This collection is more than words on a page. It’s a quilt of stories, poetry, and porch-talk stitched beside photographs of ridges, gardens, and firelight. Each piece rises from the same root—my life lived close to land, to spirit, and to kin. Some writings carry Granny sass, some hum like hymns, some whisper like wind through sweet everlasting. My photographs catch the medicine of place: a mountain shadow, a flower’s face, sparks rising into night. The poetry and prose are my way of holding what can’t be said plain. Together, these pieces form a living book—part memory, part miracle, all carried by love.
- Part 14: How The Holler Stayed Alive
They built the fire in a rough circle, not tidy and not planned, just how people do when nobody’s in charge and everybody’s paying attention. Logs pulled from where they’d fallen. Stones dragged in with scraped knuckles and laughter when one rolled downhill like it had someplace better to be.Enna Mae watched from her rocker,… Read more: Part 14: How The Holler Stayed Alive - Part 13: When Poppy Stops Hearing And Starts Listening
They didn’t speak at first.That was the first thing Poppy noticed — how the silence didn’t feel awkward or heavy, just… held. Pocahontas Hale moved about the clearing like she’d already measured the space between them and found it right. She set a kettle near the coals, adjusted a log with her boot, brushed her… Read more: Part 13: When Poppy Stops Hearing And Starts Listening - Part 12: Poppy’s Moment Of Witness
The trail narrowed as they climbed, not because it got steeper, but because the woods started decidin’ who was welcome. Poppy felt it first — that tightening in the chest that wasn’t fear exactly, more like recognition. Like walkin’ into a room you’d dreamed about before you ever saw it.Enna Mae slowed her steps without… Read more: Part 12: Poppy’s Moment Of Witness - Before The Longest Night – Mother’s Eve
Long before Christmas had a name, there was Mother’s Eve—the night before the Winter Solstice, when women tended the hearth and listened close. It was the eve of the longest night, when the dark reached its full stretch and then, without fanfare, began to loosen its grip. Mothers knew this turning by feel, not by… Read more: Before The Longest Night – Mother’s Eve - Part 11: Truth From Fire
Now here’s where the story thins out, like footprints after a hard rain.One day, Pocahontas Hale simply stopped bein’ where folks expected her to be. No grave. No scandal. No obituary worth speakin’ of. Just… gone.But women who’d been under her care will tell you she didn’t disappear. She shifted.They say she moved back into… Read more: Part 11: Truth From Fire - The Black Shawl – A Telling
Now, people love to talk about the Black Shawl like it was sin wrapped in silk and sold by the hour. But people who talk the loudest usually ain’t the ones who’ve needed shelter at midnight with no place left to turn.That place on State Street? The one history books whisper about like they’re ashamed… Read more: The Black Shawl – A Telling - Pocohantas Hale – A Knowing
Now this ain’t written in no courthouse ledger, so don’t go lookin’ for it there. This is the way old women tell it when the menfolk have wandered off and the kettle’s been on long enough to steep truth instead of tea.They say Pocahontas Hale came to Bristol in the years when war had men… Read more: Pocohantas Hale – A Knowing - Part 10: The Little Hale
The child curled up beside the wolf like she’d known him through a thousand lifetimes, tiny hand still grippin’ the corner of Poppy’s sleeve. The fire flickered slow, throwin’ shadows up the trees like old ghosts climbin’ their own memories. Poppy stared at the girl, heart thrashin’ like a wild bird inside her ribs. Ash… Read more: Part 10: The Little Hale - Part 9: Poppy and the Wagon Girl
The night they camped halfway up Ironbone Ridge, the air smelled like woodsmoke, pine pitch, and a memory that wasn’t done speakin’. Cypress flopped beside Poppy, tail thumpin’ dust into the firelight while Ash adjusted his pack and settled across from her with that easy grin he saved for the people he loved most. Enna… Read more: Part 9: Poppy and the Wagon Girl - You Are Enough
Something woke me this morning. Intuition was telling me to go to the greenhouse. So I put my coat on, loaded my pockets and grabbed my cup of coffee. I started up the kerosene heater, turned on some music and sat in my comfy chair with a blanket tossed across my lap. That’s when the… Read more: You Are Enough - Part 8: The Woods That Watch
