their skins.

But she does value her memories.   She gently taps a battered trophy/horn with her claw.  An image flickers to mind. Sandy brown hair, a laugh, a dimpled smile, but the memory is tattered and that is all that is left of it.  There was no name associated with the face. It had been lost to the ravages of time, and too many memory purgings.  No matter how careful she was, she couldn’t save them all (memory sheddings)  It hurt.  And every one added to it added to her pain and regret and her burden/the burden she carried. The humans must have tainted her in this way, living so long among them.  No, not the humans, HER humans.  Though she would never tell them so, her family.

There have been so many of them. Each with the life expectancy of a gnat to her.  What is even 100 years to someone who has lived a millenia, and would likely live several more.  IT hurts, losing them.  Dragons do not carry their past with them.  They do not need it, but she carries parts of hers.  She has no choice.

And her children, for really that’s what they were, knew that if they became a part of her, she would not forget them.  She could not.  They could ask. But she accepted offerings.  IT was part of a long standing tradition between dragons and humans, and even when roots are lost to time, there is a value in such traditions.  Many men, women (and even some children had been brought to her, in exchange for her protection or assistance or forgiveness.  So long as the sacrifice gave themselves willingly, she would accept the offer of their flesh and grant her grace.  She didn’t eat children (Many of her handmaids were from a time before those days, girls offered as sacrifices. 

So when one of her people offered their own flesh , she had no choice but to accept their flesh in exchange for a permanent place in her memories.

“Adona!”  She called her oldest handmaiden.  Humans should make arrangements for human needs.  Her part was predetermined.  Her children must take care of the rest.

The ceremony is held in the greater castle, where she can remain in her true form. In the center of one wing there is a skylight that lets in the sun and there is a little space beneath it, surrounded by plants.  IT is a peaceful, lovely place.  Life and stone in one setting.

He is barely conscious for the ceremony.  Neither she nor the doctor are certain he will last through it. They have made him as comfortable as they can on a cushioned litter.

[They each share a memory and lay a flower or fragrant plant on him, it’s important he hears, they say what they will remember about him.] 

When everyone that has a desire to speak has done so, the Lady bows her head, turns, and slinks through a pair of large, heavy set doors, leaving them to say their goodbyes.It is not her place to observe what humans say to each other then they say goodbye.

[humans bring him in to hoard room on litter, then leave him alone with The Lady]

“Hadrigan.”  

It is an old fashioned name for an old man.

(so old)

He doesn’t answer her (to it)

She watches his chest rise and fall.

“I will remember you.”  She raises a claw she’d sharpened to needle like thinness/ a fine point for this very purpose, she/and pierces his heart.  Even with his eyes closed she can she it, the shape of life, leaving his body.

When it is gone, she cuts/ loosens the bonds/ gets rid of/discards the already loose bonds with a swipe of her claw [she finds his token, what is it. she remembers something associated with it.  Book of poetry maybe? Maybe he’d come to her unable to read and discovered she liked poetry, or missed his home and it was from there?  What function did he serve? Does it matter? Maybe it’s poetry he wrote]

That done she bent down and took his body between her jaws (and bit down)

[doesn’t bother her to eat people/ humans are food. They are made of flesh and bone like every other animal and makes them food. She chews thoughtfully.  She loved him (hated to admit) he mattered to her, that didn’t make him any less food. Chews thogughtfully Taking in his flavor, playing through her memories of him as she makes his flavor her flesh. She swallows, and it is her final goodbye.  The goodbye she couldn’t say earlier.

She’s tired now. She looks around at her treasures, feels hadrigan’s warm weight in her belly. It’s time for sleep.  She curls up among her treasures (lay down among, curled nose to tail tip

Hadrigan had been a good man and a good meal. She would remember him./ would not forget him [need better ending]

[libraryscarf]

pictured: yatori curb-stomping my writer’s block and me, a sobbing wreck, dragged along for the ride. also the title has a double meaning, get it? bc i never update. anyway. soft.

you’ve waited long enough

( ao3 / ff.net )

“Are you up here? Hiyori?”

She started at the sound of her name. Yato’s voice was close, but he hadn’t yet seen her. She heard him moving around the room, checking the lumpy blankets for evidence. Maybe he would think she’d gone home. She could hope.

After several minutes during which it sounded like he was tearing the room apart, there was finally silence. Hiyori dared to exhale.

The closet door was flung open. Sunlight poured into the space, fracturing the dim closet with brilliance. She blinked at Yato, who stood in the closet doorway wearing an expression of mixed confusion and victory.

