tribe...

my tribe

Something magical happens when women circle. We share our stories - the stories of hope, suffering, change, transformation, pain, joy... and in these stories we begin to see ourselves. Each woman becomes a muse, an archetype, sharing the ancient tales of life.

We experience fear, and find the feet to move through it. We experience anger, and are allowed it. Our hearts break and mend. Our spirits begin to soar. Our faces are reflected in the warm light of those circling us. They know my stories, just as I know theirs. The joys are doubled. We become witnesses to the bounds, stumblings and leaps of the human soul.

Yes, there is deep relief to be found there, in the arms of a womens circle. We become our truest, rawest, most divine, human selves. We are no one's lover, mother, boss, wife in those hours there. We are only ourselves.

This ancient rite of circling... of story sharing... of women raising light and seeing herself in every other...

Divinely protected, and always connected.