Something whispered in her soul, that she were born of fire and floods and stardust and sawdust of generations past. Her body was made of her ancestors blood. The valleys, the forests. And every life that had decayed with the earthworms and been resurrected.

She was not this modern thinking form, but a deeply ancient knowing one. Her skin knew the stars, the heart spoke to the trees. Her feet grounded in the knowing of the intricate subtle web of life. All of life spoke to her.

For too long we have forgotten who we are. We are not the cities, the scans, the stuff. We are not the schedules, the due dates, the monitoring.

We cannot be controlled, as life and nature ~ for we are life and nature.

We are wild, unpredictable, changing and yes, we die. Just as nature dies.

We are not the machine.

We are fire and earth and rain and ritual.

This is your remembering.

You are the successor of your blood line.

You are the daughter, the granddaughter, the great granddaughter.

Birthing your child is a reclaiming of your sacred power. It is a rite of passage. It is your dark night into the dawn of your wisdom.

And you are ready.