Earthly
The garden below
Welcome, and a warm first hello to the newcomers!
I’m so happy you’re here.
Our second poetic exploration of the major arcana of the tarot brings us once again to The Empress; she reminds us to tend our own lush gardens.
The last time I wrote about The Empress, it was early January 2024; I was trying hard to feel safe in the world, and it showed in my writing. (Saddle up for some minimally-punctuated prose, y’all!)
If you like, you can explore that post below:
These days, the childhood memories I was working through in that earlier post feel more resolved. My bones don’t rattle with the same raw fear when I take up space.
Not all the time, anyway.
Contents:
Curve
Aunties
Blood on the Sidewalk (TW: gun violence)
Dilaudid (TW: addiction)
Blazing Day
Young Weather
New Hands
Background music: “Here to Warm You (The Earthly Mother Remix)” by The Lizzy Co Show
Curve Press bone-arch into place. Yes, feet can curve. You could be beautiful, if you would try. “Your girl-body came to this earth to serve: A single-purpose tool, a sharpened knife. A fresh, green stem must split itself open To yield the coming leaf that yearns to breathe; It won’t resist, in tribute to someone Who, years before, gifted their own release.” I rode in, stormed the gates, and saved myself, A future version glittering in sun, Who came back with ironclad mental health To coalesce the versions still so young. Foot-binding does the job it seeks to do. Babe, it doesn’t work for me, or for you.
Aunties I listened to the aunties who said: “Rest! When was the last time you drank some water?” They taught me that when I came, they were blessed, Not burdened, untroubled; I’m no bother. I let them shine me up with aloe gel Where red-blue tongues landed in my last bout; They held my chin in their palms as they knelt, Whispers from wiser lips erasing doubt. They were not done with me. Now, shea butter, Mixed with honey in equal, sweet measure: They worked until I was fully covered, A loved, sweetened, and protected treasure. May your aunties find you with their strong hands, And bathe you to prepare for your next dance.
Blood on the Sidewalk
Men hosing blood from the morning sidewalk
Outside the classy joint where I tend bar
As I walk up; routine punching of clock
Swims hazy before me, I’m seeing stars.
The news says that it happened late last night,
Around the same time I would have left work.
Another gun lays waste to human life.
News makes no mention of a person’s worth.
I had to act like it was all okay,
Feel nothing, be a gorgeous booze Barbie:
Mimosa queen, chirpy bright-eyed brunch babe,
Bottomless resources to meet your needs.
The pressure washer lifted up the blood,
From wide paving stones, in furious flood. 
Dilaudid It feels like never hearing the word no, Like it’s the good mother you should have had. It’s a warm cabin to hide from driving snow: You, inside, heavy blanket on your lap. It’s Eve, in the garden, without her leaf, Standing alone, before the lush fruit-tree; It’s Adam, giving her a chance to breathe, Finding a way to meet his own true needs. It’s unlimited money in the bank, At interest rates we’ve never seen before. It’s doing the right thing, and getting thanked. All I could think was: “God, I want some more.” After that, I understood addiction, And why it’s a fight some people don’t win.
Blazing Day
I got so good at spotting the bad guys
That I forgot to listen for the good.
Sweet turned into a frequency too high
For my own ears: couldn’t be understood.
But I worked hard, and bought some hearing aids:
Good ones, that collect all the gorgeous sounds.
Regrew each limb that had been torn away;
Marveled as pinkened flesh returned to town.
I poured my body full up to the brim,
With water, fat, and nourishing delights,
But when I thought I was full, I met him:
A man brought blazing day where there was night.
He appeared, lit a flame just to warm me;
He says he enjoys when he meets my needs. 
Young Weather
Young weather screams strong opinions to us,
At high volume and high velocity.
It makes quite clear, through all its windy gusts,
Which cardinal direction it would lead.
Young weather rankles at the sight of hands
Calmly opening umbrellas in rain,
Cooling a toasty baby with a fan,
Marveling at the hail that came again.
Acceptance: the water that tempers rage.
It comes in piecemeal droplets, torrential,
Not all at once, like if I got my way,
And what each day contained somehow made sense.
Young weather hammers fists against windows.
It cannot understand how to hear “no.”
New Hands Solitude feels like something to outrun. It doesn’t come with a set ending time, And so I worry that release won’t come, I’ll never again get to feel alive. Anxiety speaks in its own language It sounds just like my mother tongue, in fact, But its words have twisted definitions: When anxiety says “go,” best not act. These two hurtful sisters join hands sometimes: Embrace should be a joy, but not this one. To be held between feelings, sharp as knives: Paralysis, and pleas to one above. To heal the sister-scars, I find new hands To hold me. I am certain that I can.
Click below to drop a dollar in the jar! Any amount makes me feel warm and fuzzy, mostly by keeping the heat on.
Love this beautiful writing with equally beautiful music. Have often thought of mixing writing with music, you’ve shown how well it works ..
The background music ✨❤️ I love how it builds.