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J O U R N A L

Welcome, dear ones to the whispering of our souls.
These notes belong to all of us, as they were borne from the universal fabric of our shared humanity.
As we write we honor our collective consciousness, and as we read we connect with the oneness of our vast experiences.
​May you feel the strength of our tribe within these words.

Sharing Golden Breadcrumbs

1/21/2018

 
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Sister, listen in,
For I have...a declaration.
Information gathered from
The dusty road of life.

I’ve come by more than I can carry
Of this trash revealed as treasure.
Golden breadcrumbs are what I call them,
Now that I truly see their worth.

In my dark nights I’ve followed fireflies
To light the way and stand for hope.
In the depths of caves I’ve found my diamonds
And used their shine to guide me home.

Now sister, here you come in,
Another golden beacon.
You, my midnight lighthouse,
Call me forward through the storm.

Can you believe it when I say that
My whole life has led right to you?
I have waited for the place where
I could let my freak flag fly.

This is arrival, this is freedom,
This is presence at its heart.
For true alignment comes with knowing
That we belong just as we are.

The winding of our paths, you see,
Has brought us to this place.
I share space with you and feel more “me”,
Reflections of truth in my sister-soulmates.

So together let’s unfurl our hearts.
Let us shed our skin and stand.
And if you’ve got any breadcrumbs to share
I will gratefully reach for your outstretched hand.

An invocation for dreamers

10/19/2017

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We call upon all that is light and good
And ask that the kindling we create here and now
May ignite, all-consuming, the passions of our souls.

Thank-you earth and heavens, for hearing our call, now and always.

We dance, wild, around the fires of our hearts,
And cast the net of our intention skyward
So that it might land amongst the stars.
We amplify our desires by sending them up in smoke
To be seized by the heavens and showered back down upon us like shooting stars.
Thank-you earth and heavens, for hearing our call, now and always.

We manifest our intentions by releasing them in surrender
To Mother Earth, to Sister Moon, to the Universe, the infinite,
North, South, East, West. To wind & water, fire, air & ether,
To our highest good,
And all of our angels who have gathered here to fill the skies above us with their song.
Thank-you earth and heavens, for hearing our call, now and always.

Let us step forward, sisters, and give over our intentions to this fire.
Let our dreams become manifest as we send our prayers skyward.
Let our hearts swell with knowing that our intentions are enough.
In releasing our dreams we allow them to be born.
Thank-you earth and heavens, for hearing our call, now and always.

©Anjale Perrault 2017
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This is you

9/1/2017

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You, dear one, are not who they think you are.
Your nail color, hair color, favorite color
Cannot define your infinite beauty.
You are not your mother
Or the average of the five people you spend the most time with.
You are not your work or your workout.
The immensity of your spirit cannot be contained within walls.
You are not your inner child, your psychosis, or your superego.
To those voices that clamor for your attention I say,
“Rest now, weary friends. Your jobs here are done.”
You are not destined for greatness, my dear,
You are greatness itself.
You are not searching, falling, or lucky in love
But rather the purest expression of love this world has ever seen.

You, dear one, are not what they think you are,
No, your soul is ever so much more.
You are a limitless being borne of light.
You are stardust and springwater,
Heaven and earth.
Plant your roots deep into the crystal core of our planet.
Stretch your arms wide and embrace the fullness of your being.

You, my love, are here for a reason,
And that reason is simply to share your “you”ness with this world.
We need your courage.
Your time is now.
Light up, and take us with you.

©
Anjale Perrault 2017
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Making space

8/20/2017

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I find myself settled on a bluff by the ocean,
Learning the meaning of hold, give, and take.
I listen in wonder with pen upon paper to the
Whispers my soul speaks as each word finds it’s place.

