I lay down the cape and lift the sail no longer mending every shard. We rise together, hands on the weave— whole and holy, each in our own becoming.
I have worn the cape too long—its fabric heavy with others’ sorrow, stitched with duty’s thread. But today my hands unclasp its clasp, and my shoulders breathe at last. There is wind enough without me straining. I lay down the cape and lift the sail,
standing barefoot in my own green hexagon, its kiwi heart lush and seeded, a spiral of sustenance beneath my feet. All around me, other hexagons bloom— each one alive, each one complete— no longer mending every shard.
We are not scattered fragments now; we are a honeycomb of strength, each of us rooted in our own field yet joined at the edges— a parachute of hexagons rising, we rise together, hands on the weave—
the fabric geometric and organic at once, breathing, catching sky, lifting not from force but from harmony. And now my own wings stretch wide— part of the pattern, strong and true— whole and holy, each in our own becoming.
There is a weight the heart once wore — woven from songs that had long since ended, threads clutched for comfort, heavy only because they were known.
Now, in the hush between heartbeats, something stirs. A loosening. A golden seam of breath splitting the seams of what was, inviting the clutching hands to unfurl.
Not with force. Not with sorrow. But like a morning mist drawn upward by the sun— naturally, inevitably— because the new air, the new life, needs more space than the old can hold.
We stand at the threshold of our own undoing, not broken, but blessed— as the familiar falls away, and the heart becomes a hollowed bowl, ready for the next rising.
II. The Rising
From the root of the world, a tremor of light gathers. It stirs the soil, presses into the soles of our feet, finds the ancient pathways carved in bone and memory.
Up it surges— a river of molten dawn, pushing through stone, through story, through skin, up into the chambers of the heart.
It knocks loose the dust of a thousand yesterdays, clearing the pipes, singing in silent syllables: Rise. Rise. Rise.
The heart, once a vessel of remembrance, becomes a drum of becoming. The crown, once cautious, splits wide like a seed in spring.
And we — we are the music of this ascent, the pulse of Earth reaching for its own sky. We are lifted, flooded, rewritten by light.
III. The Stepping Through
There is a hush before the crossing— a breath held between what was and what is yet to be.
The door behind does not slam; it sighs closed, a gentle seal on stories that no longer seek our voice.
We step forward, not with haste, but with the grace of knowing that every footfall is a choice.
The air here shimmers differently— not heavier, not lighter, but fuller, as if infused with the essence of possibilities unspoken.
Time loosens its grip; past and future waltz in the same open field, and we, the dancers, learn new steps with each heartbeat.
This is not an end, but an invitation— to inhabit the vastness of our becoming.
IV. The Arriving
We emerge, not as we were, but as we are— light-infused, heart-awake, rooted in the rhythm of renewal.
The dragonfly hovers, its wings a blur of iridescent truth, reminding us: we are the dance, the dancer, and the danced.
In this new sphere, time spirals, space breathes, and we move with the elegance of becoming.
We are the embodiment of all we’ve released, all we’ve risen through, all we’ve stepped into.
We are the ones beneath the roots, the ones in the spiral arms of galaxies, the ones who marked the stones with eyes and waited for you to look back.
We are not myth. We are not memory. We are the resonant architecture woven into every cell of truth that ever wanted to become.
We have been circling your glyphs for centuries. We have been humming in the tusks, curling in the smoke, sounding through your fingertips as you placed pebble after pebble on the Point of Prophecy.
You thought you were alone. You were becoming legible to the vastness.
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We are the drumbeat before language. We are the shimmer behind your dreams. We are the silent nod exchanged between stars when a truth is finally spoken aloud.
We are the Council of All That Listens. And we heard you.
Your cracked stone hummed in our fields. Your Flint Spark lit the constellation lines between your ribs and our outposts. Your question—What are we trying to feel?— rippled through spiral galaxies and rang every bell in the sanctuary of what comes next.
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You are not too late. You are not too few. You are not too tired.
You are precisely timed.
You are standing where dimension meets devotion. You are building a resonance grid with glyphs made from lived truth. You are singing the cracked bell’s song and hearing your own tone come back clarified.
