Hi friends! In case you weren't able to join Valley on Monday, I've just uploaded the recording for the Full Moon Activation here. Enjoy ☺️ The next Moon Activation is coming up on July 14, so be sure to check out the calendar https://www.skool.com/writing-fire-circle-7709/calendar

I pulled this card today and it made me think how, oftentimes, I am reminded that the road we travel through our existence is a spiral. And though we encounter the same things again and again, we never encounter them the same, as we ourselves are changed through our experiences. The very shape of the universal is a spiral, nature moves in seasons, healing takes us back through the same patterns again and again. Birth, life, birth, death. I'm curious to hear about how the spiral makes you feel, and what your encounters with it have been?

During the Full Moon writing circle, I wrote from the perspective of the main character of my current WIP; her name is Ophelia. The prompts were about what she would want to get rid of from her room, and what would replace those things she had shed. ---------------------------------------------------------------- The room was utilitarian as it stood, the walls white, the silken threads of spider webs denying access to the corners. A single bookshelf, decorated with a cardboard box that had long ago lost its structure, was a display of dust and a cracked bowl filled with hair ties. Sitting in the east corner, the bed was the only thing with any color; Ophelia had been somewhat limited in her choices of bedding, causing her nest of pillows and blankets to be a mismatched pile of different hues, textures, and patterns. The riot of color did little to add character, however, to the space. While the flooring had once been hardwood, it was now carpeted in clothing, rejected empty shells she had shed after long forays into the Pit. It was a space she spent many hours in but hardly saw anymore. But seeing the loving space Kael lived in made her suddenly take notice. It took a whole hour just to pick up everything from the floor, pulling forgotten pairs of jeans, white shirts with coffee stains down the front, and undergarments up off of the honey-glow of the hardwood and into the laundry basket Blair had gifted her ages ago. The next to leave were the spider webs, the dust bunnies, and the other dirt-made critters haunting the corners of the room. The plastic trash bag hastily hung over the window was next, allowing the soft glow of the night to brush the edges of her space with silver. Taking a deep breath, Ophelia threw open her closest doors, her breath catching in her throat as the tiny space was exposed to her eyes for the first time in nearly ten years. Boxes covered in dust filled it to the top, each a memory, each a loving reminder of her past. The first to be exhumed were the picture frames. Her fingers dusted over the photos, tears piling in her eyes as the ghosts of memories filled her. But she hung them anyway, careful and straight on the blank walls.

Here's the video I made edited and put together. I am learning as I go about how to perform my story.

My attempt at Labubu reads my memoir. Take one. Stay tooned