freedom in totality

I have yet to comment on gate 5: Homecoming & Reclamation of the Sacred - big YES <3 <3 <3

@Erika & @~D-I-O 🌹 I listened to your podcast episodes & re-read the chapter in Magdalene Unveiled. I had already read this months ago without yet knowing you as my Magdalene sister. - Standing strong in magical living as being one of the pillars of my Feminine Empress.

"Help me be still enough to hear", so I can unclench into embodied gnosis.

Beautiful sisters- this is the poem by Andrea Gibson that entered my mind when we talked tonight. It is an exquisite work of art and is so relevant to Gate 5 "Enslavement of the Body" Would love to know your thoughts! Imagine, when a human dies, the soul misses the body, actually grieves the loss of its hands and all they could hold. Misses the throat closing shy reading out loud on the first day of school. Imagine the soul misses the stubbed toe, the loose tooth, the funny bone. The soul still asks, Why does the funny bone do that? It’s just weird. Imagine the soul misses the thirsty garden cheeks watered by grief. Misses how the body could sleep through a dream. What else can sleep through a dream? What else can laugh? What else can wrinkle the smile’s autograph? Imagine the soul misses each falling eyelash waiting to be a wish. Misses the wrist screaming away the blade. The soul misses the lisp, the stutter, the limp. The soul misses the holy bruise blue from that army of blood rushing to the wound’s side. When a human dies, the soul searches the universe for something blushing, something shaking in the cold, something that scars, sweeps the universe for patience worn thin, the last nerve fighting for its life, the voice box aching to be heard. The soul misses the way the body would hold another body and not be two bodies but one pleading god doubled in grace. The soul misses how the mind told the body, You have fallen from grace. And the body said, Erase every scripture that doesn’t have a pulse. There isn’t a single page in the bible that can wince, that can clumsy, that can freckle, that can hunger. Imagine the soul misses hunger, emptiness, rage, the fist that was never taught to curl—curled, the teeth that were never taught to clench—clenched, the body that was never taught to make love—made love like a hungry ghost digging its way out of the grave. The soul misses the unforever of old age, the skin that no longer fits. The soul misses every single day