Keeping the Days: The Orchid Shamans

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The Orchid Shamans
Phipps Conservatory, Pittsburgh, PA


As the days grow darker and the winds grow bitter here in Pittsburgh, one of my favorite ways of coping is to retreat to the Phipps Conservatory and Greenhouse to meander through their rooms of lush greens and radiant blossoms. The orchid room, especially, always fascinates me. I imagine each orchid could be a shaman from some strange, exotic tribe, wild feathers and fringe and face paint, flinging their arms open to some unheard drumbeat pulsing in the roots. If I were a shaman, I think I'd want to be a shaman of the orchids.

Keeping the Days: Autumn Sepia

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Autumn Sepia
Frick Park, Pittsburgh, PA

Keeping the Days: Leaves After Rain

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Leaves After Rain
Frick Park, Pittsburgh, PA

Crafting a Symbol of Three Realms

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As part of my aspirant work with the Druid Order of the Three Realms, I've been experimenting with ways to create a wooden plaque with the DOTR symbol to include on my altar. I had at first thought of doing a combination wood-burning/acrylic paint technique (such as the one I used on my travel altar), but the redesigned and touched-up version of the three realms triquetra/triskele that Christopher did for me was so stunning, I wasn't sure my mediocre talents would be able to do it justice. I was curious to see if there were any techniques that would allow me to transfer the image more directly to the plaque.

After some brief investigating online, I stumbled upon this page over at matsutake, which provides a tutorial on how to transfer inkjet printer images onto wood. I thought to myself, hey, I have an inkjet printer... I have wood... I have Elmer's Glue and Mod Podge... I have a tiny modicum of talent and patience, but most importantly, I have an ass-kickingly beautiful graphic image that might just work. Even if the results weren't as stunning, or the process as easy, as the tutorial implied, I thought I'd give it a shot.

Keeping the Days: Woods in the Fall

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Golden Woods in the Local Park
Frick Park, Pittsburgh, PA

Keeping the Days: Water and Wave

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Moonrise over the Atlantic, Outer Banks, NC

Keeping the Days: Sky and Flame

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Sunset from Cadillac Mountain, Acadia National Park, Maine

Keeping the Days: Earth and Stone

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Mushrooms of Acadia National Park, Maine

Keeping the Days: Water and Well

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Witch Hole Pond, Acadia National Park, Maine

Keeping the Days: Northern Ireland

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Normally these photographs would be entirely my own, but I wanted to take this opportunity to share some beautiful photography by others who also attended the "Celtic Spirituality and Peacemaking" retreat in Rostrevor, County Down, Northern Ireland last month. All of the photographs are copyright and owned by the artists themselves; please do not use or reproduce them.


Around Rostrevor




Church Street, Rostrevor (Amy Kong)

Keeping the Days: Earth and Stone

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Long Pond, Acadia National Park, Maine

Keeping the Days: Water and Well

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Long Pond, Acadia National Park, Maine

Keeping the Days: Sky and Flame

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Today's "Keeping the Days" features photographs of bees and beetles, our darling winged friends, taken during my recent family vacation in Acadia National Park in Maine.





bee on a wildflower

Keeping the Days: Earth and Stone

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Asticou Azalea Garden, Mount Desert Island, Maine

Keeping the Days: Water and Well

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Thuya Garden, Mount Desert Island, Maine

Discovering Druidry

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I have, like others before me, discovered that Blogger now hosts "pages"... and I've finally broken down and decided to play with this feature to see what it has to offer — a longer biography, perhaps, or a list of useful books and resources? Links to popular and interesting past posts, maybe one or two longer essays of general interest? If others have any ideas, please don't hesitate to share! Eventually these pages will appear as links (in a relatively boring format, until I can tweak things) just below the header. For now, please enjoy my first page, Discovering Druidry, which serves as a kind of combination memoir and overview of my personal approach to the threefold, interweaving Druid Path. I have shared it below as a post on its own, but it will also be permanently available here. (Also, I'm honored and excited to see that Philip Carr-Gomm stumbled across it today and quoted it in his blog! Thanks so much, Philip!)

In the beginning, I was a wild child, a woodsy child, a child who could concentrate all of my attention on holding perfectly still so as not to startle the robin in the grass. I could disappear into the tense air of rapt attention, forget my own little body completely as my eyes widened and my breath stilled. Once, the robin's twitching eyes turned towards me, and I thought I heard it whisper... Cheer-up. Cheer-up, calmly, almost with amusement, you know, I can see you.

