On Remembering Who We Are.


Maybe you are tired (you are not alone).
The brightness, the lighness of step
receded, past resistance, to memory.
It’s been like this maybe for years;
you’ve stopped just shy of wondering
what happens between the early years
of boundless joy and laughter, and now,
and why and how and by whose design
we’ve come to decide on a version of life
less saturated, sparkling and true.

But something stirs. It is inside you,
a gem that cannot be buried long.
It pulses, takes you on the first steps
of a journey you could not have known.
There you are, as if grace itself appeared
to lift the veil, and so you do. And see,
you are standing, has it always been like this?
On the lost wing of stunning remains:
a one-winged butterfly, larger than any legend,
resting for awhile on a mount only rising.


The Spectre of My Freedom


the spectre of my freedom
in the event you are not free
the words congealing
with nowhere to land or fall
empty movement on land
you cannot escape from
we are a people blessed
we are a people cursed
we are a people born
and raised of our times
yet still, still, we breathe
we gasp on the intake
we pray the air is clean
and if we discover what lives
there is something in this
there is our responsibility
to breathe more and deeper
until the body lights up
and there is no other choice
but to light up the rest.
– TT

The Butterfly


It’s what we’re always
trying to do, isn’t it?
To be?
The butterfly,
the end result
of all that struggle,
all the transmutation,
to be there,
on the other side
of all the discomfort
where the colours sing,
where the air
is our magic carpet,
and we can take
ourselves anywhere.
May we always remember
to enjoy the struggle,
the getting there,
and may we enjoy
being there,
being the butterfly,
even more.
– TS

New Drawing! Blossoming

This was inspired by a beautiful encounter with a dear friend today. She is full of joy and passion and wisdom. While I can’t capture her ephemeral “her-ness”, which is nonetheless out there in the universe, I was moved to create this watercolour.

With her help, I remembered a valuable lesson today. When you make time, no matter how busy you think you are, you will have more time, and joy grows infinitely from there.

I hope you enjoy!



Poem: there’s always only love

Tammy T. Stone

Tammy T. Stone


I can’t sleep.

Even the bed,

worn and crinkled,

and dampened with sweat,

becomes a rejection

of everything I am.

And the storm that started

hours ago as a lighthearted rain

has quickened,


lashing now,

and showing no sign

of passing by.

She invites me into

her unfurling movements

filled to the very edges of all things,

with grace, and I submit,

because I can’t think

of what else I can do.

Ask your questions,

the storm tells me,

making sounds that shake the bones

but ensure that I am rooted here,

where I’m afraid to be.

The storm knows

that I still need to ask questions,

even though I’ve had hints

that there are other ways

of reaching truths.

She knows I still have so many,

and they arise often,

so I tell them to the howling wind,

like this…

Why am I always seeking and what am I looking for?



Why do I always feel I am falling?



But why am I afraid of this, of falling?



Why do I always feel there must

be something more to all of this life?



Why do I feel that happiness

can only be found elsewhere,

and why can I conceive of happiness,

but not actually have it?


Why is the mind so strange

that it can form questions

that it can’t answer?


What is the nature of nostalgia,



that it floods me with feelings

that have no object?


Why do things feel more broken than whole?


Why do I feel lonely?


Why does it take me until the very end of all things

to realize that all of this has everything to do with love,

and only with love?


The storm takes me in her arms.

I can actually feel the warmth on my skin,

despite the raging nature of her essence.

She tells me that it doesn’t matter

how long it takes to come to love,

because love isn’t going anywhere,

and will happily wait until it is recognized

by every single one of us.

“Even me?”

The question is tiny and frail.

I am a little girl again.

“Yes, even you. Of course, even you.”

The tears and the rain mix together.

I keep talking to the storm.

“Have I left any kind of legacy?”

I ask.

I guess I’ve only ever wanted

small things, less even,

than I thought.

Just quiet days for reaching in,

deep inside,

yellow butterfly love surrounding me

until we are the same thing.


*This poem was recently published in Rebelle Society – check it out here!