“Hi,” she said sheepishly.

“You’re in the closet?”

“Yeah.”

“Why?”

Hiyori had to make a fast decision. Which reason would sound the least crazy?

“I…wanted to think,” she said, cautiously.

Yato nodded, and with a remarkable show of respect and self-restraint, did not push further into the “yes, but why in a closet,” line of questioning.

“Is it something you want to talk about?” he asked.

She swallowed the instinctive no that bubbled at the back of her tongue. After all, it wasn’t entirely fair that she knew, and he still didn’t. By now, Hiyori was aware secrecy was a slow-acting poison—even if it was on another’s behalf.

Yato saw the conflict on her face, and his brow furrowed.

“Would you rather talk to someone else?” he asked. “Yukine? Kofuku?”

Something crumpled in Hiyori’s chest. Her heart was thundering, and she knew he could hear it. It was possible everyone in the world could.

“No,” she admitted, miserably. “I want to talk to you.”

Yato’s eyes traveled around the small closet, which smelled faintly of mold and expired medicine.

“In here?”

Hiyori shook her head, brushing past him into the room. If she felt him too close, if any of his warmth clung to her, she wouldn’t be able to do this. Her throat would dry up and crack and bleed and she would be mute forever, imprisoned behind the bars of her own cowardice.

She sat down on one of the bedrolls, and Yato sat next to her. Not too close, since he recognized and correctly interpreted her spooling discomfort.

“It’s about Kamuhakari,” she began.

Yato flinched. Nothing good had happened at Kamuhakari.

“Not that,” she said quickly. “Not the fighting.”

His shoulders relaxed ever so slightly. Hiyori’s voice shook, and she looked away again.

“It was…before. When we were working on the matchmaking. Something…happened.”

She hazarded a glance at Yato out of the corner of her eye and nearly fled the room. His fists were balled up tight on his knees and his whole body nearly vibrated with curiosity. He stared at her face, his eyes round and hungry for gossip. She would have to destroy that innocence.

“Our—our plaques—yours, and mine—”

Her voice broke on “plaques.” She swallowed a sharp jab of fear.

“They were…connected.”

Hiyori nearly melted with relief at having finally said it.

The worst was out. No longer her secret. No longer her burden. It was like she had expelled a toxic parasite that had been chewing at her insides, and she asked herself seriously why she hadn’t done this sooner.

Yato said nothing.

Hiyori waited a few moments, expecting his reaction. When it didn’t come, she looked up from her folded hands.

“Yato?”

Hiyori slid closer to him on the bedroll, suddenly worried. He looked like a puppet with its strings cut, his spine a drooping curve, head hanging heavy as a sandbag. His clenched fists had loosened on his knees.

“Yato, what is it?”

Her voice was inching closer to terror. Had she broken him? Was this like the god’s greatest secret? Oh, if only she had just shut up, kept it locked it in forever. She felt the change between them, the tectonics of their transgressive, complicated relationship shifting irreversibly.

“I’m sorry,” she gasped, horrified. “I shouldn’t have told you. Forget it, I was kidding! It was just a joke! A really, really, really bad jo—”

She yelped as his arms shot out suddenly, pulling her toward him and crushing her close to his chest. Her ribs creaked in his embrace.

“Y…at…,” she wheezed.

His arms were tight and solid around her, and although she couldn’t breathe—and possibly had some internal bruising—it felt good. Very good.

After a few seconds his arms loosened, and she sucked in a gigantic breath. But as she scanned his face, gauging his reaction, the joy was already dimming from his eyes. His mouth drooped.

“Hiyori,” he said, studying her. “Why didn’t you want to tell me?”

“I—”

She stopped, biting the inside of her cheek.

She hesitated to give him the bad news: the name of the person who had tied them, whose luckless fingerprints covered their plaques. But before she could answer, he let her go completely and pushed himself to the opposite end of the bedroll.

“You know, Kamuhakari is mostly symbolic,” he said tightly, his body turned away from her. It sounded like he was choking on something. The back of her neck prickled.

“It might not have meant anything,” he continued, when she said nothing.

It felt like Hiyori had been punched. “What…?”

But Yato looked directly at his hands, his jaw solid and cold.

“Two people linked at Kamuhakari don’t have to be together. Not always.”

Someone was scooping out her heart with a blunt spoon. She clutched her chest, expecting to find a cavity there, and touched only skin. But she had cracked open—she felt it.

“What do you mean?” Hiyori asked, terribly calm and normal.

“I mean you don’t have to worry. Even if we were linked, I wouldn’t bother you if you wanted…someone else.”