That was when I was a very little girl. As sometimes happens, eventually I grew up and stopped listening so closely to the world, to the landscape and the wilderness. It would be years before I rediscovered the rapture of stilled breath or the ecstasy, the going-out-ness, of listening closely and attending with reverence to sacred nature. Druidry would restore my sense of connection and intimacy with the natural world; it would open me to new ways of living with creativity and wisdom, playfulness and respect; it would bring me home to myself, to this person dwelling in my own particular body in my own particular place in a vast landscape infused with Spirit. Druidry was a home-coming for me, as so many Pagans and Witches before me have described their own rediscoveries. One day, I would look into the eyes of the world and discover — like some startled scullery maid or the only daughter of a widower out of a fairy tale — my real destiny wearing a strange new face, a face of beauty and dignity, but smiling at me with the same old familiar affection.

But first, I had to learn about poetry.

Aesthetics and the Sacred

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Pagan author and philosopher Brendan Myers and his girlfriend Juniper have started a podcast, Standing Stone & Garden Gate, which has so far proved quite interesting to listen to. There turns out to be always at least one bit in each episode that sparks me into either consternation or disagreement.^[1]

In this last episode ("Witchcraft and Penises"), Brendan spends his philosophical segment discussing definitions of "sacred," pointing out a very real problem in how most people understand the word. The etymologies of terms like "sacred" (and even "temple," it turns out) trace back to words with original meanings such as "setting aside," "cutting off" or "binding." There is the notion of separation or distinction inherent in such words, so that something which is "sacred" is distinct from everything else which is not, which is therefore "outside the temple," or profane. Brendan sees in this distinction an implicit hierarchy, in which the sacred is elevated above and beyond the profane. Modern religious movements (and, one assumes, the mystic sects of many religious traditions throughout history) who try to claim that "everything is sacred" may be sincere and sincerely guided by noble intentions, but by insisting that the sacred is not separate or distinct, they rob the word of any real meaning. Though Brendan says it more eloquently, the point he makes is basically the same point you can demonstrate for yourself by repeating a word like flotsam or marvel over and over again until it begins to sound nonsensical. Words that refer to anything whatsoever do not refer to anything in particular. And so, as Bren sums up, "We are led to a conundrum: the sacred has to be privileged somehow, it has to be at least partially hierarchical in order to make sense at all; but at the same time it has to be accessible to anyone, anywhere, at any time, it has to be discoverable in the ordinary."

Bringing the Rain

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"When the dragon wants a rainstorm he causes thunder and lightning. That brings the rain."

- Chögyam Trungpa

"You know," I said to Jeff last night after closing the laptop and setting it back on the bookshelf, "the cool thing about this whole idea of 'cultivating an environment of truth' is that you don't have to actually know what the truth is. You just have to make room for truth to enter in."

"I'm still not sure I know what Trungpa even means by an 'environment of truth,'" Jeff said, yawning a little.

"An environment of truth--you know. So, suppose you want to teach. Whatever subject. You can try to pour in all the information and skills into the student that you yourself know, right? But if that's all you do then your student will never quite surpass you; the best you can do is teach her everything you know but not ever more than you know. Or, you can cultivate in the student an aptitude for curiosity, inquisitiveness, careful observation, coherent reasoning... You can cultivate in the student an environment of truth, and show the student how to create such an environment for herself, the internal environment of her own attitudes and thought processes, and the external environment of encouraging, supportive and challenging peers. And with such an environment, she is receptive to truth in whatever forms, not only those forms you've discovered yourself already. She might learn things that even you don't know.

"An environment of truth, an environment in which truth can take root and come to full bloom. An environment that does not punish or discourage or dismiss truth, but is open and receptive to the discovery of new truth, as well as the preservation of old, familiar truth.

"And that's actually very freeing. It doesn't require you to know everything, the complete truth, before taking action or making choices; you can still act and choose in ways that reveal truth, even before knowing what that truth is. All you need to know is what kind of environment and relationships give rise to truth, to the revelation or realization of truth; you need to develop a talent for recognizing truth when it comes and attending to its circumstances and context. Then you work to create that environment and those relationships.

