 For so long, strength has been defined by force. It has been very much in the masculine energy realm. Defined by pushing, striving, proving, energy over another.
We’ve been taught that to be powerful, we must be louder, faster, harder. That strength looks like endurance. Like productivity. Like never needing to rest. But there is another way. A quieter way. A deeper way. The feminine way.  There is a quiet impulse that lives within you. A pull toward something. To write. To make. To imagine. To bring something into form that did not exist before.
So often, we dismiss it. We tell ourselves it’s not important. Not productive. Not even necessary. But what if that desire is not random? What if it is sacred?  The Spirit of a Place
As I’ve mentioned before, in shamanic understanding, everything has a presence. A consciousness. A spirit. Not just people—but places. 🌲 A forest. 🏡 A home. 🏞️ A landscape. Each carries its own energy, its own way of being. And spring has a spirit, too. A quiet, persistent invitation toward life.  A Confession
Let me begin with a quiet confession. For many years—long enough that time began to blur at the edges—I was estranged from my mother. There was distance, silence, and all the unspoken things that can live between two people who once belonged so closely to one another. Near the end of her life, when she was in the hospital, I went to her. Not to resolve everything, not to rewrite the past, but to be present. I wanted her to know that I loved her. And somewhere beneath it all, I knew she loved me too. We had both done the best we could within our own imperfect, human lives. I held her hand and sat with her in that quiet in-between space. There was a kind of peace there—simple, real, and unexpectedly beautiful. I wanted her to be able to let go without carrying anything more. After she passed, something shifted. In a way I hadn’t anticipated, I felt closer to her than I had in years. The layers of hurt, the old patterns, the places where we triggered one another—they softened, or perhaps fell away entirely. What remained was her essence. Her soul. And that, I could finally meet without resistance. So when I speak about the mother wound, I am not speaking from theory. I am speaking from a place I have lived. And perhaps, in some way, am still learning to understand. |
AuthorTerri Lundquist Archives
July 2026
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