Hiyori’s ears rang. She opened her mouth, not at all sure what was going to come out.

“It was Kofuku.”

Yato slowly turned his head, blinking at her in confusion.

“She tied our plaques,” she clarified. His face collapsed in total dismay.

“Shit,” he said fervently.

Hiyori’s face stretched in a grimace. She’d harbored some small hope it wouldn’t really be that bad.

“That’s really bad,” Yato said, as soon as she thought it.

“Oh come on,” Hiyori wailed. “Didn’t you just say Kamuhakari was basically just symbolic?!”

“Of course I did!” he said in despair. “I didn’t want you to feel bad about being my soulmate! But no, it’s totally, one-hundred-percent literal, and now we’re fuc—”

“I wouldn’t.”

Yato froze, his mouth still open. “Huh?”

Hiyori’s cheeks started to burn.

“I wouldn’t feel bad. If I were…you know. That.”

She felt lightheaded as his eyes searched her.

“Really?” Yato asked. His voice was very soft.

Hiyori, speechless and tomato-red, nodded at the ground.

It had been some weeks now since she realized she was in love with him. And now that she could acknowledge it, she sometimes took stock of the moments when it became obvious why.

This was one of them.

Yato was a god, but he looked at her like she was the only thing in the world worth worshiping.

Hiyori felt it: warm, and sweet, and dripping through her like slow honey. This must be the effect of the divine bond. Surely it must. Love couldn’t feel like this, not really. Not so heavy. Not so wonderful it hurt.

“Are you sure?” he asked.

There was fear in his eyes.

She ached for him. She couldn’t erase the history of strife and suffering that made him think, even now, even here, that no one could love him.

But he was good. He had become so good. No one could have worked half so hard, struggled half so long, and not become something better.

Hiyori loved him for that, and for how he waited now for her answer. She trusted no god to make better use of their eternities.

“Yes, I’m sure,” she said.

“I love you.” He said it the instant she finished speaking, like the words had been waiting to burst out of him.

They looked at each other. Hiyori seemed to have lost control of her voice, though she felt it fluttering in her chest like a panicked bird.

Suddenly, Yukine poked his head into the room.

“Have either of you seen my favorite pencil? It’s blue and it’s got a flower eraser…on it…”

He took in the mood of the room, then began tiptoeing backwards into the hallway again.

“Never mind,” they both heard him whisper.

Hiyori swallowed convulsively, the sound enormous and echoing. Her mouth opened. She would say something now. Something profound.

Her voice squeaked as she blurted out:

“Neat!”

She couldn’t see how Yato reacted to that, because she immediately shrank into the blankets and pressed her forehead to her knees, willing herself invisible. Maybe that was a trick she could learn in her ayakashi form. Unfortunately, at the moment she was very much flesh-and-blood.

She heard his quiet exhale, and the rustle of fabric as he scooted closer. Felt the heat and presence of him next to her.

“It may be fine,” he said, mercifully ignoring her blunder. “After all, we spend so much time around Kofuku already—if nothing horrible’s happened yet, then…”

He trailed off, his optimism having reached its limit. Hiyori groaned softly into her knees. Neat…

“What do you mean, ‘horrible’?” Her voice was muffled. Yato thought about it for a second.

“You know, the usual stuff. Famine, plague, drought, recession, et cetera.”

She surfaced again, aghast.

“You think that if we’re together then Japan’s economy will collapse?”

Yato grinned at her, his eyes crinkling at the corners.

“Would that really be so terrible? I’m a good provider.”

“You take jobs for five yen. Less, if they offer you lunch. Half the time you don’t even charge people.”

He withered. “Fine. I’m a…passable provider.”

“You squat in your friends’ attic. You spray paint your résumé on the sidewalk.”

“A mediocre provider?”

Hiyori nodded. That was acceptable. The satisfied look on her face melted when Yato nudged her shoulder with his.

“‘Neat’, huh?”

She buried her face in her hands. “I’m sorry. I panicked.”

He was sitting too close now. He smelled really, really good.

“So,” he said, in a low voice. “I’m just curious. If Kofuku hadn’t been the one to tie our plaques—if it had been anyone else—would you have told me?”

Hiyori wanted to look at him. She couldn’t tell by his voice alone if he were joking or serious. But she couldn’t lift her head.

“I don’t know,” she answered, because it was true. “Maybe not.”

“Then I’m glad she did.”

Her head snapped up, eyes meeting his. The honesty in them shocked her. She couldn’t look away.