"In fact!" I continued enthusiastically, "In fact, in some ways it's like making art, or the process of writing: by creating an environment of truth, you are actually cultivating the circumstances of your own continuing discovery. I don't always know what I'm going to say before I say it--writing is a process of finding out and elaborating on what it is I truly think about something, just as much as it is a way of communicating with others. Sometimes the work of writing reveals connections and ideas I hadn't anticipated, but because I'm listening to the work and not trying to restrict it to some predetermined concept of what I want to write or what I think I should write, I can allow that truth to speak to me as well as to the reader.

"It's the same thing wherever you cultivate an environment of truth--in writing, in art, in the classroom, in family relations, in life in general. When your focus is on cultivating that receptive, fertile environment, truth can well up within it and flow freely through it, naturally, seemingly effortlessly even. You don't have to worry about controlling truth, you just... let it happen. The dragon wants a rainstorm--wants truth--so he creates thunder and lightening, he makes the things he can make because he knows he cannot make the rain itself. He prepares the way. And preparing the way brings the changing, falling rain.... You know what I mean? ...Jeff?"

I looked at Jeff. His nose half-buried in his pillow, he snored, a snore deep and rumbling.

"Speaking of thunder..." I muttered to myself, and smiled.

Dream the World Awake

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The idea that "life is but a dream" seems to be cropping up a lot in my life recently, and when this kind of synchronicity happens I usually try to pay attention, think carefully and keep my ears pealed. Often a growing obsession will draw me on with a certain fascination or magnetism, increasing in intensity until I reach a moment of triumph or break-through, when the struggle to comprehend resolves into an unexpected and unexpectedly easy clarity. But this time is different. Whenever someone mentions this idea that life is a dream, that we are the dreamers dreaming the world, that our goal or purpose is (or should be) to "dream the world awake"--I feel repelled, repulsed even. Far from wanting to pursue the idea, I am constantly backing away, insisting no, no it isn't; and yet, the theme keeps appearing suddenly, slipping around some corner like a stubborn ghost. So for now, I'd like to take a moment to articulate for myself--and for you, dear reader, if you care to tune in--where this sense of repulsion and objection comes from, why I feel so invested in the "realness" of this life and world. Perhaps by doing this, the reasons for this unwelcome haunting may become clearer.

Dreaming the Persistent Other

Don't get me wrong. I am not your typical secular Westerner who eagerly dismisses dreams as the randomly generated nonsense and noise of a tired brain in rehash-and-recovery mode. There is of course that problem, when comparing our existence to a dream in a culture that refuses to take dreams seriously, much like the metaphor of the amusement park ride that Bill Hicks uses in the video clip above. Such a comparison can, intentionally or merely by implication, express a certain nihilism. "It doesn't matter--it's just a ride," Bill Hicks assures us immediately after mentioning our tendency to kill off good people, those with the wisest souls and kindest intentions.

But it does matter! Doesn't it? In a dream we might experience a tragic and horrifying murder, one that has us shaking and sobbing and slobbering into our shirt sleeves, only to wake up the next morning to a real world washed with dew and full of life. It doesn't matter, it was just a dream, we breathe with relief, and smile. It wasn't real. But we can say this precisely because those dream-people, whether they die in dream or not, cease to be when the dream has ended. They have no unique or independent existence from the dream, and so in a very important sense they simply aren't real. But even the most level-headed, down-to-earth Miss Practical-Shoes might pause to phone up her brother if she dreams that he has died or fallen gravely ill; perhaps not because she believes her dream to be true or accurately reflective of reality, but maybe simply because she recognizes her brother as a unique being with an independent existence and her dream reminds her of her interest in and concern for his well-being. On the other hand, when dream-people reappear or persist from night to night, they can grow to have a semblance of independent existence. Ask any child suffering from night terrors, any grown adult struggling with recurring nightmares: the anxiety of repeated dreams can be very real, indeed, with powerful effects on life in the waking world.