I hold space for my spirit through breath and by listening,
​My mind purposely languid and wandering and free.
By engaging each instant, attentive and wondering,
I feel atmosphere opening, yawning before me.
In the moment I’m grateful for this lesson in holding.
That the harrowing grip which I’ve clutched for so long
Has a counterpart that’s more like summer and wheat fields,
Like cradling a child to sleep in my arms.
I learn holding with love beats controlling. And really,
The truth is the harder we squeeze then we fail
At the one thing we know to be true here - our oneness -
Which I breathe into being each precious inhale.

I give space to my children, freewheeling and lovely,
Floating in water profound, deep, and blue.
I watch through blurred eyes and find only perfection,
Reflections of love - understanding that through
My own silence, my stillness, my trust in their being,
I give space to their brotherhood, peace, and pure hearts.
I learn not to hover, nor expect the next conflict,
That in foretelling a fallout I force them apart.
I learn freeing them frees me. We are safe and unfailing.
I learn that this giving feels like letting go.
This new resonant truth in the core of my being
Pulses warm in my veins urging, “Grow mama, grow.”

I take space with my body, expansive and gilded,
Without an apology, pardon, or pause.
I think not of the should-be’s, the ideals of others,
Or the voices of ego and mind that have caused
My past heartache, past hatred, and self-separation
From the soul that I know as my singular truth.
Instead I stand rooted to this present moment, the well
Which bears knowing, self-love, and sound proof
Of perfection in being just here as I am
In this minute. And this one. And now. Here again.  
I’ve arrived in my body, my temple, my home.
I’m awake now, surrendered to paths yet unknown.
​
Catalina Island, CA
©​Anjale Perrault 2017
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Full moon song

7/1/2017

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​She wrote it down in ink, this day.
Her soul had known, told her it was coming.
Her soul always knew, and she wondered how long that had been so.
Too much static on the line, before.
The noise of her life - a carefully crafted story.
Written by her small self
about who she was
through the reflection she saw in
the many shining eyes
of the world.
It was a story of love
and of adoration
and of beauty
which her tiny mind turned over and over and over again
like a stone smoothed by the tumbling surf.
Smoothed into a polished,
well-rounded
image of perfection
and perfectionism
and then,
“See how I make it all just so?”
She is you.
Or your sister, or mother, or wife.
You know her by her veil.
Or by the worthiness that lingers
somewhere outside
of herself.
Out there,
for the benefit of…
“You, don’t you see?
Yes, my loves, everything for you.
Not for me.”
This is how stories begin,
and where some end.
But not hers.
No, her soul’s dark night
was lit up
by the moon
which rose again
and again
and again
just for her.

She saw it, each time, because
she expected to see it there.
And this time she had written it down,
this day.
Written it in ink because,
her soul had told her,
“The full moon is coming. It is carved just for you.”
On that morning
the clouds padded the sky
for her
and she thought,
“Yes, today I will make myself like a cloud.”
And so she was.
A cloud to filter light,
a cloud to hold the whole of heaven’s heaviness,
and, finally,
a cloud shedding the tears of her story,
her mother’s story,
and the stories of all of the women who had come before.
Her tears fell without traction,
with freedom,
for love.
They landed in pools
at the feet of her sons and
the drumbeat that thundered sang
of wholeness,
of enough.
The boys feet thumped with
wildhood
which leapt into her veins,
like a fire burning away past
heartache, past
sickness, past
fears.
Until all she was left with was
the painfully beautiful rubble of
the present.
Just here.
And again here.
And now.
Just this.
It was in this ecstatic awakening that she remembered
the moon, like a postcard.
The moon, hung for her, would be rising.

She gathered the salt of her tears,
the salt of the sea,
and the salt of the earth
and poured it out into a tall white mountain which she climbed.
At the top she sat,
meeting the eyes
of the moon,
and vowed,
this day,
to trade her ink for lead.
To trade sureness for surrender.
Forego control
for love and miracles.
Her deepest knowing
rooted
to an infinite trust
in the wild and glorious unknown.
She was rocked into slumber
this night
by Mother Earth
who loved her so,
and the song of an old owl, urging,
“Let go,
let go,
let go.”

©​Anjale Perrault 2017
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