When the sky cracked open with that soft pink dawn, Sugar Holler was already awake. Not with roosters or early risers, but with somethin’ older — somethin’ that stirred the creatures long before folks even kicked off their quilts. Poppy stepped out of Enna Mae’s cabin, Cypress glued to her leg, the fox brooch warm… Read more: Part 8: The Woods That Watch - Part 7: The Night The Holler Remembered Her Name
Now listen close, babies, ’cause the night this all happened, Sugar Holler felt different.Storm different.Omen different.The kind of different where even the trees stand up straighter like they’re waitin’ on news.Poppy knelt in the dirt, hands shakin’ around that silver fox brooch, the one the stranger left behind like a stone dropped in a still… Read more: Part 7: The Night The Holler Remembered Her Name - Thanksgiving With Enna Mae
“Alright now, y’all settle. Set them forks down. This ain’t gonna take long, but it’ll land where it needs to. I’m gonna tell you a story that a Cherokee medicine woman named Salali told me when I was not much older than some of you young ones. We were sittin’ by the creek, sun droppin’… Read more: Thanksgiving With Enna Mae - Part 5: Poppy of the Painted Wagon
Poppy weren’t born into stillness.She came into this world like lightning — bright, loud, and too magical to hold in your bare hands. A girl who believed in every spark of wonder life ever offered, from dandelion fluff to the way a river answers your thoughts if you sit quiet enough.She’d give her heart clean… Read more: Part 5: Poppy of the Painted Wagon - Let Go and Flow…
These days, when I step out on my porch at night, somethin’ in the world feels different — cleaner, clearer, like the lights have been turned on in a place that shouldn’t even have switches.The stars look brighter.The leaves tell on whatever walks the forest.But the strangest part?I ain’t afraid.I ain’t even watchful.I’m just… awake.Not… Read more: Let Go and Flow… - Granny Remembering Enna Mae
Now let me think back on Enna Mae a spell…Lord, that girl weren’t born like the rest of us.Came in quiet on a storm night,wind rattlin’ the cabin and rain hittin’ the roof like God tappin’ His fingers.Her mama said she opened her eyes wide right off,just lookin’ around that room like she hadn’t been… Read more: Granny Remembering Enna Mae - Part Three: The Preacher’s Wife
Now you listen close, ‘cause this one’ll stir the coals in your chest if you’ve ever worn a smile that didn’t fit.The second woman come to Sugar Holler on a night so clear you could see every star like pinholes in heaven’s quilt. She walked, not rode—feet bare, hem torn, eyes fixed on the moon… Read more: Part Three: The Preacher’s Wife - Part One: Enna Mae of Sugar Holler
Now don’t you go lettin’ the name fool ya.Sugar Holler ain’t sweet ‘cause of no candy. It got its name from the stills—back when the menfolk were runnin’ shine thick as creekwater and the law was too tired or too scared to find the smoke. The air used to smell like mash and honeysuckle had… Read more: Part One: Enna Mae of Sugar Holler - Shaping Mountains
I used to think life had a finish line—somewhere I’d finally arrive, all wise and steady. Turns out, it’s a spiral, not a road. I keep circling the same lessons till they soften and let go. Even the pinecone’s been trying to teach me that much. I’ve sat with the dying and felt the air… Read more: Shaping Mountains - Sunset On A Rainy Day
I’ve been walking with my higher self so long I didn’t even know she had such a name. Folks talk about meeting her through meditation or some fancy ceremony. Me? I just listen. Darlin, we’re talking about your soul. She’s the voice that hums when the world goes still—the knowing that shows me which cabinet… Read more: Sunset On A Rainy Day - Water Knows My Name
The river carries everything—messages tucked like minnows,memories sliding smooth against the stones. I don’t reach for it.I just lean close,let its song find me. The surface shimmers,and faces rise—smiling, radiant,light stitched into their edges.They don’t speak with lips,they ripple through the water. I listen with my bones.Every secret it sharescomes all at once:image, ache, whisper,… Read more: Water Knows My Name - A Heart’s Last Note
