I see you in the sunset;
picnic tables and pink lemonade.
Time stretching toward eternity like a summer’s day.
I feel you in the moonbeams extending out from among the stars;
The wind whispers of your kiss against my cheek.
I hear you, like a heartbeat, in each peal of thunder.
Rumbling like the grief from which I am formed.

I see you as an after image, your face superimposed on my grief.
I cry for him but also for you. For the one that comes after.
For the ones that came before.
A loneliness wedged deep within my soul stirs.
A knowing.
A missing.
One heartbeat, One heartbreak away from you.

I see you in the sunset;
With the grass between my toes and rain falling upon my face;
I miss you.
For all the unsaid things, the hidden words that cracked and faulterd.
I’m sorry.
For the pain inflicted with intention and without.
Forgive me.
As I forgive you.

I see you in the sunset;
pink lemonade and moonbeams.
Time stretching toward eternity like a summer’s day.
I’m not only crying for him. I’m crying for the one who comes after;
These tears also belong to you.

©Andrea Curran

Authors note:

As of today, April 8th 2026 my dad has been gone from this earth for one year. He passed peacefully with two of his loving cats curled up on his lap. (Misty and Nicky if you’ve been keeping track) Somedays are still harder than others. The grief like a rising and falling tide. I’ve accomplished so much in the last year and I know he would be so very proud of me. I actually wrote this poem after my uncle Rick died. They were very different men yet I saw my future grief reflected in my cousins eyes. I don’t know if this kind of grief, the loss of a parent, ever truly passes. It just integrates and becomes one with our internal experience. A mosaic of life, love, and memory.

Looking for more poetry like this? Try these!

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I’ll leave the light on for you! Much Love — Andy

Dear Readers and Friends,

We have talked a lot about the value of art, the necessity of poetry, and the importance of supporting independent writing. But today, I realized that I have been holding back. I simply have not shown you all the facets of what I can offer you.

I have seen the trends. I have watched the “masterclasses.” And I have finally found the one thing missing from your literary life: the sound of my voice at 3:00 AM describing the current price of organic kale.

I am thrilled to announce the Ultra-Premium Tier.

For the modest investment of $1,000 per month, you will no longer have to wonder what I am eating or how I sound when I am deeply sleep-deprived. At the stroke of three, while the rest of the world sleeps, I will call you. You will be awakened by a dramatic stage whisper. The kind usually reserved for Shakespearean soliloquie, relaying my weekly grocery list.

The benefits of this tier include:

• A 15-minute dramatic reading of items like “unsalted butter” “Lactaid” and “Gas-x”

• Full ASMR acoustic experience of me rustling a reusable tote bag near the microphone and eating the last crumbles of tortilla chips in the bottom of the bag like a hungry raccoon.

• The haunting regret that you have spent $1,000 on this.

To be clear, this is not a “consultation.” I will not be giving writing advice. I will not be critiquing your poetry. I will simply be sensually whispering the word “rotisserie chicken” into your ear while the moon is high.

Technically, Substack doesn’t have a specific “3 AM Phone Call” button in the Settings > Payments section yet, so for now, we’ll just call this the “Patron of the Arts (and Snacks)” tier.

If anyone actually signs up for this, please know that after the 10% platform fee and the standard Stripe processing, I will receive roughly $869.70. That is a lot of kale. Possibly too much kale. Maybe so much kale that my profits will be negligible after hiring a fumigator to clear out the smell of kale farts from my car, my home and my wardrobe.

Join the 3 AM Produce Cult

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This publication is reader-supported. If my work resonates with you, consider joining the community as a paid member to help keep this space intentional and intimate.

Become a Paid Subscriber

Paid Membership Access the full archive, monthly somatic practices, and 90-minute live workshops.

The Pause (Founding) Includes 1-on-1 Mentorship! Everything in Paid, plus an annual 60-minute mentorship call, personal feedback on your work, and direct email support.

Free Weekly prompts, Sunday Share threads, and occasional poems and essays.

If a monthly subscription feels out of reach, I also have the option for you to make a one-time contribution. No pressure, but the support truly helps.

One Time Support

I’ll leave the light on for you! Much Love — Andy

Content Warning: This story contains themes of psychological horror, disorientation, and mild body horror. If you are not in a place for these themes please feel free to skip this one.

The light flashed three times in quick succession. Up, hold five seconds. Down, hold seven seconds. Up, hold—off. Five minutes, meet at the Seventh Street Park. That was our code. I grabbed my jean jacket off the unmade bed and threw it on. It had a musty smell of teen funk and body spray. I tiptoed barefoot to my bedroom door, and I pressed my ear against it lightly, listening for any noise. The house was quiet. Relief flooded through me.

I grabbed my boots from behind the door and tiptoed back to the second-floor window. I opened the window just wide enough to squeeze out, then pulled it back closed leaving a large enough gap that I could easily get back in before dawn. I reached the edge of the sidewalk and ducked behind the bushes to put my boots on. I stayed bent down low in an almost duck-waddle, trying to stay out of sight of the large floodlights that would give me away in an instant.

Once I reached the edge of the motion sensor’s range, I stood tall. I flicked the collar of my jean jacket up to cover my neck from the wind and wrapped my arms around myself. Maybe a heavier sweater would have been a good idea. Too late now. I headed toward Seventh Street Park.

My leather combat boots made a deep thud in the still night. Each thud felt more ominous than the last. At least my jeans were warm. I began to feel heat build in my legs as I continued to walk. The dark green trees swaying gently in the breeze. How long had I been walking? I looked at my surroundings again. Glancing behind me I could still see the house… but I’d been walking at least ten minutes by now. Haven’t I?

I put my feet in front of eachother a bit faster. Five minutes. Surely it’s been ten. What if he thinks that I’m not coming? I began to sweat slightly as my arms began to swing softly back and forth, as if to gain speed.

Rubber heels on concrete sidewalk. The surrounding trees began to feel ominous, their dark branches swinging down low to ensnare me.

“Chad… Chad, is that you?!” My voice shook on the last you as the whispers became louder.

Icy cold breath on the back of my neck sent shivers through my marrow.

I was no longer moving. I couldn’t move. I couldn’t move

“Chad! CHAD!”

My whole body was vibrating in fear, bile beginning to rise hot in my throat. My vision coming into sharp focus as I slowly… oh so slowly, turned. One tiny step at a time. I was afraid. So afraid. Holding my eyes pressed shut until the last possible moment, sure I would open my eyes to something. What kind of thing? I’m just walking to the park. What’s happening? I slowly, so slowly, peek from beneath my eyelids toward the space behind me.

I was standing at the edge of the sidewalk. I looked up. The light flashed three times in quick succession. Up, hold five seconds. Down, hold seven seconds. Up, hold—off. I’d better hurry. Only five minutes before Chad wants me to be at Seventh Street Park. A wave of nausea hit me; why was I sweating when it was so cold out? I hurried toward the park.

As I walked, I noticed the scenery before me begin to change. The sidewalk here looked like it was decaying. My rubber boot heel hit a section that crumbled yet stuck to the bottom of my boot. How can sidewalk decay?! I squatted down, feeling around the edges of the wound. The concrete melted in my hand, becoming almost viscous black. It flowed back out between my fingers and back to the heel shaped wound. My hand was left clean; no marks. I looked up at the night sky. It was so dark; No moon tonight. Maybe the light was just playing tricks on me. Surely it was just a bit of dirt. I stood back up, pulling my jean jacket closer, straightening my collar and hurried on.

