The Moth Emerges from the Nigredo In the beginning, there was the breaking— not the clean snap of a twig, but the slow, mineral erosion of stone under water that lies, under hands that reshape your gravity until north becomes south and your own heartbeat sounds foreign. They scattered you. Sparagmos. Limbs of perception torn by Titans wearing familiar faces, your thumos whipped into a frenzy while they called your chaos madness, your survival sickness. You were told to become butterfly— to fold your trauma into bright wings, to sip quickly at the surface, to dazzle and die in the same season, to forgive the frost that clipped you and call it spring. But you descended instead. Katabasis. Into the humus, the black earth, where Persephone keeps her winter, where the pupa does not dream of flight but of becoming— a gestation longer than anyone’s patience, a silence mistaken for death. Years in the chrysalis of ash. Nigredo. You did not glitter. Y...
The Rose and the Hand We are the rose that beholds the rose, the hand that cups the flame and is not burned but warmed into being. Beauty looks out through your eyes and sees itself— and calls it holy. O, the sacred is not other. It is the pulse in your wrist singing yes to the pulse in the cosmos. It is the way your breath catches when the hawk banks against the sun, and the sun banks against your heart. We are the chalice and the wine, the question and the amen, the shelf emptying itself so the fire may walk free. Touch me, and you touch the trembling edge where the rose becomes the hand that tends it, where the god becomes the body that names it, where the beauty of the sacred and the sacredness of beauty unfurl as a single petal, indistinguishable, eternal, home.