The restoration of History arrives with the reclamation of HERstory. The story that is found deep, in the blood and bones, in the womb of every woman.

For she is the portal of possibility. It is she who births and bleeds with cycles of the moon. We are magic embodied and robed in flesh, hair and wind.

Deep in the body is the song of the earth. Her roots wind strong as our bones, her rivers run like our veins, her trees branch like our lungs, her sky clear as our eyes. We are the holders of time. Of ancient civilizations lost to the hands of tyrannical reign that would hoard and hide the strength, diminish our pride, until we sank.

Sank below the waters edge, but they didn’t know that we could swim. That we could sing. That we could breathe whole, a body of gills. Now is the time of the resurrection, of the reawakening. Lemuria is rising, true love has us flying. Unified in vision, each has claimed their own mission, of play and delight. For there’s no better way to ring in this new day than through sound of Angel proclamation and nature’s celebration.

When she sings, you can hear it. The new world, timeless through eternity. We bear the child in hopes of what more they will pave. She listens, hollow, open to receive. Thunderous volume moves vibrations, reminding people to breathe. Reminding people to feel, reminding them of the one home that is real. We all will return on this ship made of light. To a singular condition, beyond wrong and past right. Where as duality dissolves, so do fear, doubt and anger. No stranger to shadow, collapse from the fight- let it sink in, may it sting in, then become your new life.

Way shower, path paver, web weaver. We have closed the last night.