Suddenly, my shoulder was yanke to the side. A tree branch catching on the butterfly patch on my shoulder snaring me. I grasped the branch to pull it away. “Ow! What the fuck?” The branch was free, but my hand—ah. I looked down at it. A long gash ran from the index finger to the base of the thumb. It started to bleed. I placed my palm in my mouth and sucked on the blood for a moment, holding my tongue against the coppery, salty-sweet liquid to stem the flow.

Looking around, I saw the trees beside were now leaning over the path, low enough that the tops would brush my head if I were to go on. I got down on my hands and knees and began to crawl forward. Surely the park is just ahead. It’s just beyond these trees. I felt something slither along my ankle. Looking back, It was moist. My skin crawled as I saw the end of a long root, covered in thick black ooze, snaking into my pant leg. I kicked it away weith a squelch, grunting and throwing myself forward beyond the copse of trees. Finally free. There, I saw the park ahead. The moon glinting off the slide. Wait, there’s no moon tonight. What’s that?

The light flashed three times in quick succession. Up, hold five seconds. Down, hold seven seconds. Up, hold—off. I looked behind me. The edge of the sidewalk was there, just in front of the facade of our white stone house. I looked back in front of myself, confused. Wait, didn’t I—? My hand—ahh. My hand. I pulled my hand to my face to try to see it in the dim night. Nothing was there. It was as smooth and unblemished. My chest and back exploded in gooseflesh as a strong wind blew, leaves flying through the air like bullets ricocheting off bark. I ducked, hearing the sharp sound of the incoming volley. Leaves seared across my scalp and face, leaving hot, wet lines in their wake.

I’ve got to get to the park. I need to hurry so he doesn’t think I can’t make it. Something is wrong with the leaves. I have to warn him. I had to hurry. I had to make sure he was safe. I started off in the direction of the park. The whispers a melancholy accompaniment to the dark.

©Andrea Curran

Thank you for a lovely prompt! I had so much fun playing with this story! Want to write one too?

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I’ll leave the light on for you! Much Love — Andy

A life written in the shadows, sheared
too soon, the memories that dwindle
When we’d like them to blossom,
flowers exploding over the brim.

Dry them, mix with tinctures in the cauldron
Stir until the light releases convex rainbows.
The concoction completed bleeds cerulean
Two drops beneath the tongue; reformatory
Transformation a mesmerizing exposition.
A new beginning, free from pains captivity.
Released from life’s first wound.

Body melting like a glacier
Soaking into fields of lavender
Wind through the aspens natures reverb
Song composed to the flowers who's heads bloom magenta
Storm clouds on the horizon the frivolous conductor
Of the soft rain of peace,
Which holds a steady beat,
To Deaths symphony.

Authors Note: This poem was created by selecting words from a number of poems. Adding those words to the right margin of my sheet and then writing to the lines. From there, I rearranged, added or removed things as it felt right. I went into this with out any pre-planning and it’s always such a surprise to me what ends up coming out and how cohesive it can often turn out to be. Please note I may have broken golden shovel rules at some point here. I’m a poet. Breaking rules is what I do best :D

Words Used: sheared, dwindle, blossom, brim, cauldron, cerulean, reformatory, exposition, captivity, wound, glacier, lavender, reverb, magenta, conductor, peace, beat, symphony.

Poems these words were borrowed from:
Morning Antlers, By Arthur Sze , Carrizo by Crisosto Apache, How the worst day of my life became the best by Andrea Gibson, Excerpt from Magenta by Thomas Hornsby Ferril

I also realized after drafting this piece that while it follows no form, it has 4 lines, 7 lines then 8 lines. This reminded me of one of my favorite breathing techniques. It only takes 60 seconds and can really help you find a place of calm!

The 4-7-8 Method

This technique, developed by Dr. Andrew Weil, acts like a natural relaxant for the nervous system.

Disclaimer: This post contains affiliate links. If you purchase through these links, I may earn a small commission at no extra cost to you. This helps support my writing and the work I do here on Substack.

Support the Space

This publication is reader-supported. If my work resonates with you, consider joining the community as a paid member to help keep this space intentional and intimate.

Become a Paid Subscriber

Paid Membership Access the full archive, monthly somatic practices, and 90-minute live workshops.

The Pause (Founding) Includes 1-on-1 Mentorship! Everything in Paid, plus an annual 60-minute mentorship call, personal feedback on your work, and direct email support.

Free Weekly prompts, Sunday Share threads, and occasional poems and essays.

If a monthly subscription feels out of reach, I also have the option for you to make a one-time contribution. No pressure, but the support truly helps.

One Time Support

I’ll leave the light on for you! Much Love — Andy

The time is now to take a stand;

The ships have sailed. The cannons manned.

You have to know, the hour is late.

The fire is hot and yet you wait!



We beg the few to make a plan.

It’s time to go, we must demand.

It’s time we fight, release the hand,

To break the chains of fascist hate.

The time is now.



Can you not see the burning land?

Or see the books that they have banned?

Their greed will never quite abate.

We must move fast, or seal our fate.

Your head is buried in the sand.

The time is now.

©Andrea Curran

Want to write your own Rondeau?

The Meter

Choose your rhythm. A classic Rondeau typically follows iambic tetrameter ($da\ DUM\ da\ DUM\ da\ DUM\ da\ DUM$). This means each full line should have 8 syllables, alternating unstressed and stressed beats. Consistency here is what makes the "return" of your 4-syllable refrain land strongly.

The rhyming scheme

A-Rhymes: You need 8 words that rhyme with each other.

B-Rhymes: You need 5 words that rhyme with each other.

Note: No matter how long the poem gets, you can only use two rhyme sounds.

The Hook

The first half of the first line of the first stanza serves as a refrain that will be repeated in the last line of the second and third stanzas.

The refrain

Only 4 syllables which may be one or more words.

The refrain isn’t a full line; it’s a “rentré” or a “return.”

Take the first few words of Line 1.

Drop them in at the end of the second and third stanzas.

It should feel like a musical chorus that keeps coming back to haunt or highlight the theme.

Quintet 

1 A 

2 A

3 B

4 B 

5 A 

Quatrain

1 A

2 A

3 B 

4 Refrain

Sestet 

1 A 

2 A 

3 B 

4 B

5 A

6 Refrain 

If you write a rondeau, tag me in your post or comment your finished piece here! I’d love to read it!

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Paid Membership

• Access the full archive, monthly somatic practices, and 90-minute live workshops.

The Pause (Founding Member)

Includes 1-on-1 Mentorship! Everything in Paid, plus an annual 60-minute mentorship call, personal feedback on your work, and direct email support.

Free

Weekly prompts, Sunday Share threads, and occasional poems and essays.

If a monthly subscription feels out of reach, I also have the option for you to make a one-time contribution. No pressure, but the support truly helps.

One Time Support

Did you find something here that resonated? Let me know in the comments, or share this post with a friend!

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I’ll leave the light on for you! Much Love — Andy

A Milestone and a Reintroduction

Hitting 750 subscribers today is wildly amazing, and I am so deeply grateful to all of you who stopped by to hang out. While going through my past notes, I realized that I’ve never formally introduced who I am, how I got here, or what this space is really about.

My name is Andy, though I write under Andrea. I’ve been writing since before I even knew how to form real letters, scribbling on paper and “reading” the stories back to my mom. She was a poet and a children’s book author herself, which gave me an early love for language. Though I currently work full-time in tech, poetry has always been the heart of my writing.

Meditation, Retreats, and Returning to the Page

About ten years ago, my best friend introduced me to meditation through Tara Brach’s [Radical Self-Acceptance](Insert Amazon Affiliate Link Here). Eventually, I made it a daily habit and got certified to teach meditation, mindfulness, and somatic experiencing.