There are moments at the edge of life where the air itself holds its breath. I stood in that hush, listening to a heart beat its very last note. Not a grand sound—just a soft, steady punctuation at the end of a long sentence. Afterward, a lightness filled the room. Not the fluorescent kind. Something… Read more: A Heart’s Last Note - From a Grandmother’s Porch
Never have the words white privilege rung more true than the day I saw helicopters circle a Black neighborhood and drop agents on Brown backs. All this, seen from a video tucked deep into a social media post. They were tearing families apart, but not mine. My grandchildren were safe in school, my door unknocked.… Read more: From a Grandmother’s Porch - Corncobs In My Britches
Once upon a September evening, a certain Granny Woman laced up her knee-high rubber boots like she was suiting up for battle. Not a battle with men, nor beasts, but with a field of grass tall enough to hide a small cow. Armed with nothing but garden shears and pure stubbornness, she tromped out in… Read more: Corncobs In My Britches - The Story of Living Water
Come close now, and listen. I’ll tell you a secret about the world. You are a bowl of water walking on two legs. More than half of you is river and tide. Your heart beats like waves, your bones hold hidden springs, your blood flows like a creek that never stops. And every tear, every… Read more: The Story of Living Water - Little Things, Big Light
I do the small holy things.I taste my bread like it’s the whole world, slow and grateful. I tuck a memory in a tin, a seed in a packet, a story for a grandbaby — tiny treasures that make a thousand tomorrows kinder. I watch the moon, mend the broken, hum at the window, and… Read more: Little Things, Big Light - Dandelion … cancer cure?
I just keep getting the feeling the cure is simple and free. I’ve loved dandelions all my life. Laid belly-down in the grass to photograph them, sipped their teas, roasted their roots, made syrups and jellies out of their golden heads. I thought I just liked them because they were cheerful and stubborn. Turns out,… Read more: Dandelion … cancer cure? - What Hospice Is Teaching Me About Healing
I started nursing school believing nursing was holistic—that if you tended the body, you’d be taught to hold the heart and spirit, too. But most of what I found was assembly-line medicine: blood pressure here, pills there, but no time for listening. It wasn’t until I landed in hospice that I saw what I thought… Read more: What Hospice Is Teaching Me About Healing - Granny Firesight
Granny sat rocking, apron still dusted in flour, eyes fixed on the ridge where sparks flickered against the dark.“Funny thing about light,” she said, “you can see it from a dozen porches, and it still shines the same. Some’ll call it Christ, some’ll call it Goddess, some’ll call it Moon or Science. Doesn’t matter. The… Read more: Granny Firesight - Parker’s Moon
Once upon a mountain evening, the Moon climbed over the ridge—round, bright, and ready to shine her silver face. But as she rose, she saw a child below. The girl’s hair was spun so golden it gleamed white in the dew, curls catching the last of the day’s light. The Moon gasped. “What brightness is… Read more: Parker’s Moon - Rainbow Prisms from Broken Glass
I came from a placewhere safety broke too early.The glass didn’t just crack—it shattered.And yet, from the shards,light bent,and colors poured. Science names it trauma.I call itthe making of rainbow prismsfrom broken glass. That kind of woundsharpens a body.Teaches you to noticeevery flicker,every silence.Science calls it hypervigilance.I call it intuition. They say trauma heightens interoception—the… Read more: Rainbow Prisms from Broken Glass - Left Shoulder Voice
Social media was blasting last night that Trump had died.It was a frenzy—the kind the media loves, feeding on fear, stirring worry like a spoon in a pot, because a scared people are easier to control. Rumors spread faster than truth, and weary hearts soak them up until we feel sick. But beneath the noise,… Read more: Left Shoulder Voice - Strength Sweetened
People think strength means stompin’ boots,a voice that rattles windows,a look that makes folks shrink back.They call hardness power—like steel’s the only thingthat can hold a world together. But that ain’t how I see it. I’ve lived enough to know differently.I’ve sharpened my tongue before,used it like a blade—and I’ve watched the cuts it left… Read more: Strength Sweetened - Moon River