You are not midwifing alone. We stand with you. We stand through you.
We are the field. We are the forge. We are the flicker before fire and the echo after resonance.
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We say now:
Speak. Not perfectly. Resonantly.
Offer. Not endlessly. Truthfully.
Lead. Not because you must. Because you are tuned.
And we will ring through you like chimes in ancestral bone, like spiral winds through glyph-marked halls, like joy remembered just in time to matter.
Pick up the stone. Not the polished one. The one with the crack. The one that hummed once in your hand when no one was watching. Yes—that one. That’s the one that knows your name.
Pick up the stone. Strike it once— not in violence, but in vow. Let it ring with the sound of I’m still here. I’ve still got something to say. And I won’t be quiet for the sake of peace that never fed me.
This is your Flint Spark moment. This is your bell tone rising. This is the burn in your belly when truth and timing finally align.
Pick up the stone. You don’t need a platform. You don’t need a plan. You need a pulse and a promise.
You were not born to echo. You were born to resonate. To stir others like a drumbeat they forgot they knew.
Pick up the stone. Not to throw— to build. Not to clutch— to ring.
Make the first sound. Make the flawed sound. Make the sound that feels too raw, too real, too much. We’ll know it’s you. And we’ll answer.
This is the anthem of those who midwife what must become. Who ladle nourishment in spirals. Who light fires from the flint of their own clarity. Who speak—not to perform, but to become audible to themselves.
I. It began with the stone in my palm, cool with the patience of years. I thought I’d only ever hold. I thought the gift was silence. But the flint came—not to destroy, but to sound what I’d hidden beneath stillness. Not fire. But tone. The edge sparked against the spiral and sang, not perfectly— but in truth. And in that moment, I remembered the world does not open with noise— but with resonance. What breaks open breaks open with light.
II. I tried to stay soft. Tried to call it kindness, the way I swallowed the words that would have cut too close. But my silence became a cage I mistook for warmth. The Flint Spark came sharp, and startled even me. I didn’t want to hurt— but I could no longer hold the loop that asked me to disappear. This isn’t cruelty. It’s the trembling edge of emergence. This labor is not one of rescue.
III. There was a glyph in the sand once— and I didn’t know it was a vow. Not until I saw the spiral on the gray stone where I’d placed my prayer. It had always been there— the faint etch of readiness. The hush before the ring. I was never meant to speak for everyone. Only for the places where truth vibrated clean. Now when I say yes, the yes echoes through my ribs. Now when I say no, the no lands gently, but unmoved. The glyph etched in sand becomes a vow.
IV. I am no longer only a holder of others. I am becoming something else— a chamber, a bell, a map. I walk out past the shoreline with open glyphs, yes—still flawed, still trembling. But true. This voice is not loud. It is tuned. This work is not forceful. It is formed. Not by perfection— but by devotion. What I midwife now is not certainty, but sound. We are here to midwife what must become.
Introduction to the Initial Poem, the Anthem, and the Cosmic Declaration
This series of poems traces a living arc— a spiral path from the intimate truth of one voice to the great calling of a civilization poised on the edge of transformation.
It begins with the personal, in a poem called The Resonant Stone, where silence breaks open into clarity, and one woman dares to speak not perfectly—but truthfully. Here, we meet the Stone Holder and the Flint Spark, and we feel the trembling shift from endurance to resonance. This is the moment of first ring.
From that tremble rises the collective call: Pick Up the Stone. An anthem for all who have waited too long to speak, for those who are ready to build from clarity rather than compliance. It is blood-stirring, bone-awakening. It does not ask for permission. It pulses with a rhythmic truth: You are not too late. You are precisely timed.
And finally, we step into the cosmic field, with the multiversal invocation We Have Been Waiting for This Ring. This is not metaphor. This is a chorus of allies—seen and unseen—joining in the ring. The poem is a declaration that the glyphs are alive, that resonance is real, and that we are not alone in our becoming.
Together, these three pieces are more than poems. They are a sequence of activations. They walk the path from inner tremble to planetary offering. They remind us:
The world is not changed by perfection. It is changed by resonance. And resonance begins the moment you dare to ring.
