Your rage is justified. Your rage is holy. Your rage is worthy.

Left unexpressed, rage consumes and destroys.  Allowed to run rampant, it rebirths itself out of control.

Red hot rage alerts like an animal knowing its boundary has been crossed. It lets us know someone has pissed on sacred territory, alerting of an intruder, and that intruder is you, is me.

Rage is red hot energy rising, tasting like steamy bile emerging from our bellies and reaching for our throats. Unexpressed and suffocated, it turns downward and consumes.  Expressed outwardly it kills and destroys.

Expressed in holy ways, it transforms and heals.  We get to claim our dance upon its ashes

Rage screams in the safety of private moments and transforms through letters never sent–burned to pieces.

Rage escapes its body container when danced with intention– sweat dripping, chest heaving, mouth gasping.  Rage slips out of pores when feet beat pavement,  drowns when swum through liquid and escapes by riding itself out of town.

Rage cannot escape the silence of meditation or the sound of tears– it crumples in the deafening vibrational presence of both because rage is a coward.

Rage exists in dark corners long forgotten, shrinking from light, shrinking from expression.  It hopes to lay forgotten, to fester and pop like smoldering ashes wishing for more tinder, while shielded from rain.

Rage is that tiny flame vulnerable to the small drops of liquid raining down your cheeks in moments of expression because rage is afraid to be seen.  It’s afraid to be brought into the light where its small spark diminishes.

Your rage is justified. Your rage is holy. Your rage is worthy.

It’s just not meant to stay.  

Photo with permission from Katarina Silva