This summer, I went on a retreat with the Somatic Nature Institute and spent five days camping in the Roosevelt National Forest, which included a 24-hour solitary food and water fast in the woods. That experience really made me fall back in love with my writing. Writing has always been deeply tied to my emotional experience; for a long time I felt I could only write when I was angry or sad, but I am learning how to write through the calm, stable parts of life as well.

The Cats (Because I Promised You Gremlins)

Yes, I have five cats, and they were definitely in gremlin mode during the stream. My oldest is Andromeda, who I brought home right as the pandemic hit in 2020, and then came Cosmo. The other three—Perseus, Nikki, and Misty—came to me from Texas after my dad passed away from cancer. Nikki is my little barnacle who survived a very rare and nasty infection called pyothorax this year, and he basically keeps one limb touching me all day long.aste

The Poetry We Shared

During the live, we did a bit of poetry divination by just opening up books and seeing what the universe offered. Here are the beautiful collections and pieces we explored:

• Wasted Blood by . Josh is a local poet I met at an open mic, and his anti-war poetry is incredibly powerful. I read his poem “Leaded Ink” during the stream.

• American Primitive by Mary Oliver. We read “Tasting the Wild Grapes,” which felt like a perfect, quiet moment to share.

• The Elsewhere Oracle. This is an absolutely stunning oracle card deck that comes with a companion poetry book.

• Wonderbook by Jeff VanderMeer. He’s one of my favorite authors, and this illustrated guide has been helping me as I venture more into writing fiction.

• Pansy by Andrea Gibson. Andrea is a true poetic hero of mine. We shared the same hospital hallways in Colorado while they were getting cancer treatments and I was caring for my dad. Hearing them read with a book in their hands is what finally gave me the courage to step up to an open mic myself. I also highly recommend the recent documentary about their life, Come See Me in the Good Light.

I also shared a few of my own pieces, including a journal prompt memory about the first smell of autumn, a poem from 2005 called “Eye of the Storm,” and a piece exploring the crone archetype and my own journey with infertility called “Mother of All, Mother of None”.

If you missed the grounding practice at the end, I closed us out with Rumi’s “The Guest House”. Thank you all again for creating such a wonderful community here.

Disclaimer: This post contains affiliate links. If you purchase through these links, I may earn a small commission at no extra cost to you. This helps support my writing and the work I do here on Substack.

Looking for more like this?

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Become a Paid Subscriber

Paid Membership Access the full archive, monthly somatic practices, and 90-minute live workshops.

The Pause (Founding) Includes 1-on-1 Mentorship! Everything in Paid, plus an annual 60-minute mentorship call, personal feedback on your work, and direct email support.

Free Weekly prompts, Sunday Share threads, and occasional poems and essays.

If a monthly subscription feels out of reach, I also have the option for you to make a one-time contribution. No pressure, but the support truly helps.

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I’ll leave the light on for you! Much Love — Andy

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Part of my excitement about moving to Colorado is for my favorite activity! Hiking! So I decided to make a plan on Friday to head out to Chautauqua Park. Of course my Sunday morning there were some concerns. Mostly because of cute kitten cuddles. It's really hard to get out of bed when these guys climb in with me. Ignore the clean clothes hamper, I got to it eventually. ;)

It wouldn't be a hike with Andy without seriously overpacking. But who wants to sit in sweaty clothes for the hour drive home? Not me.

Before heading to the park I needed to make a stop in downtown Boulder. I didn't think things through very well and parking was atrocious so I had to park about .75 miles away. However, it turned out to be truly an act of serendipity. As I was happily trekking my way down the boulevard and perusing the shops to see where to have Charles (my husband) bring me back to later something caught my eye. I gasped... Could it be? "

At this moment there was a non zero chance that I would never be seen or heard from again. I knew that if I walked into that store it could transport me to another dimension. There was a moment in which I had to question my state of sanity and aliveness as I was for sure that I had been transported to some other dimension where people "get" me. Alas, I was able to enter and leave unharmed. I believe in my joy. I confused the fae woman running the shop and she forgot to trick me. If you know of me and my love of Alpaca's you will know that it is a miracle that I came out of this store with only 3 things. I mean look at that stunning good boy in the window with their excellent purple scarf.

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Chautauqua Park

Eventually I made it and found parking! Woot! I started out at Chautauqua trailhead as I did two weeks ago when I tried this hike for the first time. I had planned to take Chautauqua, over to Bluebell Spur, then down Bluebell Road back to the truck. You know the nice little green one in the map below. (green means easy but easy in Colorado is very different to an easy in Texas) :D .

As I was leaving the car I started to get spritzed on. There were a lot of dark clouds coming in and it looked like it might pour so I popped my poncho into my pack and left my good camera in the car. I think these still came out okay though. This cool-looking birdie was kind enough to say hi at the entrance. He just sat there while I was inches from him taking photos. Truly stunning birds, I still need to do some research on what kind they are. There were about 5-6 that I saw in the area. Feel free to tell me in the comments if you know!

I took the extra Bluebell Spur trail like I had planned to ahead of time. I stopped to chat with some ladies who weren't sure which way to go and helped out with photos on my phone. Then I took the path less traveled off into the woods!

It was pretty obvious pretty quickly that even as a stated medium trail that this is much more wild than I've ever hiked. I never went more than a 10-15 minutes without someone else coming along on the trail but in general it was more solitudinous (is this a word? It is now) than any trails I've personally hiked solo.

I spent a lot of time just kind of exploring and looking over the edges of the drop offs to see what I could see.

When I reached the end of the Bluebell Spur trail and realized it was time to head downhill back Bluebell road to the parking lot I felt a bit disappointed. That's when I remembered... THERE ARE NO RULES! Nothing else to do for the day until evening time so I jumped on Google Maps and it told me there was a landmark 1.1 miles down one of the trails that lay in front of me called the Royal Arch. Well, 1.1 miles doesn’t seem like much so in full Andy spirit I pushed ahead.

Very unassuming... Much wow.

Just past the above beautiful steps... things started getting a bit rocky. And... rockier....

And.... at some point I came to the realization that I wasn’t sure at what point the designation between “hiking” and “bouldering” split, but I'm pretty sure it was somewhere in this vicinity.

What lives below?

Me to me: “Oooh there’s a lot of rocks here. Seems they have a lot of kinda holes in between. Better watch out for snakes.
Me to me (halfway across what you see above) catching a glimpse in between a few rocks while climbing over: “Oh God... why did I look.” “Oh, no... “ “oh God”... *cringe* *Shiver* queue images of eldritch horrors running through my mind. Then your eyes can’t look away and you find new crevices and “Oh God... there is no bottom. Oh dear. Should I turn back now... if I turn back now does that make me a chicken?” This is also about where I re-checked the Park map and say the Royal Arch trail in black... meaning “DIFFICULT”. Whoops.

Hope you aren't afraid of heights!

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Then the trail was just like. Bye.

Also found a cute little bridge to do a selfie break. AKA. "Oh God I can't breathe... maybe if I stop and take a picture while this person walks away they won't think I'm dying and call 911". I don't look like I'm dying here. I look pretty damn cute if I say so myself but I promise you, I was dying. Also I’m a slut for little bridges on trails iykyk.

I again re-evaluated at the bridge whether or not it felt safe to continue and I felt like I still had plenty left in me so away I went. I was not disappointed either. After the trail said bye, this fairyland said hi. A beautiful hummingbird did a few drive-by's around my head so I decided to watch him for a while and enjoy some deep belly breaths.

Once I got to the top of the steps here in the distance I realized it was a LOT more stairs, there were about two switchbacks of stairs that I could see. At this point, I had made it about .6 miles toward my destination but I knew I had to turn back. I still had a mile and a half or so to get back to the car so I thought it would be best to turn tail and save the rest for another day. I was gifted with beautiful fields of orchids and sunflowers on my way out.