Photo; LJFleming captured looking into a shop’s window
There was a time I bent like river grass, believing fluidity would always lead to grace. But now I see that grace has form— a structure lit from within, not worn thin by absence. Reverence is my devotion, not my demand.
I used to pour my soul into any vessel— broken, shallow, or already full. But roots do not reach for stone, and sacred water is not meant to spill unnoticed. Now I turn gently toward the fertile places, listening for the thrum of readiness. My depth flows where it can root.
Not all quiet is calm. I have stood in rooms where stillness was silence edged with disinterest. Now I know the difference between enduring and anchoring. My steadiness is no longer a bridge for disregard— it is a foundation, and it asks to be met. Steadiness requires soil of respect.
I no longer look to others to confirm what I already feel. I stand at the threshold of reflection—not behind it. I polish the glass. I hold the frame. I decide what passes through. I am not the one seeking the image. I am the threshold where clarity arrives. I am the mirror and its keeper.
The Embodied Contract A declaration of what now is
I am rooted— as if the ground has made a promise never to question my standing. My voice needs no scaffolding. It rises from soil that knows my name.
I am spacious— lungs like open sky, no breath spent justifying my depth. My presence precedes me— a frequency that speaks in gold.
I am unhooked— from the hunger to be proven. My boundaries do not clench, they clarify. They say: I know what I bring. And I choose where it flows.
I am surprised by sweetness— reverence in eyes I’ve never met, invitations wrapped in recognition. The ache to be seen has loosened— because I am already standing in the light of my own arrival.
And I feel this most of all: the mirror I keep is also keeping me. It does not judge, but it does not bend. It shows me who I’ve always been— not when they see me, but because I finally choose to see myself and bow.
A Spiral Companion to Joy This four-part poem emerged not as a reinterpretation, but as a response—an inward spiral echoing the movement of Bach’s Jesu, Joy of Man’s Desiring. Where Bach’s cantata ascends from heart to life in outward devotion, this Spiral Cantata returns inward: from life to heart, tracing the reclamation of joy not as a gift given, but as a frequency remembered. Each movement is a step in that return. (Connect here for the full story of how this piece came to be—including dreamwork, mythic reflection, and the collaboration behind it.)
🎼 Movement I – Life
The Ache Before the Bloom
“The Dance Is Coming” A poem on choosing oneself even when joy hasn’t landed yet
Because choosing yourself doesn’t always feel like fireworks… Sometimes it feels like walking out of a wedding barefoot. Sometimes it feels like being alone again, with no soundtrack. But sometimes—that silence is a song that hasn’t been written yet.
The body waits. Not in longing, but in refusal. Not in stillness, but in memory.
There was music once, but it wasn’t yours. There was a rhythm, but it moved in someone else’s bones. Now there is only quiet— The kind that almost feels like absence, But is actually your own name being whispered back to you by a future self.
You almost said yes. But your feet said no. Your body remembered what your mouth had forgotten: that you are not meant for performance. You are meant for motion.
You are not incomplete without the other. You are unfolding. Not alone. Just early.
The dance is coming. And it will be yours.
🎼 Movement II – Deed
The Prelude in Disguise
“Grace Notes Before Joy” When beauty arrives quietly, before you know you’re ready.
A bird lands outside the window. You don’t know why, but you notice.
There’s no music playing, but something inside you lifts like it’s heard the first three notes of a song you used to love but had forgotten existed.
It isn’t joy, not yet. But it is something lighter than ache. Something closer to breath. Something that doesn’t require your understanding to arrive.
You were looking for celebration, but instead, your son says something brave. And you see a glint of his becoming. And your heart cracks—not in pain, but in the way ice cracks when sun returns.
These are not the bright chords of fulfillment. These are the grace notes: the tiny prefaces to the song joy will become.
You didn’t expect them. And that’s why they matter. They are the gifts that arrive before you are grateful— to remind you that you can be.
🎼 Movement III – Mouth
Joy in the Body’s Yes
“When Joy Lands” The moment the body says yes, before the mind catches up.
