The Witness
I begin a remedy that works on the deepest layers of self- the inherited blueprints etched into bone and fascia. Old wounds passed through bloodlines, waiting for someone to see them clearly enough to let them go.
The first dose arrives not with fireworks, but with a soft implosion. A deepening.
I awaken with a fatigue so ancient it doesn’t belong to this day, or even this body alone. It calls me to the woods.
Surrounded by the forest, the symphony begins: the bright warble of songbirds, the cadence of tree frogs; the pulse of wind breathing through the pines; paper whites rustling with soft-spoken magic.
I feel the thrumming in my own blood match the rhythm of the land.
And there, amidst the ferns and birch, within a green cathedral of brambles and fern-a young buck lies-legs tucked beneath, velvet horns sprouting- a body still becoming. He watches me. I watch him. No fear. Just recognition.
It is a moment of sovereign stillness. The air charged, alive. My dog Cedar, remains perfectly still, reverent without instruction, caught in the same electric awe. Time dissolves.
This is the medicine beneath the remedy.
The witnessing. The being witnessed.
The forest holding me, saying: you don’t have to carry this anymore
.