In April I was blessed to visit a spiritual home of mine, the forest that was my sanctuary in childhood. I had the appropriated privilege of being stewarded by this land before it was released back into the illusion of private ownership.In the exchange a spell was broken for me, and my relationship toward this earth has been steadily deepening.

Last Spring, Jen and I returned out of devotion, and I was overjoyed to be menstruating and to be able to offer my blood in thanks.Cloven prints in the snow lead us to this alter, where Jen and I used to sit open-mouthed beneath rain drops falling from the cave wall.It’s where I had my first real spa treatment, with masks made of cold mud and the laughter of little girls. Masks that challenged the very idea that we were two and not one.

I might have offered my blood to the same soil if I hadn’t been summoned by an owl feather perched there. The ask was clearly for help revealing a work of art, which arose from the cliff face at the slightest sweep of feather and blood.I was so comforted by the image. It was profound to be witnessed by my familiars, including the other little girl who became my beloved.I reflected on the experience for months, until happily finding myself back in the arms of my sanctuary with Jen earlier this month.

I was curious if rain had washed away our guardian angel, but I laughed when I saw the painting still alive in broad daylight.Not faded in the slightest.It was the sun who mused with my willing form this time, and how profound was the poetry that revealed itself in this ongoing ritual of devotion to earth/self.Interactive art!Shadow or reflection, sprit has everything and nothing to do with me.Take away: don’t let my craving for meaning-making (death work) eclipse the nonsense that begs to co-create art with me (life’s work).