“I trust the long apprenticeship of just living a life”

I have been shaped by thresholds, by the moments when life cracks open and asks more of me than I think I can give. I never went looking for wounds, but when they came I couldn’t turn away. The breaks in my story have become openings, places where light and memory and truth slip through. I know now the wound isn’t the end. It’s the beginning of a different kind of seeing.

I walk the edges of things. Land, dream, ancestry, all those places where the world thins a little. I don’t go there to gather power. I go to listen. There are old songs in the moss, in cedar bark, in the salt wind. Sometimes I hear them if I’m still enough.

Any medicine I carry came from my own life. From exile, from grief, from being undone more than once. What hurt me also stretched me open. What I thought would break me taught me how to stand by others when their own darkness rises. It taught me not to flinch.

I don’t claim to be an expert in anything. I trust the ground under my feet, the ancestors close by, the dreams that tap me awake at strange hours. I trust the long apprenticeship of just living a life. People may think I cross worlds, but I’m mostly listening. Listening to land, to the ones who came before, to the quiet turning inside each human life.

What I carry is simple. Quiet. Rooted. It doesn’t shine or make a fuss. It moves like water through stone, slowly, steadily, reshaping whatever it touches. Healing, for me, isn’t a show. It’s a way of walking. A way of tending. A way of honoring what each person brings.

I don’t give myself titles. But when people meet me at the edge — in a dream, in ceremony, or in a moment when their life starts to turn — something in them recognizes me. Maybe it’s steadiness. Maybe it’s the way my own wounds have softened me. Maybe it’s that I’m willing to stand right beside them. And what I offer, if anything, is simple. You’re not alone. The path is here. Walk with me. We’ll cross together.