Her head is bowed, her bones are crooked, her staff is crooked, she’s  walking a crooked path leading her into the cave of remembance.    She moves like turtle woman – slow steady cane tapping  frozen ground –  nothing growing under her crooked toes, ain’t the time to be planting seeds, time to let eternity stand still – time to enter the dark womb of creation – lay your body upon the white buffalo skin,  dream dreams long forgotten.  Sleep now my daughter, sleep, do not worry about bringing these visions to the light of day, they will find their way to you when spring wakes.   Be tender with yourself, sip your sorrows, tend to the broken dreams, broken hearts, broken body  – know these are the shrines to worship now, for it is this wisdom found in the dark that will bring you home to your luminous soul.   Old crone woman she ain’t intersted in what you have done, will do, your vision boards, your new years resolutions,   she wants your spirit to be still, to drink the silent beauty,  caress the ebony skies with your eyes, no visions out there. it is an inside pilgrimage now! 

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