As I was heading downhill on Bluebell road I just had this feeling of longing. Longing to go back, to not leave, and almost a sadness and dare I say even a desperation for the solitude and the song of the wind. As I was walking, seemingly at a slower and slower pace, dragging my feet like a toddler not wanting to leave their favorite playscape I saw a bench ahead and decided to have a seat and let myself be in this place for a little bit longer. Time to check in and see why there was such a reluctance to leave and if there was something within myself that maybe I needed to attend to. A need I haven't met. So I sat. Then I looked up and saw the flatirons before me. I felt their magnificence deep within myself.

What the pictures don’t quite show is the way the sun hits the rocks and how they shimmer and shine with iridescence. How all colors of the rainbow paint the surface in loops and swirls. So I sat and I listened and I watched. I thought about about all the things that erode us over time. The pain, the grief. These emotions are like sand and storms and rain on our souls. Yet, like the peaks, the erosion doesn’t make us “less than”. It makes us so much greater. It tears us down and takes us apart but what emerges, while broken, is majestic and beautiful and so ... fucking... worthy... Every stream of grief that leaves a scar also brings us closer to ourselves. Closer to that spark of life inside us that when we look upon it we know love. So I sat. I wondered at the thought of all my ancestors who also were eroded and worn down, who sacrificed themselves for their children and their spouses and their culture and their society. I think of them, who shaped me. Because aren’t we all mountains? Aren’t we all the conglomeration of every ancestor that came before us into the distant ages back to the very first people? Are we not mountains of DNA, of love, joy, and grief? I sat. I saw. I understood. Maybe for the first time. That we are like mountains. (if not a bit squishier).

I continued to sit. I sat for the mothers, fathers, grandmothers and grandfathers, aunts, uncles, cousins. For every connection back to the first spark of life. In sitting I close my eyes and we sit together. Together, we listen to the wind through the aspens, pines, and tall grasses. My beautiful Aspen.

I remember my grandmother telling me how wonderful the places I wanted to move were because there were Aspen there. I didn’t understand yet, but sitting here with their song and the song of the cottonwoods and pines, I think I do. I sit and I remember the strength and power of three as three Women sat in love and grief and held each other as we held my grandmother in her passing. I sit and I feel my hand in my grandfather’s hand as he squeezes it and pulls me closer there at the end. And here I am not sad for while I remember their passing they sit next to me side by side and I am never alone.

As the waves of emotion began to become a bit too strong I opened my eyes to re-orient myself. As I did, I lay my head back and looked into the sky, and just there above me a beautiful hawk dipping and floating in the heat from the trail. It was like a love letter from my ancestors. As if a “you’re doing okay” from the heavens.

So I sat as a mountain. A feeling of fullness, love, and gratefulness. A feeling of grief, pain, and hope. As my grandmother taught me to sew, I teach myself to create a quilt of it all. A quilt that when I cover myself feels like safety. It feels like home.

So I sat a little longer with this feeling of fullness and gratitude. I imagine it pulsing out from me and into every living being around me and I press out love into the world and into myself and the tears come. Emotions flowing down my face and I press my love and gratitude out into the world until it feels like there is no more to give. There is a finishing. A completion.

So I let my eyes open, I stood and looked back one last time with a full heart and made my way back down Bluebell Road and home. Where I have my family waiting for me. As I leave, I’m taking a little something more than what I came with. A little more me, a little more of those that came before.

©2023 Andrea Curran

Enjoy this post? Here’s some others you may enjoy!

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I’ll leave the light on for you! Much Love — Andy

Full Transcript:

Hey, I’m Andy, I’m a somatic experiencing and meditation coach. If you haven’t done an exercise with me before, somatic experiencing is a way of tuning into your body’s sensations and movements to help your system find calm and resilience. We’ll be doing some light movements, if it’s comfortable for you. I do need to add, please check with your doctor before beginning any new physical activity. And if you don’t wish to do the movements, that’s also okay. You may consider just visualizing yourself doing them.

Everything I ask today is a simple invitation. There’s no wrong way to participate. Feel free to turn your camera off. You may wish to close your eyes, or if you prefer, you can find a point in your view and just hold a soft gaze.

Let’s take one deep breath together to settle in. In through the nose... and slowly out through the mouth. Inviting the jaw to soften, let…

Read more

I wake each morning with a lump in my throat
A scream pressed behind it.
I open my mouth and with the weight of
expectation
I sing.

Because…
the expectation is to sing.
To make a joyful noise.
To ensure the sounds escaping me
Are digestible.

But.. what do I want?

What I want is to reach deep into my throat .
Wrench this grief from its roots
and splatter it into the winds.
So that the sunset has a soundtrack.

I want to open
Not as a flower does.
I want to open
like a thunderstorm.
Peals of rage bursting from my belly.

The truth is.
I don’t want to fucking sing.
Not for you.
I want to scream out my pain from the mountain-top.
Rip these Sharps and flats from deep within my soul.
Expose these secret sounds
to the scrutiny of infinity.

To Say.
HERE I STAND.
I DESERVE to take up space.
and. I promise you.
I promise you
You will hear me,

Oh,
You will hear me,
But ... my voice will not be made beautiful for you.

My voice is composed of all the parts I locked away.
For everyone else’s pleasure.
So that I would be smaller.
So that I would be a little less.
So that I would be … digestible

Because I was always…
too much.

But...
I refuse to be digested.
I gather all the parts of me.
And together.

We scream

©2023 Andrea Curran

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Looking for more Poetry like this one? Check out these posts!

Support the Space

This publication is reader-supported. If my work resonates with you, consider joining the community as a paid member to help keep this space intentional and intimate.

Become a Paid Subscriber

Paid Membership Access the full archive, monthly somatic practices, and 90-minute live workshops.

The Pause (Founding) Includes 1-on-1 Mentorship! Everything in Paid, plus an annual 60-minute mentorship call, personal feedback on your work, and direct email support.

Free Weekly prompts, Sunday Share threads, and occasional poems and essays.

If a monthly subscription feels out of reach, I also have the option for you to make a one-time contribution. No pressure, but the support truly helps.

One Time Support

I’ll leave the light on for you! Much Love — Andy

“Oh you’re here! You startled me!

“Uh … HI! My name is Sydney but you can call me Syd! It’s nice to meet you! I’m not quite sure what all Andy has told you about me but… well. They don’t know as much as they put on. They’re always trying to tell my story for me and you know… I don’t think it’s right. Don’t you think I should get a chance to tell my own story? Especially since I’m all grown up now? I’ll be nineteen tomorrow! Can you believe it?”

“I bet they haven’t even told you about Mouse yet?! That’s really rude not introduce Mouse. She’s the bee’s knees and the best part of the story! She should be here any minute! You brought your suit with you right?”

“Ugh, let’s go look for Mouse. Her bikes over there behind the bushes. You can borrow it. She must have run into Steve on the way down.

You look down at your clothes and see you are improperly dressed in a blue pants suit trousers and white button up. You gingerly pick up the bike and mount, tucking your pants into your tall merino socks to keep them from getting caught in the spokes.

“Ahh isn’t this beautiful?!”

Sydney’s arms stretch wide as her pale blue road bike swerves slightly from side to side. Her slightly sun-burned face up to the sky. Shaggy blonde wolf cut waving out behind her. Her laugh rings like church bells in the warm spring afternoon. She looks back at you questioning.

“Well are you coming?”

She puts on her toothiest smile, one you can’t help but smile back at. You push on the pedals and wind blowing through your hair as you gain speed. Coasting down a long hill you notice the bright green leaves and cinnamon-orange of the cottonwood trees and ponderosa pines that line the paved trail. You pass by a park with a giant green meadow stretching out to the horizon. Sounds of soccer players a crescendo and decrescendo as you pass. The kick of the ball and screaming of the cheers. GOAL!