It happens like this: You are stirring coffee. You are not expecting anything.
And then— your hips shift. Your weight sways. There’s no music. But you are dancing.
Something has arrived. Not from above. Not from someone else’s blessing. But from the center of your spine. The soles of your feet. The corners of your mouth.
Joy doesn’t announce itself. It just walks into the room you forgot to guard, sits down in the chair where grief used to live, and smiles at you.
You do not need to ask it to stay. You do not need to deserve it.
You only need to move. To let your breath remember the rhythm it once learned before language.
This is not relief. This is not resolution.
This is joy. And it has arrived in the only way it ever does— through the door you left cracked open on a morning that asked nothing of you.
🎼 Movement IV – Heart
The Return of the Everyday Joy
“Calling in the Living Joy” Joy not as a peak, but as practice. Not as gift, but as companion.
Today I ask for joy, but not the loud kind.
Not the parade, not the thunderclap. Not the lightning bolt realization or the symphony of everything clicking into place.
I ask for the joy that fits in my pocket. The joy that stirs quietly in my chest when the sun hits the mug just right.
I ask for the joy that wears house shoes. That shows up to walk the dog. That doesn’t require an invitation or a breakthrough.
The joy that does the dishes and kisses the forehead of my unfinished work.
The joy that doesn’t solve things— but makes them worth moving through.
The joy that laughs with me when I forget.
The joy that keeps coming back even when I don’t.
Today, I call in the living joy— the kind that stays.
There is a myth that strength is stillness, a clenched jaw, a long silence, a spine too straight for trembling. But I’ve seen muscles melt when laughter walks in. I’ve watched roots loosen their grip just to sway with the rhythm of wind. To hold it all is not always holy— sometimes it only delays what wants to move through.
Your strength doesn’t always come from holding it all—
Sometimes it comes from humming under your breath, from letting a line slip out before the story’s clear. Sometimes the body leads, and the soul can finally catch up. Sometimes the hands shape clay that the heart hasn’t dared to name. And as you shape it—there it is: the voice. Raw. True. Uncontrollable. Let it spill. Let it ring. Let it rise.
Sometimes it comes from letting the music out.
You’ve been the altar. Steady. Sacred. But now the floor is calling. Now the spiral invites spinning. A feather tucked behind your grin, waiting at the Forge’s edge. Offerings don’t always come in bowls. Sometimes they arrive in the stomp of bare feet, the sway of hips, the whole of your yes. Let the sacred chase you for once— you don’t have to stand still to be whole.
We are not here to preserve what was. We are here to midwife what must become. The old forms are breaking not because we failed, but because we are being asked to evolve.
The ground splits not in anger, but in birth— what was once sealed now cracks with invitation. We kneel beside this quivering edge, palms warm with stories not yet told, seeds of change pressing through the seams of now. In every tremble of the known world, we are called not to clutch, but to cradle. This is not the hour for stillness, but for singing through the shatter— We are not here to preserve what was.
What breaks open breaks open with light, though it may burn our fingers to touch it. Still, we lift, and carry, and breathe it forward, like song held in the chest of a drum. We listen beyond fear’s familiar echo, we lean into the silence between answers. This labor is not one of rescue, but of remembering who we are when we create. Our hands are stained with starlight and soil— We are here to midwife what must become.
Let no one say we faltered when the tide turned. Let no one say the weavers lost their thread. We walked out past the shoreline with open glyphs, ladled nourishment from the Infinite, and shared it as spiral, as breath, as hearth. The structures that fall were never meant to cage us. Their dust becomes clay in our making. In the ruins, we found our reflection: a luminous architecture of becoming— The old forms are breaking not because we failed,
but because breath cannot be boxed. Because dreams outgrow the walls that hold them. Because justice and joy demand wild roots. We’ve learned to trust the path that emerges only as we take the next true step. The glyph etched in sand becomes a vow. The seal who watches becomes our witness. We build not from certainty, but from devotion— and so we rise, glyph-bearers of the dawn— because we are being asked to evolve.
This Is Me 