she went down first —
into the hush beneath,
where the soil remembers all forgotten.

in the dark, edges crumble,
roots searching what light could not teach.

she showed the way:
descending to grow higher.

and as I reach and rise,

shadow still veined through me —

crown finds me like the light-lit canopy

not despite the dark,

but because of it.

eve did not fall —
she began.
down into soil,
into mystery,
into the first becoming.

she walked out
so we could walk in.
Took the first step
into the dark that births.

the garden was never lost.

it was planted in her.

and now —

in us.

in the garden and beyond,
the trees taught her —
love is rooted.
love reaches.

trees show just how to grow
from buried-descended places,
trusting, present, rising, slow —
faith-to-hope-to-love.

the canopy crown isn't for escaping the dark,

but for holding it

while reaching up to the light.

the garden is not gone…

It whispers in soil dark syllables —

Faith is the dark soil reach,

into what is not yet known.

Hope is that waiting hush,

the breath between winter & bloom.

Love is the tree rising steady,

wholeness spilling over.

Eden still grows —

in the hands that tend what fades,

in the quiet vow,

that nothing sacred

is ever lost.

she went down,
so we could rise up.

not a stumble,
but a sacred descent—

so that we might know joy,
choice,
sorrow,

and the full bloom

of our own divine becoming.

the garden, a womb.
dark.
transforming.

here, we learn —
not by answers,
but by presence.

the soil listens.
and silence forms us.

our parents are near —
not sky,
but in the ground.

the garden seems like
it would be mother —
not for how it looks,
but for how it holds.

She opens
Like breath,
She teaches
by her being.

We descend into her womb

not to escape the world —

but to remember

how to be in it.

they bloomed
because the soil held them.
Because dark
was the first invitation —
not the end.

This is the way of the garden:
down first,
then light.

Faith.
Hope.
Love.

Rooted.

Reaching.

faith held me
when I couldn’t see.
but hope—
hope made me reach.

still buried,
i began to want
the bloom.

not as proof,

but as a promise.

LADY OF THE LAKE

she wades where faith touches hope—
where  thirst meets growth,
and the unknown begins to breathe.

flowers press her chest,
pulse between water and root.
Is this what held hope feels like—
willing, womb-led,
waiting with purpose.

she says do not rush what is sacred.

and receive from her hand

this tool, this divine gift,

this excalibur of hope.

they bloomed
because they broke.

Because the dark
asked them to open —
and they said yes.

Petals like ribs,
an exposed heart...

Not just soft.
but immeasurably brave.

Not trying to escape the dark

rather integrating it —

to become whole.

hope doesn’t rush.
It blooms slowly —
through dirt,
through doubt,
through days that don’t look like spring.

The flowers know.
They open anyway.
Even when it hurts.
Even when it’s still
shadowed.

They don’t leave the dark behind —

they carry it.

The womb that grew them

goes with them

into the light.

holding her child
hands reaching.

teaching not with words
but with wonder —

“this is how we love”,
she whispered,

“by noticing it.”

and in that moment

her child wasn't just learning the way —

he was learning her.

tipping her head back
she nearly fell.

‘could I ever be that mighty?
that strong?
reaching in two directions?’

the tree said nothing,
but the wind stirred its branches —
and something in her
stirred, too.

she didn’t need to know exactly how.

but knowing she wanted to

was everything.

he went down —
into dark,
into breaking.

not to escape it,
but to show us
how.

this is the pattern.

die.

then rise. in love.

they don't tell us much about her...
though the garden does.

if you are open
to wonder,
to ask —

she will meet you.

at the veil,
in the quiet place
between what is known
and what is felt.

she will not explain herself,
but will walk with you —
through the trees.

and in knowing her,

you will better

know yourself

— or vice versa?

there’s a part of me that has always
known she was there.
waiting for me to slow down,
soften enough to notice.

i catch glimpses of Her
that feels like remembering…

i don’t have perfect language for it yet
and am still reaching,
still learning how to touch
the hem of what is holy.
but I do believe She, like Him, meets us in the reaching.

we don’t have to see everything clearly

to belong in this love —

we just have to come

with seeking, aligned hearts.

and I’m trying…

love was never
meant for a few.

sitting, contented —
looking down and
feet swinging,
like grace itself.

this is how god calls us —
not with all the answers,
but held in pure presence.

reach! climb on up!

you’re wanted here.

is it sunrise,
or have we missed the light?

how long must she read
before the dark
takes the words?

what is she hoping
to find or not let go of?

a feeling?
a way back?
a love she almost forgot?

what does it mean

to love a story

you don’t understand —

and keep reading

anyway?

we do this.
bending—
learning our shape.

this is the foundation:
leaning toward what could be,
long before it is known.

bearing up our frameworks,
to give shelter, bear fruit.

can the tree of life

can this love —

be my home?

the world’s chaos
whips my understandings,
but then I turn toward
what the fertile dark offers.

a seedling of hope flickering inside…
oh, to have love as home—
giving & receiving ~ inhale & exhale.

i will create the blossoming home
for my children, and
for every exiled part of me—
each shadow part reclaimed
by the fragrance of my truest self.

roots remembering,

rising through soil—

what once was buried in bright abyss

becomes the tallest act of becoming.

the path bends,
unyielding.

not knowing
where it leads,
but still,
you go.

that dip,  down into the dark
even this is holy—

not all faith is obvious

but with hopeful step

we find rest

beneath the tree

I walk a dirt path that gives beneath me,
the earth breathing back my weight.
lavender hums in the wind—
the color of ache and almost.

every step confesses:

waiting isn’t stillness,

it’s a kind of becoming.

and the dirt knows this—

how faith begins underground.

Maybe hope isn’t all forward,

but more downward—

a quiet trust in the pulse of

what’s buried to bloom.

Here, between dying and dawning,

I learn to look toward the trees—

to be shaped

by what I can’t yet name.

it begins in the fall —
an invitation...

what descends
is fed by and also
feeds the ground.

light eventually returns
but never asking
what took so long.

if we are here,
we are in it —
the cycle,
the reach,
the seasons.

as there is no end

to becoming.