You can’t help but glance to the side; at Sydney. Her youthful exuberance a balm to your fatigued soul.

“Take a picture, it would last longer.” She laughs and pedals harder.

Heat rises in your cheeks snaking to the top of your ears.

“RACE YOU!!!”

Sydney blasts off and away from you before you can recover. You consider pressing down on the pedals harder to catch up. Yet, the air across your face feels like a happy memory. You slow down allowing yourself to bask in the experience of the moment. Laughing to yourself as Sydney fades into the distance. The paved path turns to gravel and then to dirt as you arrive at the lake. You dismount recognizing mud ahead. Sydney is there.

Her long tan legs draped over the edge of the pier. Sun-bleached split wooden boards cutting into the back of her knees as she slowly swings her feet back and forth. A chill of goosebumps raced up her neck as her big toe breached the surface of the lake. Sending a spray of water up and out, a fleeting hint of rainbow forming and vanishing.

She looks over her shoulder and waves you over. “Hey.. slow poke! You made it. Get on over here!”

You sit down next to Sydney on the edge of pier looking out at the lake. A large oak precariously bent over the water, its shade leaning into the distance. Your legs are a bit longer than Sydney’s, and you feel a slight chill as your feet slip into water. Cold foggy water chilling your ankles. It feels refreshing after your ride. Tiny fish begin to surface near your feet. The warm sunlight on your face leaves you slightly groggy. Allowing your head to rest backward you notice a long frayed rope hangs languid and heavy over the water.

Sydney’s shoulder bumps yours. “Soooo, did you want to hear about Mouse?” “She’s my best friend and honestly the coolest person you will ever meet. Her family is kinda fucked up so… well it’s a sensitive subject so maybe don’t mention I said anything. She’s the most amazing person though, she’s so talented. She can play the saxophone and I don’t know how she does it but she can make friends with literally anyone!”

You nod politely. You consider saying something but Sydney doesn’t take a breath between sentences.

“So anyway, she said she was supposed to meet Steve after school and they were going to ride their bikes down here to meet us.” “Steve is…well. I’m not sure what to think of him. He’s not really like other boys.. He’s kind of a friend, but not like a boyfriend… At least, I don’t think so.” Oh I’m just blathering.

A cacophony of thundering crashes rush up behind you, sprinting footsteps on unstable boards! A peach and black blur hurtles over the two of you. A loud yell follows; “Cannnoooonnnnbaalllll”

The birds go silent followed by a loud splash soaking you from head to toe. You splutter as lake water is hurled into your face turning your standard blue pants to navy. You lean your head forward and squeegee the water from your eyes and mouth. To your left, Sydney is laughing hysterically holding onto your arm as she collapses into giggles. Her hair plastered to the sides of her face. Before you can decide whether or not to be angry she looks at you with her eyes shining with tears and you burst into laughter with her. Your chest heaves with joy. You feel the weight of your suit jacket and in that moment it feels like it is the only thing standing between you and freedom.

It plops loudly into the mud like a discarded banana peel.

The sound sending both of you into further peals of laughter.

Syd hops to her feet with the agility only nineteen year olds can possess and strips down to her suit underneath. “I’m gonna get you for that Mildred” You see a mousey brown head pop up from the surface of the lake. “Hey don’t call me that!” She shrieks!

Sydney runs back to the beginning of the pier and sprints leaping high into the air, she graps onto the rope hanging from the large oak. She flies through the air towards Mouse. As she reaches the pinnacle of the swing she releases. For a moment Sydney hangs in the air, limbs akimbo, hovering. Mouse screams and begins to swim away as Sydney lands with a splash at the exact point Mouse vacated. Sydney quickly catches up to her. Her long, languid strokes far outpacing Mouse’s frantic doggy paddles. The world turns to rainbows and giggles as they splash lake water toward one another. You notice a slight pain in your cheeks from smiling harder than you have in a long time.

Sydney grabs Mouse around the middle pulling her into a tight side hug. One arm still treading water. Everything quiet now except for the swish swish of tiny waves and the rustling of the leaves. They make their way to a shallower area and Mouse holds Sydney in a tight embrace. You overhear Sydney, she thinks she’s whispering.

“You’re late. And I can smell the weed in your hair. You aren’t going to abandon me for Steve again, are you?”

”Of course not Syd… you know I would never! Always and forever, we promised.”

You flush at the realization that maybe you weren’t meant to be part of this conversation. You are pretty certain by the way they look at one another that they have forgotten anything else in exists except each other. Their foreheads touch and you seem Mouse squeeze harder. You turn away.

You strip to your swim bottoms and toss the suit pants in the mud on top of your jacket with another squelching plop. You slip quietly into the water keeping your back to the girls allowing them their moment. Existing within your own. You allow your body to gently float to the lake’s surface. Your ears fill with water and sound of their resumed laughter turns to a muffled exuberant warble.

©2026 Andrea Curran

Huge thanks to ! Our conversation about a rope swing really helped me to add more life to this story! <3 I hope you enjoy it.

Want to spend more time with Sydney? Check these out!

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Become a Paid Subscriber

Paid Membership Access the full archive, monthly somatic practices, and 90-minute live workshops.

The Pause (Founding) Includes 1-on-1 Mentorship! Everything in Paid, plus an annual 60-minute mentorship call, personal feedback on your work, and direct email support.

Free Weekly prompts, Sunday Share threads, and occasional poems and essays.

If a monthly subscription feels out of reach, I also have the option for you to make a one-time contribution. No pressure, but the support truly helps.

One Time Support

I’ll leave the light on for you! Much Love — Andy

Crouched upon a precipice,
Black pointed hat held tight.
Wind raising goosebumps,
Emerald flesh.
Mother drank the green elixir;
Father wept.

Above;
Crystalline spire;
Piercing clouded depths.
Below;
The Emerald City,
A panorama
Of passionate masses,
Chanting"Burn the witch"

The Wizard
Conducting the carnivorous crowd.
A birds piercing cry,
they allow it to shriek.
Never to speak.
They fear the uniqueness
Of a goat that can teach.

Glinda calls my name,
In her solipsistic sing-song voice.
Emotions fighting over
sovereignty of my heart.
Adorable in pastel pink,
Antithesis of authenticity.

Her gaze meets mine,
Solidifying my sacrifice.
I can’t let her join this fight;
To dismantle the wizards
Antidisestablishmentarianism,
I break her world to make it right.

Day becomes night,
The loss of her light.
I slip from the ledge.
Fly, my pretties, fly!
©2026 Andrea Curran

I want to thank those that provided words for me to play with. This poem was birthed from a note!

OH Go add more words to my note! (Please) This was a TON of fun! I’d like to do it again! Thanks for playing :D As long as ya’ll keep adding words I’ll keep the series going. It’s a fun challenge for me!

If you have time why not go check out and subscribe to work from these lovely people that took time out of their days to have some fun with me!

Solipsistic, panorama and crystalline

Authenticity Passion Gaze

Antithesis Carnivorous adorable antidisestablishmentarianism

Depths Emotions Uniqueness

bird, sing and cloud

If you loved this check out Poetry Game #1

Or check out some other poems!

Support the Space

This publication is reader-supported. If my work resonates with you, consider joining the community as a paid member to help keep this space intentional and intimate.

Become a Paid Subscriber

Paid Membership Access the full archive, monthly somatic practices, and 90-minute live workshops.

The Pause (Founding) Includes 1-on-1 Mentorship! Everything in Paid, plus an annual 60-minute mentorship call, personal feedback on your work, and direct email support.