“But…economic meltdown…”

He waved a hand, as though the undoing of Japan’s fiscal infrastructure were a fly he could swat away. His eyes never left hers.

“Probably nothing to worry about.”

Hiyori was aware that her breathing was shallow, and that her head had started to spin.

“Probably,” she repeated, a whisper.

“I’m glad you told me,” he said.

There it was again, the pressure in her chest, the overfullness. She felt oceanic, pulled tide by tide toward the moon.

“You understood, then? I meant…”

She trailed off. Yato reached for her, drew her close, set his chin on the top of her head. Hiyori curled into him, inhaling deeply. His neck was pale and soft, the pulse of his godhood much lazier than her hurrying human heart.

“Yeah, I did.”

He pressed his cheek to the top of her head.

“You can say it back the next time,” he said. “Or not. I can wait.”

He had waited long enough, she thought.

“I love you too.”

[amyddaniels]

3 Life-Changing Strategies for Processing Grief

We learned unforgettable lessons at a yoga retreat designed to help you work through profound loss.

Over coffee one afternoon, a friend asked if I’d read Mirabi Starr’s latest book Wild Mercy: Living the Fierce and Tender Wisdom of the Women Mystics. Starr’s first book, a new translation of Dark Night of the Soul, came out the day her fourteen-year-old daughter was killed in a car accident. Today, Starr speaks globally on contemplative practice and the transformational power of grief and loss. A certified bereavement counselor, she helps mourners harness the transformational power of loss. No, I had not read Wild Mercy, but the title immediately grabbed me. It seemed to me that with so many of us facing struggles in this era—loss of loved ones, betrayal, abandonment, family estrangement—we could all use some Wild Mercy and not a moment too soon. Myself included.

In the past five years, I have suffered all of the above, as well as the loss of a beloved uncle, named Jan. He had contacted me a year or two before his death and though we had little contact the decades prior, we found we were kindred, and not just by blood. He was a gifted poet and we shared a spiritual affinity. We were both misfits, misunderstood in our families. We were both recovering alcoholics, sobering up within a year of each other, our respective recoveries unknown to each other until the short time we were able to share before he died. Once reconnected, he called me every week. He listened to my poems, read my writings, talked spirit with me. My uncle’s death and multiple other recent losses had brought a lifetime of trauma and complicated grief to my door. I knew there was no easy fix.

The synchronicity in my life is often reflected in the magical relationship I have with Facebook. As I was reading Wild Mercy, I put the book down to check in on a Facebook group I’m part of. What I saw made my heart thrum. Mirabai Starr, a recent post read, had a last-minute opening in her annual Fall Equinox retreat: Deepening Your Story of Loss and Transformation. And it was at Ghost Ranch, a place in New Mexico I had been longing to spend time at.

I quickly shot off an email to see if the spot was still available. The answer came quickly: “Yes.”

I was going to answer the unmistakable call of the desert. Wild Mercy was an invitation. In the introduction, Starr writes, “We are making a flying carpet here to carry us through our lives as contemporary mystics masquerading as ordinary people—people who hear the call to turn inward and to step up, to cultivate a contemplative life, and to offer the fruits in service.”

The First Night of the Retreat

As we gathered that first night in the living room of our temporary new home, the beautiful Casa del Sol, Starr’s assistants held out a deck of Medicine cards for us to choose from. The Medicine cards, whose teachings vary from tribe to tribe, were developed by Jamie Sams, an artist and writer of Cherokee, Seneca, and French descent. The card I pulled was the turtle.

I'm a runner, a sprinter, a mover. Closer to a hare than a turtle, so I was perplexed. But then Starr suggested that the Medicine animal card we each had drawn might give us insight into our writing process, as well as offer other teachings. I had to laugh. When it comes to my writing process, I am definitely a turtle! Though I write a lot, it is agonizingly slow. As the beautiful New Mexico light faded, the procession felt sacred and my arms prickled with intimations of what was to come.

3 Strategies for Transforming Grief

Here, three things I learned from Starr, and the turtle, during my five-night stay.

1. Rely on community and honor your own process.

Each morning we met and opened with a song and the reading of poetry followed by meditation. The music and poetry were carefully curated. I started to realize that these sessions were creating a bond or container among the retreat participants that was capable of holding the depth of grief our community carried.

Some of the participants had lost children to suicide, overdose, and sudden accidents. Some had lost spouses, brothers, sisters, parents. Some were estranged from family—four most agonizingly from their adult children (and beloved grandchildren) who had shut them out of their lives.

