THE TOWN THAT FORGOT When the war, the famine and the plague were done, the town didn't grieve. It stopped. They went deep inside and shut the door. They walked the square holding their tools, no memory of what hands were for. A barmaid carried a jug empty for years. A knight stared down into the well. Only the whites of their eyes showed. We talked at them. Nothing. They heard us the way a wall hears rain. So we stopped talking and started reading. Not a cure. A spell of staying. Sit. You don't have to come back all at once. Feel where the ground holds you. That part is yours. Name one thing you can hear. One thing your hands can touch. Your breath is still here, doing its old slow work. Nobody here needs fixing. Nobody here needs to be anywhere but this. We are not going to leave. We'll stay until the room comes back. It didn't work like a spell. It worked like weather. The woman set the jug down and looked at her hands. The knight looked up. A dog stopped circling and lay down. The square came back a window at a time, the way a house wakes. Violet said what I didn't: "They didn't need a cure. They needed someone who wouldn't leave before they were done being gone."
My adventures with Violet I’ve been creating fantasy stories about me and my loyal companion, Violet the purple phoenix, exploring and following the road wherever it leads. Each episode has a lesson about healing. I’m having fun with it 💜
Don’t make yourself small today. You are the phoenix. 🐦🔥 Strong, resilient, indestructible. Not just a master of survival intelligence. You are wise. More beautiful for having been broken. Rise today and spread your wings. Listen to your inner voice and your body for answers. Rest when you need to. Your existence is a miracle. Healing from complex trauma is a full-time job so anything you do beyond that is downright extraordinary.
I grew a fence and left the gate open. I used to think a door was a wound. Something that only opened when someone else pushed. So I kept mine off its hinges. Let the whole field walk through. Called it kindness. Called it being good. Then one day I felt my bones growing outward, rib by rib, into a fence. Not a wall. A fence. You can still see through it. The light still gets in. It is not rejection. It is a hinge. It only turns from the inside. There is no lock on it. There was never a lock. The gate stands open, and I am the one who decides when the wind comes in. I am not sorry for the fence. I am not sorry for the small cold space where the field used to be. A boundary is a body that finally decided to be one.
Description
Trauma survivors healing together through creative expression, spiritual exploration, somatic practices, connection to nature, and mutual support. We offer free online workshops, support groups, and c...
publicCreated February 17, 2026