Free Weekly prompts, Sunday Share threads, and occasional poems and essays.

If a monthly subscription feels out of reach, I also have the option for you to make a one-time contribution. No pressure, but the support truly helps.

One Time Support

I’ll leave the light on for you! Much Love — Andy

About the Event
A 90-minute Generative Writing Workshop including a small introduction into somatic experiencing.

What We Did!

• Gentle Introduction to Somatic Experiencing and Loving Kindness

• Loving Kindness Somatic Practice

• Poetry Reading (About love) and maybe some music! (Poems from our very own Substack poets!)

• Writing! I’ll offer some prompts during the session!

• Sharing! We did this but I keep shared private for attendees!

Who This Is For
Anyone curious about Somatic Experiencing or anyone that loves poetry!

The Details - Took place February 22nd 2026

• Paid Subscribers can access below!

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I believe analysis in poetry is very important. I also recognize that how we interpret our own poetry is not always how it is interpreted by the world. We each wear different lenses of experience that color the actions of our everyday. This piece is intended to both highlight what I liked about the external analysis and also to shine the light a bit more clearly on my original intention by adding some context and clarity.

Finding Ground

“The Offing” is a nautical term. This is the visible sea at a distance from the shore. This represents the boundary of what is known.

interprets “Mirrored... horizon and sea” and “edge of existence” as philosophical abstractions or “cosmic self-eroticism.”

It’s cosmic self-eroticism, the divine desiring its own image. —

However, it is in fact a literal description of the visual phenomenon of the offing, where sea and sky merge. The “edge of existence” is the literal horizon line where the known world disappears.

also points to “Fire in the moonlight” as a mystical oxymoron. He mentions heat and cold coexisting. But again, this is a literal observation of the sea at night. It is the reflection of light dancing on the water and the intensity of the moon’s reflection that looks like white fire on the dark waves in the night.

This poem began as a journal prompt from Q&A a Day for Writers: 1-Year Journal by Potter Gift. The prompt was “Write a description of. “the offing,” the most distanct extent of the sea that can be seen from the shore”

Below is the entry in this journal that I wrote in 2019 that later became the poem “The Offing”.

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Welcome to the Library

As you are walking down the street a raggedy looking door with a broken sign catches your eye. As you pull the old wooden door open there is a loud creak. A large brass bell clings loudly as you step inside. There is a hum of low chatter and a slight scent of melted wax. The pulpy smell of old books and wax reminds you of simpler times. In front of the shelves you see they have chairs aligned in messy rows. You take a seat at the back. You settle in just as someone steps to the front to announce the beginning of the open mic. It seems you have arrived just in time!

Welcome to the archives! If you are new here, or just looking for something specific to read, this page is designed to be your organized library. Below you will find a curated collection of my favorite essays, poems, notes, and resources, organized by theme.

I post once weekly on Monday mornings.

I update this page regularly, so feel free to bookmark it as your home base.

Poetry

Fiction

Non-Fiction

Workshops and Practices

Poetry

On Nature, the body, somatic experiencing

Exploring our connection to the earth and self.

Navigating grief, survival, pain, and major life transitions.

Exploring loneliness and aging

Poetic Forms:

Ekphrastic, Persona

Rondeau

Golden Shovel

Short Fiction

Slice of Life - Meditative

Psychological Horror

Non-Fiction Essays

non-fiction stories from my life, lessons from the fire!

Humor

Somatic Experiencing, Writing Workshops, Lives

Workshops and resources on craft, somatic experiencing, and poetry.

Somatic Practices and Meditations

Voice Overs

John's Substack

Marinate

Marinate…

Read more

2 months ago · 42 likes · 28 comments · John Martin

Stefan's Stories

Echoes

Read more

2 months ago · 50 likes · 28 comments · Stefan Pasek

Notes of Importance:

I am still accepting words, round 3 needs more words! Round 2 will be releasing before the end of February so keep your eyes peeled!

Try out a journal prompt

And try to find a little joy if you can <3

Community Commentary and Collaboration

This is where you can find community collaborations, analysis and interviews from our very own substack community!

Astrid Villagran

The Cross-Verse Event #002

Welcome to the second Cross-Verse Event…

Read more

3 months ago · 5 likes · Astrid Villagran

Voice Overs

John's Substack

Marinate

Marinate…

Read more

2 months ago · 42 likes · 28 comments · John Martin

Stefan's Stories

Echoes

Read more

2 months ago · 50 likes · 28 comments · Stefan Pasek

Substack publications The Poetic Pause has been featured in:

Scheming Rhymes

Formal Poetry Directory, Issue #1.

We have been rare; we have been few. Contemporary traditional poetry composition has been relegated to seldom seen corners of the internet, and its practitioners are barely ever granted a place under the spotlight of the masses. It’s time to challenge that—together…

Read more

2 months ago · 45 likes · 47 comments · Brooklyn Crane

ivan’s nook

The Weekly LitMag (Issue #2)

Another week, another issue! This time being heavier, lengthier, and (maybe) better…

Read more

2 months ago · 58 likes · 39 comments · ivan’s nook 📚

Scheming Rhymes

World Poetry Day: A Rite for Spring.

Throughout the past month, the Formal Poetry Directory has drawn many voices and so much talent across its first four issues. It has been an honor to meet authors who bring poems to life with their knowledge and skill, so this World Poetry Day, Scheming Rhymes has gathered them to…

Read more

21 days ago · 40 likes · 15 comments · Brooklyn Crane

Monica A Leyva

The Word as Lens

Read more

21 days ago · 32 likes · 19 comments · Monica A Leyva

White Rabbit Poetry Society

White Rabbit Community Poetry Share

Thanks for reading White Rabbit Poetry Society! Subscribe for free to receive new posts and support my work…

Read more

22 days ago · 25 likes · 8 comments · Dorie Snow/雪多丽

The Full Archive

Looking for something else? Posts listed oldest > newest

Support the Space

This publication is reader-supported. If my work resonates with you, consider joining the community as a paid member to help keep this space intentional and intimate.

Become a Paid Subscriber

Paid Membership Access the full archive, monthly somatic practices, and 90-minute live workshops.

The Pause (Founding) Includes 1-on-1 Mentorship! Everything in Paid, plus an annual 60-minute mentorship call, personal feedback on your work, and direct email support.

Free Weekly prompts, Sunday Share threads, and occasional poems and essays.

If a monthly subscription feels out of reach, I also have the option for you to make a one-time contribution. No pressure, but the support truly helps.

One Time Support

I’ll leave the light on for you! Much Love — Andy

Get more from Andrea 🌄 in the Substack app

Available for iOS and Android

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Note: This poem explores themes of sexual abuse and recovery. Please prioritize your own safety before reading.

Here she is again today,
lonely in un-lonely ways.

Lost in love and lost in thought,
of things remembered, once forgot.

Of muffled cries and giants breath,
bound by hope and prayers for death;
a lien against her innocence.
Crying out in vain.

Yet, emerging in the now,
a roar that crashes with no sound.
A soul is freed her heart;
It pounds.

With bated breath and wounded soul;
She emerges from the coals.
Forged in fire; forged in flame;
She is found;
Unbound.

©2018 Andrea Curran

If you like this poem you may like these:

Support the Space

This publication is reader-supported. If my work resonates with you, consider joining the community as a paid member to help keep this space intentional and intimate.

Become a Paid Subscriber

Paid Membership Access the full archive, monthly somatic practices, and 90-minute live workshops.

The Pause (Founding) Includes 1-on-1 Mentorship! Everything in Paid, plus an annual 60-minute mentorship call, personal feedback on your work, and direct email support.