The author with two newfound friends at Mirabi Starr's retreat.

The medicine card I’d drawn became another thing, beyond community, that helped me feel supported, and would ultimately help me honor my own grieving process. In some Southwestern Native American tribes, the turtle is an ancient symbol for Mother Earth from which our lives, creativity, protection, and longevity evolve. To the Southwest Native American peoples (Navajo, Zuni, Hope, Santo Domingo, Pueblo and others), the turtle represents water. In addition to the turtle’s role in Native American traditions, the turtle takes also takes a seat at the door of most Hindu temples. In Hinduism, the turtle carries the world on her back and is one of 10 avatars of the Hindu god Vishnu. The turtle represents the feminine and serves as a bridge between external and internal world, a reminder of how to withdraw from the senses and go within—a practice known as pratyahara.

As the retreat unfolded, turtle led me within, where real healing happens. And although I might have gone to the deepest and darkest places inside me, I did not go alone. I had the turtle's medicine, a cadre of angels beside me (my fellow retreaters), and a wise woman who knew the way (Starr). I was able to drop my guard—along with the heavy burden of grief. I wasn’t escaping my loss, but truly honoring myself in the midst of it.

2. Write it out and acknowledge pain.

In Wild Mercy, Starr writes, “It is by showing up for the full encounter with reality that we discover our hidden wholeness, which was, of course, present all along." This process starts with acknowledging pain.

It is in the ground of our pain and nowhere else, where we heal. But first, we line up our support system, we find community. And then we write. After daily morning meditation and readings, we were given a writing prompt and assigned to groups of four so we could share our writings. Then we read our writings in turn, listening carefully. We didn’t respond to one another with suggestions or praise, but rather, we sat in silence and let it sink in. "None of us is broken," Starr said. Therefore, we weren't to offer tissues (they stop the tears) or to try to fix or console each other. "We aren't therapists." Everyone was allowed to be exactly where they were; it was safe to touch the ground of our pain, to write about it, and to share. We were given an opportunity to engage in fierce and radical acts of truth-telling, to take the losses that had brought us there and offer them up for alchemical transformation. "In the pain that will arise with your writing," Starr advised, "will come the gold." By the end of the five days and after, I discovered I had softened around the pain. With allowance, rather than the usual contraction, not only did the pain have room to dissipate, but I now had a helpful process going forward.

3. Take your time.

Loss is a portal to spiritual transformation. In the mystery of grieving, lies the alchemy and space for healing and awakening. One day on the retreat, we were guided on a hike up to Chimney Rock and a spectacular view of the Piedra Lumbre basin. I found myself struggling to keep up and fell back. Several of the retreat participants hung back with me, though they easily could have sprinted ahead. Embarrassed, I urged them to go ahead and insisted that it was the heat that was bothering me. As I took a break inside the scant shade of a small bush, my companions encouraged me to slow down, saying “It’s not that hot. You’re just moving too fast.” But I couldn’t seem to process that and after each break, sprinted ahead again.

Finally, one of them said, “Kelly, wasn’t the medicine card you drew the turtle?” And it was then that it hit me. The turtle’s message was telling me it was okay to slow down, to take my time, and to allow community to hold me, like a turtle’s shell. This brought tears, because I am a survivor and the way I survived a lifetime of adversity was to power through, to push myself, to keep going no matter what.

Laying down the burden, breaking open, community and belonging, listening, and allowing uncertainty, had brought me to this lesson on the climb: No matter the depth of loss or adversity life brings, I am supported and held. I can rest on the turtle’s back at last and let go of struggle. I didn’t have to push through anymore. I could, like a turtle, stick my neck out, and still remain protected, safe within my shell. 

[krisiunicornio]

We learned unforgettable lessons at a yoga retreat designed to help you work through profound loss.

Over coffee one afternoon, a friend asked if I’d read Mirabi Starr’s latest book Wild Mercy: Living the Fierce and Tender Wisdom of the Women Mystics. Starr’s first book, a new translation of Dark Night of the Soul, came out the day her fourteen-year-old daughter was killed in a car accident. Today, Starr speaks globally on contemplative practice and the transformational power of grief and loss. A certified bereavement counselor, she helps mourners harness the transformational power of loss. No, I had not read Wild Mercy, but the title immediately grabbed me. It seemed to me that with so many of us facing struggles in this era—loss of loved ones, betrayal, abandonment, family estrangement—we could all use some Wild Mercy and not a moment too soon. Myself included.

