We did not go to the mountain to find love,

we went to die to our past selves

and claim our rightful place on the earth.

We went to bury our limited beliefs

and settle business with our ancestors.


To occupy our bodies as warriors

and to strike out toward our True North adulthoods.

We went seeking death and rebirth, vision and mystery.


In a society that has forgotten how to ritualize transformation, 

we heard the call of the threshold so thunderously 

that we surrendered everything we had built so far

to go alone into the wilderness to fast. 

When we returned from the mountain, 

we were welcomed back as initiated adults

by a community of love.


Walking back from the mountain, 

I was grateful for your presence as a spirit by my side

strong in my independence while connected to you by sacred respect.

Sitting in council receiving your story from the land,

I was moved by the truths on your tongue

and the tears on your cheeks.


You told stories of sickness and disillusionment,

of falsehoods revealed and layers of identity peeled away,

of yearning to make something visible 

that is only seen by your inner eye and felt by the depths of your heart.



A world of abundance and possibility,

a world free of chains,

a world of creation and expression, expansion and offering.

A world only possible if we allow death to do its part 

so that we can compost ourselves and our systems 

into the fertile conditions that sprout new life.


This is a world I also know is possible

and hearing you speak of it was like remembering my own knowings.


As I told my story of wildness and domestication,

of wounds and healing,

of service and imprisonment,

of yearning for a life of purpose and mutual manifestation,

I felt your gaze and I allowed myself to be seen.


Slowly, then quickly, we dived in.

We allowed ourselves to be overtaken by a force larger than ourselves.


Locking eyes with you is like looking into the mirror of my soul and seeing more than just me.

It is like sinking into a warm pool and trusting my body to float.

It is like coming home to myself while not being alone.


I did not go to the mountain to find love,

but it found me and all I can do is kneel on the ground

and praise life for the intricate patterns of imperfect perfection that weave their ways

within my chest and between our bodies. 


Nothing is known, and yet light pours forth without hesitation

and my eyes feel clear even when filled with tears.


Breaking apart in your arms as a dust storm found us in your van

was like dying all over again and then having the grace to watch ourselves rebuild.

Weaving our way through a story we barely understand

but could draw upon for immense strength and orientation.

Because our love story is not something made of the mind,

it is instead a resilient sprout, 

emerging from the rich soil between us 

tilled by our individual healing

and watered by our prayers for collective liberation.


Alive and adaptive,

purposeful and trickster,

our love has a life of its own,

consulting with the coyotes and dancing with the spirits.


I watch in awe, as this changes everything.