The importance of the dream-world in our "real" lives increases tenfold when you believe, as I do, that dreams are a way for us to connect with aspects of ourselves and our world that we can't normally access in "ordinary consciousness" while awake. In dreams, intuitions and extrasensory perceptions take on concrete symbolic forms that we can interact with and even, potentially, influence. We may travel to places we've never been, only to arrive there the following day with a sense of familiarity. We may anticipate the needs of others, their vulnerabilities or fears, before we have consciously acknowledged them. We may even encounter nonmaterial creatures, beings of energy, emotion and thought, guides and gods, ancestors and children not yet born. In amongst the chatter and noise of our sleeping brain's reverberating chemistry, we might discover revelation and prophecy, if we are listening attentively, respectfully and with a hint of healthy incredulity. In short, it's rarely true that a dream is "just a dream," even when it is. Rather, dreams have the potential to connect us to a vast interwoven, multilayered reality that penetrates and transcends our ordinary experience as individuated material selves.

So what do people mean, exactly, when they say "life is just a dream"? Do they mean that somehow suffering and pain as we experience it in this life is illusory, unimportant, irrelevant? Even if such a view can free a person, to some extent, from his own suffering (especially if it is self-generated through fear or guilt), it is unlikely to help him cultivate compassion for the suffering of others. After all, their pain isn't real. When we wake up, we'll discover we are God, and then won't we all have a good laugh. Besides which, not only is the pain of others not real, but perhaps even the other itself is not real. Perhaps, like the people populating my dreams, I'm making you all up and one day I'll wake up to discover that I am God dreaming the World dreaming Me (and I've been talking to myself in my sleep). In which case, all the more reason to shrug off strife, pain and death when it happens to other people and focus primarily on my own happiness and self-fullfilment. I might as well make it as enjoyable a dream as possible, right? And thusly whither away concepts like self-restraint, sacrifice, altruism and even love beyond that of self-gratification.

Dreaming the Creative Act

Granted, most people who talk about the world-as-dream have, I think, a more sophisticated concept in mind. If I understand it correctly, the metaphor is meant to illuminate our role as "dreamers," that is, creators of our own realities. We have all experienced in dream the strange freedom from ordinary causality: a painting we see in our dream reminds us of our old childhood family farm, and suddenly we find ourselves again at the farm itself, just as we remember it. Or, we want to get to the theater faster, and suddenly we are not running but flying, gliding, leaping buildings. People morph into other people and back again. We play out a scene as we simultaneously watch ourselves playing it out from some external perspective. These are all common-place in the dream-world. The usual laws of gravity and time do not apply. And because of this freedom from physics and normal cause-and-effect, our wills are raw with power, the dream-world seems to respond readily to our stray thoughts and passing whims. Not only are we, as the dreamer asleep, creating the entire dream-world as we experience it, but even within the dream we sometimes have a sense of heightened control. Even nightmares--of being unable to run or scream, of being displaced out of context or willfully misunderstood by everyone around us--can evoke a sense of irrational lawlessness that, if only we could master it with a stronger will!, we feel sure would sway just as eagerly in our favor.

Because this is true of dreams, people who compare the "real world" and our existence in it to dreaming often strive to emphasize our ability to shape our reality, to influence it through intention and focused willpower to an extent far greater than we usually believe possible. As a philosopher-poet type myself, who has fostered a life-long love for art and creative work of all kinds, I came to my belief in the fundamentally imaginative-creative aspect of our existence many years ago. And yet, there are aspects of the world-as-dream metaphor that nag at me, striking me as sloppy or inaccurate. Besides the problems of suffering and the collective or Other that I mentioned above, if we take the world-as-dream analogy too seriously we soon run up against a major stumbling block: science.

I have written before about the relationship between science and magic, in response to the ponderings of other skeptics. The world-as-dream approach may seem to circumvent much of the conflict by suggesting that the physical "laws" of hard science, being just another aspect of our dreaming the world--are thus only as inflexible as we believe them to be. Suddenly, we are free to believe whole-heartedly and without complication in things like synchronicity, intention manifestation and mysterious action-at-a-distance. The problem with this view is that we also succeed effectively in turning science into a collective delusion, in which we all agree that free-falling objects accelerate at exactly 9.8 meters per second per second and the earth revolves around the sun rather than the reverse (though this has only been true since most of us started believing it).