In the past five years, I have suffered all of the above, as well as the loss of a beloved uncle, named Jan. He had contacted me a year or two before his death and though we had little contact the decades prior, we found we were kindred, and not just by blood. He was a gifted poet and we shared a spiritual affinity. We were both misfits, misunderstood in our families. We were both recovering alcoholics, sobering up within a year of each other, our respective recoveries unknown to each other until the short time we were able to share before he died. Once reconnected, he called me every week. He listened to my poems, read my writings, talked spirit with me. My uncle’s death and multiple other recent losses had brought a lifetime of trauma and complicated grief to my door. I knew there was no easy fix.

The synchronicity in my life is often reflected in the magical relationship I have with Facebook. As I was reading Wild Mercy, I put the book down to check in on a Facebook group I’m part of. What I saw made my heart thrum. Mirabai Starr, a recent post read, had a last-minute opening in her annual Fall Equinox retreat: Deepening Your Story of Loss and Transformation. And it was at Ghost Ranch, a place in New Mexico I had been longing to spend time at.

I quickly shot off an email to see if the spot was still available. The answer came quickly: “Yes.”

I was going to answer the unmistakable call of the desert. Wild Mercy was an invitation. In the introduction, Starr writes, “We are making a flying carpet here to carry us through our lives as contemporary mystics masquerading as ordinary people—people who hear the call to turn inward and to step up, to cultivate a contemplative life, and to offer the fruits in service.”

The First Night of the Retreat

As we gathered that first night in the living room of our temporary new home, the beautiful Casa del Sol, Starr’s assistants held out a deck of Medicine cards for us to choose from. The Medicine cards, whose teachings vary from tribe to tribe, were developed by Jamie Sams, an artist and writer of Cherokee, Seneca, and French descent. The card I pulled was the turtle.

I'm a runner, a sprinter, a mover. Closer to a hare than a turtle, so I was perplexed. But then Starr suggested that the Medicine animal card we each had drawn might give us insight into our writing process, as well as offer other teachings. I had to laugh. When it comes to my writing process, I am definitely a turtle! Though I write a lot, it is agonizingly slow. As the beautiful New Mexico light faded, the procession felt sacred and my arms prickled with intimations of what was to come.

3 Strategies for Transforming Grief

Here, three things I learned from Starr, and the turtle, during my five-night stay.

1. Rely on community and honor your own process.

Each morning we met and opened with a song and the reading of poetry followed by meditation. The music and poetry were carefully curated. I started to realize that these sessions were creating a bond or container among the retreat participants that was capable of holding the depth of grief our community carried.

Some of the participants had lost children to suicide, overdose, and sudden accidents. Some had lost spouses, brothers, sisters, parents. Some were estranged from family—four most agonizingly from their adult children (and beloved grandchildren) who had shut them out of their lives.

The author with two newfound friends at Mirabi Starr's retreat.

The medicine card I’d drawn became another thing, beyond community, that helped me feel supported, and would ultimately help me honor my own grieving process. In some Southwestern Native American tribes, the turtle is an ancient symbol for Mother Earth from which our lives, creativity, protection, and longevity evolve. To the Southwest Native American peoples (Navajo, Zuni, Hope, Santo Domingo, Pueblo and others), the turtle represents water. In addition to the turtle’s role in Native American traditions, the turtle takes also takes a seat at the door of most Hindu temples. In Hinduism, the turtle carries the world on her back and is one of 10 avatars of the Hindu god Vishnu. The turtle represents the feminine and serves as a bridge between external and internal world, a reminder of how to withdraw from the senses and go within—a practice known as pratyahara.

As the retreat unfolded, turtle led me within, where real healing happens. And although I might have gone to the deepest and darkest places inside me, I did not go alone. I had the turtle's medicine, a cadre of angels beside me (my fellow retreaters), and a wise woman who knew the way (Starr). I was able to drop my guard—along with the heavy burden of grief. I wasn’t escaping my loss, but truly honoring myself in the midst of it.

2. Write it out and acknowledge pain.

In Wild Mercy, Starr writes, “It is by showing up for the full encounter with reality that we discover our hidden wholeness, which was, of course, present all along." This process starts with acknowledging pain.