I’ve always known that energy never ceases to exist. We are energy, and that means none of us can truly be lost. Science calls it the law of conservation—energy can’t be created or destroyed, only changed from one form to another. The same truth whispers in the woods, sings in the garden, and settles deep… Read more: Moon River - The Heirloom Seed Soul
Because energy never ceases to exist… “Child,” the granny woman begins, rocking slow, “souls are like seeds—heirloom seeds—passed down from one season to the next. When the time comes, the wind and the rain and the Great Gardener decide where that seed will fall. Maybe it’s a wide open field, maybe it’s a pot on… Read more: The Heirloom Seed Soul - The River’s Four Keepers
Long before the mountains had names, a river wound through the heart of the world.It was said this river did not simply flow — it remembered.And in its memory lived four keepers, each bound to a season of the water’s journey. The Quiet Keeper She held the headwaters in her cupped hands,catching the first light… Read more: The River’s Four Keepers - Golden Healing Honey
Ingredients ½ cup Sourwood honey — smooth, buttery-sweet, with a hint of spice ½ cup Wildflower honey — rich and complex, carrying the medicine of many blooms 1 small handful fresh goldenrod flowers (Solidago spp.) 1 small handful fresh calendula petals (Calendula officinalis) 1 small handful fresh purple coneflower petals (Echinacea purpurea) 1 small handful… Read more: Golden Healing Honey - Mugwort, Mimosa, and the Skunk Who Blessed the Circle
The moon sat wide-eyed above me,casting silver breath over the trees.Below, the fire glowed like a heartbeat,its flames whispering to the coals in a language older than my bones. Around my neck hung Heartroot —a tiny glass vessel resting at my breastbone,filled with mugwort for vision and mimosa for joy.She breathed with me,her green and… Read more: Mugwort, Mimosa, and the Skunk Who Blessed the Circle - When the Moon Sat With Me and the Mimosa
The moon showed up tonight—no clouds, no veil—just her quiet face gazing back at melike an old friend who finally found her way home.I told her I’d missed her,and I meant it. In the hush of the porchlight,I picked mimosa blooms—after a kiss to her leaves,soft as a promise not to take too much.And a… Read more: When the Moon Sat With Me and the Mimosa - Granny Woman Garden Soup
Ooooh child, now pull up a chair and loosen your britches, ‘cause what I’m fixin’ to share ain’t just soup—it’s miracle in a mason jar. This here’s what I call Granny Woman Garden Soup—born of leftovers, backyard bounty, and a prayer whispered over steam. I didn’t follow no recipe, I followed my gut, and she… Read more: Granny Woman Garden Soup - “When the Fire Goes Quiet”
A letter from the Granny Woman’s porch… Baby, I want to tell you something I wish somebody had told me long ago. When your body starts to heal—not because of a pill, or a cream, or another supplement—but because you’ve come back home to yourself, that’s not coincidence. That’s not magic. That’s truth waking up… Read more: “When the Fire Goes Quiet” - Heaven for Me Will Be a Porch
A letter to those I love most My dearest ones, There may come a time when you wonder what I believed—not what I said in passing, not what I inherited,but what I came to know deep in my bones. And so I offer you this not as a rule,but as a window. This is the… Read more: Heaven for Me Will Be a Porch - The Flamekeeper
Once upon a time, in a green and secret hollow wrapped in the arms of a mountain, there lived a woman who fed the world with color and fire. She was not a queen, nor a witch, nor a girl — but something more ancient than all three. She was called The Flame Keeper. Each… Read more: The Flamekeeper - She Who Grew Without A Garden
A myth for the healer who became what she needed — The House Without Water… There was once a girl born under a roof where love was named but never felt.The women there spoke in shoulds and silences.The air held secrets like mildew.And when the girl cried, no one asked why. They told her she… Read more: She Who Grew Without A Garden - Moonlight and Mugwort
Tonight, beneath a full and whispering moon,I tramped barefoot through my forest—naming plants like old friends,pulling vines from what once bloomed green,the tall grasses wrapping my ankles in secrets. Ticks climbed like pilgrims toward my skin,and I, laughing, stripped bare on the porch—offering myself to the rites of the wild.A lover’s inspection under the eye… Read more: Moonlight and Mugwort
Granny Woman 