Free Weekly prompts, Sunday Share threads, and occasional poems and essays.

If a monthly subscription feels out of reach, I also have the option for you to make a one-time contribution. No pressure, but the support truly helps.

One Time Support

I’ll leave the light on for you! Much Love — Andy

I sat across from Sydney at a small white round table. The air inside the ice cream shop was chilly. This didn’t seem to bother her. She must have been 7 when we came here the first time. Her blonde hair, still strawberry at the roots, wildly framed her pink cheeks. She ate her ice cream cone with a small spoon. She also didn’t seem bothered by all the questions I had for her; bubbly with the excitement of getting some ice cream with someone who was interested in what she had to say. She wore an oversized t-shirt that hung haphazardly off one shoulder and faded blue jeans, dirty at the knees.

“What do you like most about your school?” I asked.

“Oh definitely recess, but I like history a lot too.” She replied.

“Oh yeah?”

“Ms. Smith says that she liked history when she was my age too and that’s why she became a teacher but I don’t want to be a teacher.” Sydney spoke in run on sentences. Blending one topic into another.

“I can do all my states in alphabetical order, wanna hear? Alabama, Alaska, Arizona …” she continued without waiting to find out if I, in fact, wanted to hear. As she went on, the ice cream in front of her wilted and began to drip over her tiny fingers, accented with light green polish and flaking around the edges.

“West Virginia, Wisconsin, Wyoming! See!”

“That’s really good Sydney. I have a question for you… if you could go anywhere in the World. Where would you want to go? It can be on any continent, you know all your continents too?”

She nodded fervently. “Oh yes I do! Antarctica, North America…. “

That’s great Sydney… so where do you think you’d want to go? Her face became pensive, two lines appearing on her forehead. She took another bite of her ice cream from the little spoon as a puddle began to grow on the table.

“I think it would have to be the Library of Alexandria. Daddy said that’s where they keep all the best history. I know what history looks like from the picture books daddy brings me but I don’t know what it feels like”.

That’s a pretty big place for a small girl like you.”

“Yeah. I know”. She said, obviously that explained everything. She sat for a time taking small spoonfuls of ice cream, vanilla, no sprinkles.

“Can we go play?” She asked politely.

“Yeah of course we can. Let’s pop over to the park for a bit before I take you home! We still have a couple hours before your mom will be back.”

“Aren’t you going to finish your ice cream?”

“No, i don’t want it, she shrugged as she hopped up and dropped the last melted bit of cone into the trash can. She licked the spoon clean and shoved it in her pocket.

She talked the whole way as we walked out the park. She talked about her daddy and how many more days till he’d be home from the oil fields. She talked about princesses and dragons. I asked her if the prince was going to come rescue her and she balked.

“No, I will slay the dragon see!?” She crouched down and grasped an imaginary great sword in two tiny hands. I will show you how I will slay the dragon.”

“Boys are double G.. Gross.”

By then we’d arrived. She looked at me expectantly as if afraid I’d keep her.

“Go.. go play!.. bring me back the head of that dragon and I will knight the Mighty Princess. “

©Andrea Curran

If you enjoyed this story you might like this one:

Support the Space

This publication is reader-supported. If my work resonates with you, consider joining the community as a paid member to help keep this space intentional and intimate.

Become a Paid Subscriber

Paid Membership Access the full archive, monthly somatic practices, and 90-minute live workshops.

The Pause (Founding) Includes 1-on-1 Mentorship! Everything in Paid, plus an annual 60-minute mentorship call, personal feedback on your work, and direct email support.

Free Weekly prompts, Sunday Share threads, and occasional poems and essays.

If a monthly subscription feels out of reach, I also have the option for you to make a one-time contribution. No pressure, but the support truly helps.

One Time Support

I’ll leave the light on for you! Much Love — Andy

Thank you , , , , , and many others for tuning into my live video! Join me for my next live video in the app.

Also a huge thank you to for introducing me to Substack. This has been an awesome experience and I couldn’t be more grateful. He does live poetry every Friday and poetry on casette so please go check him out if you get a chance!

This recording will be available to free subscribers until February 25th 2026! Please feel free to check it out! If you want to access recordings of all future workshops and get access to our longer form 2 hour Zoom writing workshops where we will also take time to share, please consider upgrading to become a paid subscriber!

All of the poems I read today are in the public domain. If you want to give them another re-read, links below:

• “The Willow-Tree” by Lewis Carroll

  • Link: Project Gutenberg (In “Three Sunsets and Other Poems”)

  • Note: Scroll down to the poem titled “The Willow-Tree.”

• “I Wandered Lonely as a Cloud” by William Wordsworth

  • Link: Poetry Foundation Archive

• “Barter” by Sara Teasdale

  • Link: Poets.org Archive

• “You are old, Father William” by Lewis Carroll

  • Link: Poetry Foundation Archive

• “Song of Myself” (Section 2) by Walt Whitman

  • Link: Poetry Foundation Archive

  • Note: This link contains the full poem; scroll down slightly to the section marked “2” (starts with “Houses and rooms are full of perfumes...”).

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Here is the piece I read at the end (slightly edited). This will likely go through some more editing but thought you all may want to see it as an example! <3

The Cold Cold Night

The cold chill splashes my face,
like water from an icy lake.
Bringing my mind alert.

A tingling sensation in my nose,
as the cold permeates my toes.
Eyes skyward the moon is high,
Cheeks tightening with a smile.

My jacket open to test
if the cold on my breast
will bring aliveness to my chest.

The stars shines;
enveloped in darkness,
sky the universes lite bright.
poked through with shimmering starlight.
A spark of joy pushes blood pumping.
As I spin face up,
laughing with the moon.
©Andrea Curran

Looking for more like this?

Get more from Andrea 🌄 in the Substack app

Available for iOS and Android

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Support the Space

This publication is reader-supported. If my work resonates with you, consider joining the community as a paid member to help keep this space intentional and intimate.

Become a Paid Subscriber

Paid Membership Access the full archive, monthly somatic practices, and 90-minute live workshops.

The Pause (Founding) Includes 1-on-1 Mentorship! Everything in Paid, plus an annual 60-minute mentorship call, personal feedback on your work, and direct email support.

Free Weekly prompts, Sunday Share threads, and occasional poems and essays.

If a monthly subscription feels out of reach, I also have the option for you to make a one-time contribution. No pressure, but the support truly helps.

One Time Support

I’ll leave the light on for you! Much Love — Andy

Dark tendrils wrap my feet
Lingering sweetness;
out of reach.
A warm summer sunset breeze.

Death, my loyal consort;
--Omnipresent.
As the branches I grasp crack and splinter.
Hands perfumed with musty earth.

Grief swells into my throat
flooding my vision.
A river too deep to wade.
I walk away.

Footsteps thrum within my chest as gongs.
Silent but getting faster.
Knots twisting in my belly.
I walk away.

Within the darkness of my solitude,
I sit within my grief.
Knees buckle beneath the weight.
A red beast rising from the depths to drag me under.
Enmity etched in his bones.

Deep
Red
Angry
Hungry
We meet and we are one.

Flood breaking into choking sobs;
I stay.
Chest expelling retched howls.
I stay.
Until I lay in the silt of the empty river bed.
I stay.

From behind closed eyes, I emerge.
From a chrysalis of dirt.
Damp silt drips from extended arms as wings.

I am cold as I envelop myself in a blanket of kindness.
I am afraid as I hold myself with love.
I am the child
I am the mother.
I am vulnerable,

                                                 joy                                            Understanding
                                                                               Fear
                     Grief                                  joy
                                                 Love
                                                                                            joy    
                                                                    
                                                                      joy?

                                                                     ohh 

                                                              Dare I say  it? 


