Some experiences refuse language.
They arrive in the body first, and only later ask for story.
Last summer, at the end of an imaginal journey, something came to me that I am still learning how to name.
This last summer I had an imaginal journey that was profound. I know there is a larger story waiting to be told, but the words aren’t there yet.
Sometimes the words come first. Other times, they are simply inadequate to capture the experience—the emotion, the connection. That is when I turn to art and image.
This beautiful one came a few weeks after the journey. She says more than words ever could, and yet the beginning of the story—the few words I do have—help bring her to life. She arrived at the very end of the imaginal journey, perhaps only a minute or two in linear time, far longer in Soul time. The ending of that journey is the beginning of this story. This is where she began to take form.
Surrender
She was sitting at the edge of a river, jungle surrounding her, feet in the water, the sound of flow filling her. The woman had walked through vast terrain to arrive here, tired, grateful, her body so full of all she experienced. Her breath long and slow inviting her to drop deeper, to be even more present.
She heard her approach, paws moving across stones in rhythm with her breath. She didn’t turn. She did’t reach for sight to explain what her body could understand. Her whole being listened
Behind her a large, lithe body come to rest. The brush of fur along her arm. The presence of muscle and sinew, a contained power, still and quiet. Her body felt this ancient one. A call echoed in her from somewhere older than remembering, and her Soul responded with a song she had never heard, yet had always known.
She was here.
Feline.
The Jungle Mother
She felt her shift, cold nose touched her neck, warm breath traced her ear. A shiver - not of fear, never fear - but a wash of elation and reverence.
Then she felt the whisper cross her mind and fall through her heart into her Soul, soft as fur on skin.
Just one word:
“Surrender.”
The woman felt herself empty—emptied of effort, of seeking, of the long journey that had brought her here. Emptied so the hollowness of her amplified her Soul’s song. Emptied so something larger could breathe.
She softened.
She grew wide.
The edges blurred until the river, the jungle, the breath, the fur, the skin— no separation remained.
They remembered that they were vast.
I am still listening to what surrender means.
Not giving up
Not collapse.
Not disappearance.
The Jungle Mother did not ask me to become smaller.
She asked me to soften enough to stand in my full animal body and trust what was already there.
Perhaps surrender is becoming more.
What does surrender ask of you right now?
