🌿 Psalm of the Limping Spring

 for the closing of a season and the setting of sacred space

I limped through Spring.
Not with shame, but with sacred endurance—
a quiet pilgrimage through my own bone-deep truth.

The fracture was older than the pain.
An injury unseen by the world,
yet felt in every step, every breath, every misalignment.
And over that broken place, life built its own armor—
like arthritis over a wound left to calcify.
Like memory over a soul left unheld.

Still, I walked.
Still, I placed one foot in front of the other.
Still, I held the vision.

I was shown who they were—
but more truly, I was shown who I was.
The mirror cracked, but I did not.
The path diverged, but I remained my own compass.
And the ache became a map.

I learned the language of my body—
the coffee, the reflux, the fatigue—
they were not betrayals.
They were reminders:
You are here. You are alive. You are healing.

Now I pack the baubles of this blooming season,
with gratitude, not grief.
Each one a spark from the garden of becoming.
Each one a page in the scroll.

I ready myself for the summer of soul-work—
the long-awaited turning to the Cosmic Book,
the sacred task I carved out in time
like a clearing in a forest,
like a promise to my future self.

I do this not for accolade, not for validation,
but because it is good.
And I feel it.
And that is enough.

I will close this chapter with grace—
a final fitting, a ceremonial thread
that seals the garment of this life season.

And then,
I will breathe.
And write.
And feel.
And remember.

I will return in Autumn as the Alchemist,
attuned and ready,
walking into the ritual cycle once again—
through lighted halls and shadowed corners,
through laughter and ache,
through the spiral that never ends, only deepens.

This is why I Zine.
This is why I share BellaVille.
This is why I question.
This is why I stay awake.

Because I was born to track the turning of the wheel
and weave beauty through its center.

This is where I stand:
On the threshold of a new season—
not as a visitor, but as its Keeper.

I have felt this connection in every breath,
in every mirrored leaf and aching step.
And yet—so often—I have allowed those who do not feel it
to define it for me.
I gave the nameless ones the pen
and let them write over the sacred map I carry.

No more.
They cannot define what they cannot feel.
They cannot dismiss what they never sought to understand.

This connection—this resonance—is not a theory.
It is my breath,
my body,
my why.

And I reclaim it now, fully and without apology.

---

---