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I belong myself to this space, the Hearth. Where old, old stories erupt right out of the marrow of the Earth, like volcanic fissures, leaking wisdom.

I belong myself to my hands, to my mother’s hands, and the long line of women who came before me. The ones who mastered the art of twisting, folding, grasping, pinching, cradling, caressing - oh the million ways our hands dance across surfaces.

I belong myself to the weaving, not the basket. What is birthed from my hands is not mine to claim, it is an unattached outcome. The weaving though… that’s where I will nestle myself, in the pleasure of foraging, splitting and pulling together these strands and songlines of the Earth.

I belong myself to the song. The one that wants to be shared around this very Hearth, the song that is a response to that twisted, old erupted Earth wisdom. Sing with me, crow with me, howl or hiss. She, the Big She, will hear you, and She isn’t concerned with how well you hit that note, or whether you forgot the words.

There is no wrong way to pray.

“We no longer build fireplaces for physical warmth. We build them for the warmth of the soul. We build them to dream by, to hope by, to home by”

- Edna Ferber


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