“I love to sleep with the windows open,” she says, and her voice echos softly through the grass and the wind and the world
She lays her head down on a pillow of thousands of years.
Her experience integrates. Her lives mellow out all the lines of her soul.
She can coil around herself with a precise blend of ages. Of genders. Of races. She has seen how much those things can matter as humans shuffle on. Yet she knows it matters none, and the soul’s journey is all. She knows that you and I are everything at once, and that prejudices are nothing but a misplaced fear within. THEY ARE NOT REAL. They never were. But they brought a hurt that begs remembering.
Isn’t it funny how we teach ourselves and each other?
with loaded guns and loaded words that bring both a somber silence and a red rage
with abandoned children and caged animals and the sanctioned trashing of our only home
So much of this world runs through her veins that her identity becomes placeless. She has the Strega in her blood. Tobacco blues and injustice in her blood. Europe sex and death in her blood. She contains the pain of lifetimes but can forget it all in a moment.
There is momentum in our secret selves that can bring us where we need to go. There is a wiseness deep within and you only need travel to reach that wisdom. The journey might be long and hard but it matters.