                                                                     JOY 

From the darkness
She shines her light,
Illuminating my shadowed heart.
I extend my muddy hands.
Welcome home.
©2025 Andrea Curran

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I’ll leave the light on for you! Much Love — Andy

Three years ago, I seated myself in a new therapist’s office, expecting to be asked to spill all my worst trauma on the floor. Expecting to be gawked at. Expecting to be told “hope that helped, see you again next week.” Expected to suck up the tears and bottle my emotions back up, go home, and clock into work.

Instead; I received magic.

I used to believe a lot about fate, serendipity, synchronicity. Used to… somewhere along the way I lost my magic. My new therapist offered me a practice of intention setting. She pulled out a deck of oracle cards. There she was the skeptic poking their head back up. “Oh just another one of those therapists. What’s next horoscopes?”

My therapist asked if I’d like to draw a card or if I’d like her to. I advised said internal skeptic to have a seat while I finished my meeting. During our session we had talked a bit about magic so without thinking further I said “Why don’t we see what your magic has in store for me today?”

Drawing the card, I was left aghast. I have a tendency to want to remain grounded in the scientific. In Neurobiology and psychology. However, sometimes these little synchronicities just make it feel like maybe the Universe holds more than our brains can conceive. That day I let her magic choose for me. Lo and behold, the card drawn was the Moa… a card about finding your inner magic. “Choose how you want to interpret your next ‘strut’ not from a logical point of view, but a spiritual one.”

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A few weeks later I was invited to be a willing participant for students learning the Alexander Technique . At the end of my session, my practitioner asked if there was “anything else I’d like to bring into the space.” That little voice in my head piped up and asked “What magic could she have?”. I wanted to go for a walk and explore that afternoon so, I asked what her favorite park or trails were in the area. She told me about Chautauqua Park in Boulder.

This hike was the first of many since moving to Colorado where I’d begin again to connect to myself and my inner wisdom.

To Pause, to be still, to listen, always felt antithetical to who I was.

I am a spark, a fire, a flame, a jittery neuro spicy weirdo!

To sit down, to be still, to pause, always triggered the deepest sense of rebellion.

“I can’t slow down I have to keep up, I have to be #1 I have to get to the next milestone!”

In opening myself up for calm, other things started to become easier. I started to allow my self to just be…

I didn’t know yet what was ahead of me, but these first weeks in Colorado laid the foundation for resilience. To weather the storm that was coming.

Follow the breadcrumbs, follow the magic.

A mentor of mine once called this period of life “The Crucible” I don’t think there is a more apt name. Thing started happening faster than I could process.

Too much, too soon, too fast.

I wanted to fall to my knees and beg life to “Slow down”. Yet, things kept coming. As if the water was coming over my face, and the current kept pulling me under it. I saw all the anger and pain that I’d bottled up become a river I had to wade through but I didn’t think I had the strength. Until coming to the understanding that the harder you fight against the experience, the more it will try to drown you. You can keep trying to come up for air as you try to pick up the pieces. You can keep fighting against the current, but the more you fight against it and avoid it, the harder it’s going to pull you under.

At the start of my healing or spiritual journey, however you care to think of it. I fought to get rid of my anger. Surely, anger was the problem. Everyone always said how angry I was. And… pushing away an emotion refusing to feel it anymore doesn’t resolve it. Cutting yourself off from a part of your experience doesn’t allow you to be more you.

Once my mentor asked.. “Why are you fighting so hard... what would it be like to give love to your anger?” “To love my anger?” I scoffed at that. Surely! Love my anger! You must be crazy! So I kept fighting it, and I kept losing and I kept drowning, not realizing I was drowning myself. Then he said “What if you told your anger thank you, for trying to protect you?” Because at the heart of it, our anger is born from love. Our anger is born from a wish to survive, to be heard, to be understood. It’s not here to hurt us… It’s here to protect us. So, what if we told our anger thank you, for showing us what was so important to us?

I kept asking more questions “What would it be like to love my pain and anger? What would it be like to let to leave it an empty seat at my table?”

What I learned is that at times, you have to let the current drown you. Let the waves pull you under. Give in to the anger, give into the pain, give into the fear. For a little bit. Just long enough to listen.. to hear what it’s ACTUALLY trying to tell you.

In that drowning, in allowing yourself to be consumed by these strong emotions, what you might find, is that maybe what you’re drowning in isn’t actually water... and maybe… just maybe, if you pause for long enough. You can learn to breathe this new substance.

For each layer of healing, experience evolves. Each step forward often feels like taking 20 steps back. One of the biggest myths about our healing is that there is an end point. There is not. As long as we breath; our work is not done.

Breathing through sobs in the depth of grief. Allowing that grief to permeate so that I Could process it and travel to the other side of it is one of the hardest things I’ve ever done. Allowing myself to cry, to be angry, to punch couches (not walls) and wrench open my mouth in silent screams. Allowing the vitrol to release from my belly into the void traveling deep into the woods with howling rage. Allowing myself to feel it all allowing it to be known. To say I SEE you and I love you. When I reached the bottom, my feet sunk deep into the soft, wet Earth, I finally took a deep breath. In that moment, I found myself surrounded by support, love, kindness, community, and hope.

I believed in my youth that I could heal myself in solitude. All I needed was an internet connection and time I could solve any problem. The last seven years have taught me that that is the furthest thing from the truth. It taught me that the best way to heal… is with each other. Our society has separated us into individual compartments. When we are nature. We once were part of tribes, and communities that connected us to one another, that connected us to our mother earth. That made us whole. Now we are fractured and confused by an epidemic of loneliness. How could we not be lonely in a society that has stripped us of our communities.

As I sat looking up at the Flat Irons I saw such a multitude of colors, a multitude of possibility. As if the Universe opened and said “Here, THIS is your magic.”
So here I am. I’m finding my tribe, my people. The poets, the thinkers, the lovers, the cynics, the friends.

With tears in my eyes I finally have the strength to ask the Universe the question. “What’s next? I’ve done all the hard shit. What’s next? Give me everything you got! I can take it!”

And life begins to open as a flower does. Soft pink petals in the morning sunlight. The magic is here. It has always been here.

The magic is YOU!

I think it’s okay
To write another poem; about grief.

I don’t know why they have come,
These memories of ghosts;
traipsing through my afternoon reverie.
As feet propel mind toward new days.

I don’t know if the shimmer of sunlight,
mirrored crookedly on sheets of ice,
reflects the face my father knew.
Or, if it was altered by the pain of loss.

I do know that the rhythm of one foot and then another.
Matches the drumming of my heartache.
As I say again, and again and again.
Goodbye ...
Heart heavy as the mountain beneath solstice snows.

©2025 Andrea Curran

Authors Note: This poem is fashioned after the form by Nadia Colburn in Midwinter

Want to find out more about this did a brief interview with me and has posted more about the creation of this poem here:

Astrid Villagran

The Cross-Verse Event #002

Welcome to the second Cross-Verse Event…

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3 months ago · 5 likes · Astrid Villagran

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I’ll leave the light on for you! Much Love — Andy

Support the Space

This publication is reader-supported. If my work resonates with you, consider joining the community as a paid member to help keep this space intentional and intimate.

Become a Paid Subscriber

Paid Membership Access the full archive, monthly somatic practices, and 90-minute live workshops.

The Pause (Founding) Includes 1-on-1 Mentorship! Everything in Paid, plus an annual 60-minute mentorship call, personal feedback on your work, and direct email support.

Free Weekly prompts, Sunday Share threads, and occasional poems and essays.

If a monthly subscription feels out of reach, I also have the option for you to make a one-time contribution. No pressure, but the support truly helps.

One Time Support