It is in the ground of our pain and nowhere else, where we heal. But first, we line up our support system, we find community. And then we write. After daily morning meditation and readings, we were given a writing prompt and assigned to groups of four so we could share our writings. Then we read our writings in turn, listening carefully. We didn’t respond to one another with suggestions or praise, but rather, we sat in silence and let it sink in. "None of us is broken," Starr said. Therefore, we weren't to offer tissues (they stop the tears) or to try to fix or console each other. "We aren't therapists." Everyone was allowed to be exactly where they were; it was safe to touch the ground of our pain, to write about it, and to share. We were given an opportunity to engage in fierce and radical acts of truth-telling, to take the losses that had brought us there and offer them up for alchemical transformation. "In the pain that will arise with your writing," Starr advised, "will come the gold." By the end of the five days and after, I discovered I had softened around the pain. With allowance, rather than the usual contraction, not only did the pain have room to dissipate, but I now had a helpful process going forward.

3. Take your time.

Loss is a portal to spiritual transformation. In the mystery of grieving, lies the alchemy and space for healing and awakening. One day on the retreat, we were guided on a hike up to Chimney Rock and a spectacular view of the Piedra Lumbre basin. I found myself struggling to keep up and fell back. Several of the retreat participants hung back with me, though they easily could have sprinted ahead. Embarrassed, I urged them to go ahead and insisted that it was the heat that was bothering me. As I took a break inside the scant shade of a small bush, my companions encouraged me to slow down, saying “It’s not that hot. You’re just moving too fast.” But I couldn’t seem to process that and after each break, sprinted ahead again.

Finally, one of them said, “Kelly, wasn’t the medicine card you drew the turtle?” And it was then that it hit me. The turtle’s message was telling me it was okay to slow down, to take my time, and to allow community to hold me, like a turtle’s shell. This brought tears, because I am a survivor and the way I survived a lifetime of adversity was to power through, to push myself, to keep going no matter what.

Laying down the burden, breaking open, community and belonging, listening, and allowing uncertainty, had brought me to this lesson on the climb: No matter the depth of loss or adversity life brings, I am supported and held. I can rest on the turtle’s back at last and let go of struggle. I didn’t have to push through anymore. I could, like a turtle, stick my neck out, and still remain protected, safe within my shell. 

[cedarrrun]

We learned unforgettable lessons at a yoga retreat designed to help you work through profound loss.

Over coffee one afternoon, a friend asked if I’d read Mirabi Starr’s latest book Wild Mercy: Living the Fierce and Tender Wisdom of the Women Mystics. Starr’s first book, a new translation of Dark Night of the Soul, came out the day her fourteen-year-old daughter was killed in a car accident. Today, Starr speaks globally on contemplative practice and the transformational power of grief and loss. A certified bereavement counselor, she helps mourners harness the transformational power of loss. No, I had not read Wild Mercy, but the title immediately grabbed me. It seemed to me that with so many of us facing struggles in this era—loss of loved ones, betrayal, abandonment, family estrangement—we could all use some Wild Mercy and not a moment too soon. Myself included.

In the past five years, I have suffered all of the above, as well as the loss of a beloved uncle, named Jan. He had contacted me a year or two before his death and though we had little contact the decades prior, we found we were kindred, and not just by blood. He was a gifted poet and we shared a spiritual affinity. We were both misfits, misunderstood in our families. We were both recovering alcoholics, sobering up within a year of each other, our respective recoveries unknown to each other until the short time we were able to share before he died. Once reconnected, he called me every week. He listened to my poems, read my writings, talked spirit with me. My uncle’s death and multiple other recent losses had brought a lifetime of trauma and complicated grief to my door. I knew there was no easy fix.

The synchronicity in my life is often reflected in the magical relationship I have with Facebook. As I was reading Wild Mercy, I put the book down to check in on a Facebook group I’m part of. What I saw made my heart thrum. Mirabai Starr, a recent post read, had a last-minute opening in her annual Fall Equinox retreat: Deepening Your Story of Loss and Transformation. And it was at Ghost Ranch, a place in New Mexico I had been longing to spend time at.

I quickly shot off an email to see if the spot was still available. The answer came quickly: “Yes.”

I was going to answer the unmistakable call of the desert. Wild Mercy was an invitation. In the introduction, Starr writes, “We are making a flying carpet here to carry us through our lives as contemporary mystics masquerading as ordinary people—people who hear the call to turn inward and to step up, to cultivate a contemplative life, and to offer the fruits in service.”

The First Night of the Retreat

As we gathered that first night in the living room of our temporary new home, the beautiful Casa del Sol, Starr’s assistants held out a deck of Medicine cards for us to choose from. The Medicine cards, whose teachings vary from tribe to tribe, were developed by Jamie Sams, an artist and writer of Cherokee, Seneca, and French descent. The card I pulled was the turtle.

