I dream of a space where women are free to be.
Just be.
Rest. Stop putting on all the shows we always do around other people, assuming our actions and words will be judged on orthodoxy, our appearances on their presentability.
A space where we can be creative.
Where we can share a poem we’ve written – I see it all spoken word in my living room and on the streets. Where we can paint together, tell our most secret visions, or just sit quietly, resting in the presence of Love.
Where we are free not to be defensive because we know deep down for reals that our hearts are for each other, and that we are the beloved. A space where we can learn from our collective mistakes and strengths and offer our bleeding hearts to be cared for.
Where the wind blows through, welcome.
Where the firelight flickers and beckons and casts into darkness.
Where we can sing, where we can improv, draw, love.
Where the smells are of baking and chai spices.
A place to touch - take in texture and form - and be touched.
A place to be brave, face fears, leap.
A space where my offering –and yours- is accepted, cherished.
Where we lean on his chest and into each others’ lives at the same time.
A place where “should” is not allowed, and our hearts are required.
And we take our baby steps right out across the water, just to be with him.
