Survivors witness and feel beneath the story... Fragmented, often locked away in an unconscious vault; we banish pain in order to survive it.
Tonight we will run with the wild horses of our tribe streaking across the twilight sky, calling out our names and demanding the night to release us.
On this Imbolc night, the flames of all the Candlemas altars are dim in comparison to the bonfire tearing through my so-tired heart. I pray now not to Mother Brighid but to you, Woman, as you lie breathless beside me in your own recovery. Do not fall asleep.