I'm a runner, a sprinter, a mover. Closer to a hare than a turtle, so I was perplexed. But then Starr suggested that the Medicine animal card we each had drawn might give us insight into our writing process, as well as offer other teachings. I had to laugh. When it comes to my writing process, I am definitely a turtle! Though I write a lot, it is agonizingly slow. As the beautiful New Mexico light faded, the procession felt sacred and my arms prickled with intimations of what was to come.

3 Strategies for Transforming Grief

Here, three things I learned from Starr, and the turtle, during my five-night stay.

1. Rely on community and honor your own process.

Each morning we met and opened with a song and the reading of poetry followed by meditation. The music and poetry were carefully curated. I started to realize that these sessions were creating a bond or container among the retreat participants that was capable of holding the depth of grief our community carried.

Some of the participants had lost children to suicide, overdose, and sudden accidents. Some had lost spouses, brothers, sisters, parents. Some were estranged from family—four most agonizingly from their adult children (and beloved grandchildren) who had shut them out of their lives.

The author with two newfound friends at Mirabi Starr's retreat.

The medicine card I’d drawn became another thing, beyond community, that helped me feel supported, and would ultimately help me honor my own grieving process. In some Southwestern Native American tribes, the turtle is an ancient symbol for Mother Earth from which our lives, creativity, protection, and longevity evolve. To the Southwest Native American peoples (Navajo, Zuni, Hope, Santo Domingo, Pueblo and others), the turtle represents water. In addition to the turtle’s role in Native American traditions, the turtle takes also takes a seat at the door of most Hindu temples. In Hinduism, the turtle carries the world on her back and is one of 10 avatars of the Hindu god Vishnu. The turtle represents the feminine and serves as a bridge between external and internal world, a reminder of how to withdraw from the senses and go within—a practice known as pratyahara.

As the retreat unfolded, turtle led me within, where real healing happens. And although I might have gone to the deepest and darkest places inside me, I did not go alone. I had the turtle's medicine, a cadre of angels beside me (my fellow retreaters), and a wise woman who knew the way (Starr). I was able to drop my guard—along with the heavy burden of grief. I wasn’t escaping my loss, but truly honoring myself in the midst of it.

2. Write it out and acknowledge pain.

In Wild Mercy, Starr writes, “It is by showing up for the full encounter with reality that we discover our hidden wholeness, which was, of course, present all along." This process starts with acknowledging pain.

It is in the ground of our pain and nowhere else, where we heal. But first, we line up our support system, we find community. And then we write. After daily morning meditation and readings, we were given a writing prompt and assigned to groups of four so we could share our writings. Then we read our writings in turn, listening carefully. We didn’t respond to one another with suggestions or praise, but rather, we sat in silence and let it sink in. "None of us is broken," Starr said. Therefore, we weren't to offer tissues (they stop the tears) or to try to fix or console each other. "We aren't therapists." Everyone was allowed to be exactly where they were; it was safe to touch the ground of our pain, to write about it, and to share. We were given an opportunity to engage in fierce and radical acts of truth-telling, to take the losses that had brought us there and offer them up for alchemical transformation. "In the pain that will arise with your writing," Starr advised, "will come the gold." By the end of the five days and after, I discovered I had softened around the pain. With allowance, rather than the usual contraction, not only did the pain have room to dissipate, but I now had a helpful process going forward.

3. Take your time.

Loss is a portal to spiritual transformation. In the mystery of grieving, lies the alchemy and space for healing and awakening. One day on the retreat, we were guided on a hike up to Chimney Rock and a spectacular view of the Piedra Lumbre basin. I found myself struggling to keep up and fell back. Several of the retreat participants hung back with me, though they easily could have sprinted ahead. Embarrassed, I urged them to go ahead and insisted that it was the heat that was bothering me. As I took a break inside the scant shade of a small bush, my companions encouraged me to slow down, saying “It’s not that hot. You’re just moving too fast.” But I couldn’t seem to process that and after each break, sprinted ahead again.

Finally, one of them said, “Kelly, wasn’t the medicine card you drew the turtle?” And it was then that it hit me. The turtle’s message was telling me it was okay to slow down, to take my time, and to allow community to hold me, like a turtle’s shell. This brought tears, because I am a survivor and the way I survived a lifetime of adversity was to power through, to push myself, to keep going no matter what.

Laying down the burden, breaking open, community and belonging, listening, and allowing uncertainty, had brought me to this lesson on the climb: No matter the depth of loss or adversity life brings, I am supported and held. I can rest on the turtle’s back at last and let go of struggle. I didn’t have to push through anymore. I could, like a turtle, stick my neck out, and still remain protected, safe within my shell.