Although I am far from a materialist, I do have this odd knack for befriending atheists and science geeks. Because of these friendships, over the years I have developed a tremendous respect for the scientific process of discovery and analysis, as well as an acute appreciation of its natural epistemological limits. In other words, although it may be true that science can only describe this one tiny little aspect (that of the material, physical world) of a greater transcendent reality, it proves to describe that particular aspect with surprising clarity and consistency. Much more lucidly and reliably, I would argue, than one might expect of a human species still unable to agree about things like whether yellow American cheese is yellow or actually orange. (Certainly, we can come up with all sorts of elaborate theories about a guiding superconsciousness or Spirit that sets limits on how our own chaotic willfulness ultimately manifests, but most of these prove cyclical and self-justifying, with no way of gauging their validity, likelihood or relevance.) Furthermore, because science has set for itself the goal of dealing uniquely and specifically with the physical world, and we have all experienced either directly through experimentation or indirectly through the by-products of science such as technology and medicine, to call science into question as mere delusion calls into question these experiences themselves and our ability to trust our most fundamental intuitions about the world in which we live and move and have our being.

For some, this notion is not disturbing at all. Of course we should mistrust our senses and experiences of the world; Descartes, Father of the Scientific Method, said so himself! (Although he may have only said it as a sneaky way of getting the Church off his back.) But as an artist, the thought of being so fundamentally disconnected from the physical world around me as I experience it not only frightens me, but shakes my notion of meaningful engagement to its very core. I engage with the world creatively, through writing, music and art. But as Annie Dillard points out, "an artist lives jammed in the pool of materials," even while the philosopher roams the realm of ideal forms and the mystic soars deep to the seat of fiery love and union. The shape and limit of matter, its particularities and idiosyncrasies, its movement and resistance, all of these aspects of the physical world are absolutely and utterly essential for the creative artist. One is not creative in spite of but because of them. I know and trust the power of words--and my own creative power in working with them--because I have come to respect them as having a kind of existence and life of their own, a reality that reaches beyond my own will and so can also grab hold of me and yank me suddenly beyond myself. I am not a master or maker of words, I am a friend, a companion, a lover. In the same way as a musician finds a companion in his instrument or a sculptor in her stone or clay. These things must be real at least in some sense, and we must be able to trust our experiences of them, if our creative work is to make any connection, to have any meaning.


And so, it seems to me that, even if these world-dreamers are right, even if life in this world really is "just a dream," this is one of those times when, as they say, "the only way out is through." Rather than dismiss our experiences of a stable, scientifically-comprehensible physical world as merely the self-perpetuated shared delusion of a people asleep, we must seek to engage this world deeply and passionately, cultivating attention and presence in all aspects of our lives with the playfulness, creativity and trust of children. By doing so we discover that, like our dreams themselves when we stop reducing them or explaining them away, the world will reveal to us an infinite potential for deeper connection, understanding, evolution and awakening.

In Perfect Love & Perfect Jenga!

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You might not suspect it at first, but Druidry asks us to give up a lot.

I certainly didn't expect it when I first began exploring the Craft and aspects of nature spirituality back in college. At the time, I looked on the spiritual work embraced by Paganism as a release and an expansion of my artistic and creative work (which I had, in any case, always pursued "for the sake of the Divine"). I wanted to move beyond mere words and the music of poetry; I wanted the tools to transform my life itself, body and heart, spirit and mind, into an engaged, living work of art. The personal ritual, magic, meditation and prayer of Druidry offered me these tools.

I should have seen the inevitable coming. I was writing short stories as early as freshman year about the sculptor of Winged Victory chiseling away at all that was not goddess. I'd had intimate relations with poetry as long as I could remember, and had learned the tension and beauty of limits, those perfectly crafted lines and stanzas, the concise brute force of a few words juxtaposed. All that is not infinite has its limits, this is not a bad thing. It's nature. Limitation is so often descried, equated with restriction and censorship; but limit is only the daughter of form, that's all.

Druidry is, in part, about learning our own limits, celebrating our form and seeking out our boundaries, the edges of our sacred space, our nemeton. Without a sense of the beauty that resides in the liminal, along the edges of finite things, how can we know real intimacy, the lingering thrill of allowing others in or reaching out tentatively beyond ourselves? Music has form, song has limits--it has scale and progression, it has shape and movement. When we sing together, our voices in tune, our bodies are vessels sharing a vibration in the most literal sense. We move together, we share an imperceptible boundary that buzzes and blurs. Without limits, movement is impossible (where would we be moving to, and how could we be growing?). Druidry teaches us to sing our soul's song--to put the world to sleep for three nights, or provoke it into weeping or laughter--and to sing our spirit in harmony, with an attentive ear to the weaving, echoing melodies of the world. Love, too, has its form, and therefore its limits, though limit and condition are not synonymous.

