troublemakers

Stay True & Burn Like A Proud Witch.

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I don’t believe that my heart is special. People are not apathetic. They are lost. They are afraid. They see no answer. To mitigate this terror, they turn to their perpetrators for acceptance and advice, as any abused child would do.

They listen to the mouthpieces of the systems which have unjustly imprisoned and violently abused all that is life-affirming, natural and real. They outlaw all wildness. They use us to destroy ourselves, and we wonder why we suffer so much. We are all accountable for this.

I don’t believe that my deep-feeling rawness, the way I feel when the ordinary world brushes up against me, makes me mad. You would wail too, if you could feel this fully. This deeply. This much. It feels like a cheese grater rubbed over an abrasion or a bad burn.

When I say I feel you, I mean it. And you means us. Our collective brokenheartedness. Our collective trauma. That is how I write what I do. That is why you feel me. We are not so different. We are not so separate.

My sentence is not to write. Writing is my salvation. My sentence is to be doomed to feel what we as a collective refuse to feel. To relate with it so intimately that I can find the words and weave the basket that holds this breath of life-and-death. To hold it up in front of myself, in front of you, and hope beyond all odds, that it matters.

And if you already do, my love, if you already feel the collective pulse jumping under your skin, don’t let them convince you that you’re broken. Or rather, that your brokenness is a pathology. It is the truest thing about you.

You asked for what was real, and you found sorrow. And beauty. Poetry and madness. Alchemy and sentence fragments.

We are not from this place. The truest grace in the whole world is also our greatest torment: the spark inside is forever seeking its way back home. The Soul is dreaming you, everyday, working out its creative issues on the couch.

Can it become you? Can it bring its dynamo brilliance into full form? Can it spill its raging rivers into the dessert? Will its gold dust be received?

Can it shape you into the perfect vessel for the rich wines of freedom and liberation, without getting drunk and falling over?

Can it make you into something that has never been before, using the very same ingredients available to all? Can it make its art successful?

Can it be, that we can only be what we are created for, and that there can be no mistakes? If we can entertain that, even for a moment before we argue for the starving children and the way our lover was torn from our arms, then perhaps there is a chance to see that we are not defective.

It is not a deficit of character. Or a bad brain. Or a weak heart. Those are just the colors drawn from the clay dust, indigo and moss green pigments. Maybe we have come about it all wrong.

Maybe we all need trust just a little bit more, so that we can hold a little bit more soulfulness. A little more awareness. A little more power, which can be given only through process, if it’s real.

Maybe we can accept ourselves with a little more openness, stop hating what we are. Stop pretending we’re above it all. This does not show strength. It is something we do to save our lives, but it isn’t real. The strength is the being in it. All of it. The dark and the light. The anguish and the ecstasy. Stop picking favorites. Let it all play out.

Do what’s true. Be wrong sometimes. Know enough to know nothing.

Burn like a proud witch. No begging for your life. Just the strength of staying true. That’s all that can be asked of you. Nothing else. Nothing more.

Stay true, my love. You are beautiful, just the way you are.

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Alison Nappi

Alison Nappi

Alison Nappi is the creator of The Wildness Deck; she is a writer, a creative consultant, and spiritual teacher coaching Wild Women back to the arts of creation and embodiment through ceremony, creativity, and oracular feats of wildness and wonder. When she splits off from the pack, you may find Alison howling at the moon through a thick canopy of trees, singing songs with trumpeting daffodils, or dancing her embodied prayers around a campfire, mud in her hair. Like Alison on Facebook or send an email to be added to her mailing list.
Alison Nappi