I feel the heaviness in the heartbreak of my woman’s story. I turn back and see them all coming to gather. Peering through the line, managed by time, seen beyond space; I look to a deep grieving, long in the face. They rattle their cages and beg to be set free. The grey lusts to be flush with the sweet heat of passion, ravenous for life. They are calling back to the heartbeat once lost. The beat of the Earth, the pace of the moon. The story must be re-written soon.
My story. OUR strory. HERstory.
The Story that starts at the core, the pit that has formed. At the void that craves to be filled. It started when playing in the field was no longer fun, and harvesting failed to cultivate reward. It started where all was barren, yet overgrown. Where it left with a wanting; the life sucked from the Earth. A doom, when the wives tales were no longer TRUTH. It started when her hair became tight, and her lip taught.
Captured by chore, robbed of spirit in the name of production. Her softness bound by a cloak of survival. The story re-lived in each moment until granted pardon to leave.
A story fueled by fear. Not being enough. Not perfect. A story of complacency. Only what was expected of her. Aligning to the photo instead of the life. Ignoring her roots, her intuition. Disconnected from her truth. Creating a haze to live behind so as not to experience the grief; the loss of HerSelf over and over and over again.
Now left with a deep yearning to create, what has not yet been found.
A child. Naturally, what is meant to be. Pour into the babe the same vacant wanting. Grasp the un-known. A quest to match a love untold. A love so profound. A love so bold. But NO.
It is the Journey to meet Self.
The pieces spread out on the floor. Collected in piles, waiting to be sorted. The process messy. She picks through meticulously, intentionally. Set out to bring organization to the chaos. To establish a structure in which she can dance. To find a space that allows her to be SHE.
A softness craving to be free without fight. A strength without bite. To find a courage to dive beneath. A place where she touches the world, unrestricted, and WHOLE.
She weaves the twigs with stray hairs, bone, feather, honey and clay. Assembling a space to hold creation. Constructing a comfort where she can roost. She wiggles in, and takes a seat. The muscles twitch, and the bones shake. A spark that resounds. Her shoulders move unbound. The skin separates as the wings penetrate. She births HERSELF.
Life begins with Death.
Things must die to re-new. A constant creator and destroyer or our own stories, of our reality, of each moment. The third act awaits. REBIRTH. Within the cycles we are FULL, WHOLE. Complete in the release. The STORY was never anyone’s to OWN.
We are round. We spiral up, we spiral down. We are WOMAN. Unfiltered, raw.
I have spent years on the search for what it means to be FEMALE, for what it means to THRIVE, for what it means to be ALIVE. This path has lead me all over the world, drawn to women and their children, to communities, to SPIRIT, and ultimately BACK to MYSELF. Here I will share my most recent adventure, navigating a diagnosis of triple positive BREAST CANCER and each step of the way I figure out how to be a little more ME. I am Catherine-Ayer Gresham a 30 year old woman