Love--whether the "perfect love" of the Wiccan Rede or the "unconditional love" of Christian mysticism--asks us to give up a lot. If we love nature, the environment, the ecosystems of our world, we learn to move in sympathy with them, to find and feel a center and gravity other than our own. If we sing with the trees and the earth, it becomes more difficult for us to callously waste and destroy--we share an edge, we feel the limits and needs of nature rubbing up against our own, we overlap, and we flinch as destruction "over there" sends ripples of regret and anguish reaching all the way to the "here" of our own deepest beings. In love, limits are not "conditions" of restriction or rejection. They do not deny certain kinds of love to certain kinds of beings, nor do they negate or denigrate the self that loves. Instead, the natural limits of love--love as an activity, as a process of creation, as movement and form--make liminal experiences of intimacy and trust possible, and render meaningful our urge towards response-ability. In this sense, even as imperfect creatures living in a less-than-ideal world, we have access to the infinite potential of condition-less love, capable in every moment of responding uniquely to each infinitely unique being.

But our edges blur, the shore shifts between every tide and tiny snails take up residence in our crevices and unseemly dark places. Love asks us to give up a lot, including our assumptions about what we, as isolated individuals, need to survive and how justified we are in taking it.

Maslow has his (in)famous "Hierarchy of Needs," a pyramid built on survival, security, support, and respect. We human beings need food, water, shelter, air, sleep--we require basic physical conditions to be met, just to stay alive. And once we have these things? We want to know they will be there tomorrow, as well, and indefinitely into the future, or at least for a good long while. When our physical bodies feel sated and safe, the pattern repeats again on a socio-psychological level: we need to feel as though we belong, to a family and a community, and that our emotional and intellectual selves will find nourishment here; and then we need to feel respected, productive and accomplished so that this support won't suddenly be withdrawn and denied to us later. Only after all of these things do we come to consider what Maslow calls "self-actualization": creativity, imagination, contemplation and ethical activity. If we're lucky. Some of us never get there. Why? Because this is, after all, a pyramid--the higher we want to go, the larger the base. The more productive and respected we want to be, the more community ties we must maintain, and so the more security and basic material needs that must be met. Some of us will spend lifetimes building out our base, putting one block next to another on the first two or three tiers, until we have a man-made plateau that stretches wide around us on all sides.

Meanwhile, the snails are at their work, love wearing us down, smoothing away everything that isn't goddess or god. Love, and Druidry, ask us to give up a lot. To give up willful or careless harm; to give up eating meat, if our bodies can take it (which most of them can); to give up excessive consumption and energy waste; sometimes to give up the support and acceptance of a family or community that cannot understand our spirituality; in short, to give up many of the things that we've come to assume are fundamental to our survival. The "higher" we try to go, the more we seem to find the blocks of our life knocked out from under us. The work comes to seem less like the building of a Great Pyramid in a desert, and more like a precarious game of Jenga! in which our balance is our sanity, our spirit and our survival. How can we do it? How can we find it within ourselves to take the risk, to give up our assumptions and confront our fears?

Have you ever played Jenga!? I hope so, it's fun-for-the-whole-family, as they say. The strategy of Jenga! is essentially this: move slowly, calmly, and with trust. Test each block, push it gently with the soft tip of your finger--some will be stubborn and load-bearing, but others will slide free easily, as if by magic. Not only this, but as the tower grows higher, its weight will shift and some of those blocks that seemed impossible to move before may suddenly cease to be so important. In Ali's "Jenga! of Needs," the spiritual life is much the same--we move cautiously, with baby-steps, giving up what we can afford and, with each surrender, we also build, we reach further, higher, deeper. Where we find frightening emptiness, we seek new centers of gravity, the edges of others we love. We weave them intimately into our lives and allow them to lend us balance and strength. Furthermore: we create. We have no set number of blocks, we carve out our own, we not only build but we grow, and our own growth provides us with ever-new materials out of which to craft our life. Eventually, perhaps, some of us might grow to become like those mystics and saints, living high in the mountains on tea and yogic discipline, or deep in a monastery subsisting on prayer and consecrated bread. For some, love will knock us off our feet, and we will suddenly find ourselves able to fly.

But for now, baby steps: movement, limit, form, celebration and imagination, creativity and praise... in perfect love and perfect trust.