During the last waning cycle, I partook in a releasing ritual, to burn through years-worth of journals I had filled. I have never purged and released past stories of myself in this way before.
The fire accepted my words, my old stories surpassed, the versions of myself shed like husks or fallen leaves crinkled and brown. Flames rose, embers wept fire, smoke billowed and churned skyward, and my cells along with it.
I danced and hummed sunwise around the fire, now glowing like a bubbling cauldron. For hours I danced, for hours I spun, swayed, and glided, hand in hand with the Elements and spirits in attendance. Together we cleared away stories no longer mine. We witnessed their transformation from aged pages, ink, and binding, to flame, ash cereal, and the steady, rising tornado of smoking whispers.
The stars congratulated my rebirth in twinkling-applause, the night welcomed my elevated, Embodied-Self, and I drew fresh breaths into my being. Sacred. Whole. Humming in gratitude.
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