17 November 2025

"Seed-Sourcing" is a collective open-writing practice.

These texts are process-documents - meaning they are spontaneous (written in 10 minutes or less) and utterly unedited. They are intended to be read only in the spirit of their context (i.e. - not treated as 'literature', but rather a trace of an immediate arrival in the moment, belonging solely to the shared practice).

ROUND 1

J:

This feels harder today.

There are gaps, chasms, voids.

Can I show up as I am in this moment and keep my heart open even if I feel the ground is a bit unstable. Hold my ground. If I do show up, is it with all the parts of myself?

I feel a slippery slope 

of wanting to give of my time and energy 

but at what cost?

Can I show up with compassion and for others in this constellation.

What mirrors are we showing to each other and what reflection is my own and how can I distinguish.

Do I dare to ask, is it safe to know?

How much of what I see and feel is a projection?

How much is a sensitive attunement to what the situation is revealing.

When diving into the rhythm and energy of others how much of oneself is lost on the collective energy?

We are all learning. 

I am learning to unlearn.

L :

I want to know who she is.

I know wanting to know is risky.

Last time I wanted to know, life got really messy.

And I don’t mean that in a bad way,

but in the way you wake up after a long denial or self-inflicted delirium,

and you know you have to return to center and that it is going to be painful.

And that the pain is going to help you.

And that it will bring you closer to yourself and everything and blabla.

And it is true.

But it never goes without questioning the delirium,

and upholding the thought: what if she is the delirium, and my faith is me going mental?

And I don’t believe that.

Because I know how the current feels.

The river of magic.

And I know that that is my true faith.

And therefore she must be a guide.

Where I’m going wrong is that I want to understand before I dare to follow,

while she asks me to trust and step into the boat and put my heart in the lap of the ferryman and wait.

Waiting, when you are anxious about making mistakes,

feels like something that involves crocodiles.

E: Forgetting

E is in her cell. 

It is only slightly larger than the size of her bed.

Which is only slightly larger than the size of her body. 

The windows, too, are slightly larger than the size of her body.

She tested this last night when she opened them and stood in the frame, bracing the hinges, with the sea wind shooting like a continuous sonic wave over her face. 

It was as dramatic as it sounds. 

The ceilings are tall. Taller than they have any right to be. 

Oubliette.

The shape of a dungeon in which prisoners are placed in order specifically to be forgotten. Often with one or all sides exposed to a chasm or deep ravine in which the prisoner could slip. The floors were often tilted toward the falling pit so that if a prisoner fell asleep they could accidentally roll off the ledge. 

The word - French - means ‘a place of forgetting’. 

This is not like that. 

This is like a dog kennel. 

A home for the elderly.

A school for naughty children.

A psychiatric facility.

This is not like a dungeon 

or a monastery. 

The tide is low. The water’s gone. The boats are beached outside my window.

The site has emptied. (This weekend there were large groups of conference-goers from various parishes. Especially popular: a marriage-preparation course for those soon-to-be-wed.

Now all the keys dangle in the doorlocks of uninhabited rooms.) There are dozens of rooms here. Now there are only 3 inhabited (the nuns live above the chapel).

My room is the smallest. 

List all the ways in which artists are not like monks.

Artists do not like rules.

Monks live by them.

Artists are noisy.

Monks keep silence.Artists hunt New.

Monks preserve Old.

Artists expose.

Monks conceal.

Artists question.

Monks obey.

Artists yearn.

Monks renounce.

Artists wander.Monks abide.

Artists risk chaos.Monks maintain order.Artists invent.

Monks sustain.

Artists break form.

Monks become formless.

Artists reveal.

Monks withhold.

Artists seduce.

Monks refrain.

Artists doubt.

Monks believe.

Artists play.

Monks do not.

Artists crave contact.

Monks withdraw.

Artists confess in public.

Monks confess in private.

Artists seek human witnessing.

Monks keep God as their only witness.

Artists tinker with time.

Monks live in and beyond it.

Artists crave change.

Monks perfect repetition.

… (yes. These are stereotypes. archetypes. stereotypes. archetypes. stereotypes…)

Even I don’t believe half of this.

Yet it remains:

Both renounce.

Both take vows.

The resistance to structure. What is the resistance to structure?

What is my need of structure? For what is my craving of structure? 

 R:

I wish to stand in the body, the posture, the type of being I found with the rocks, the cliffs, the ocean, the wind, the storm, yesterday…

My spine is like ploughing through the impulses of today.

I am a pack of trained huskies that roam through the forest.

There is an entire forest of what is likely to happen and what I am most likely to feel today. What the world screams continuously that is the case, that is humanly possible, that is humanly real.

My pack of huskies just runs through this forest of common stories. All the spines of my ancestors.

This is the attitude of the rocks. Piercing through the waves. Standing firm, unwavering in the storm.

There is a ground of decision, a profound place where a certain kind of decision can take place… a type of decision that cannot be contradicted by experience…

What are you talking about?

I have decided that my body is everything.

I will stay as best and as much as I can in the place where such a decision makes sense.

D:

Elastic and spongey, the light is softer at this moment.

The glass globes usually take, and refract harsh rays surpassing the IRE rating of my eye.

Only white. 

Topped out

Hot sheen.

The glass looks sharper

The rounded shape crisp

Today however the light is comfy and delicate

It’s had its sharpness dulled by an exhaustive journey today.

Before this morning started, the light started her journey to our part of the world as any other

Hurtling through space as she’s accustomed to, she reached such speeds, one observer claims she could be heard whistling.

The exosphere was uneventful. She warmed the regulars of her path, an assortment of satellites and orbiting debris

The trouble started once she entered the thermosphere…

ROUND 2

J:

[am I, in truth] going wrong?

I (also) want to understand before I dare to follow,while she asks me to trust 

and step into the boat 

and put my heart in the lap of the ferryman

and wait.

Today I woke up thinking about anchors.

Mostly about anchoring my light body, the one that is unwavering and trusting of the constellations connected to all the bodies and states of beings.

I finally slept but continued to dream of past constellations.

I dreamt of highlining again, about eating magic mushroom chocolates and then waiting….

Waiting in my dream realm for the clarity and pattern to reveal themselves so I breathe easier in my waking state .

I have tools and practices that bring me back to centre, where is the centre?

It's the heart. This I know but all the links of the chains tethered to the anchor need to be strong and closed. If the link between the boat and the anchor is a rope does the rope need to be cut and replaced to ensure future safety.

Future is still an abstract concept for my intellect to comprehend.

I noticed while lying in bed before sleeping that there were signals received for my body to rest and trust… I felt this release around my shoulders and neck. It felt like a gentle touch from my ancestors reassuring me.

I am grateful for that moment.

L:

Definition, physical:

A crocodile is a large, predatory, semi-aquatic reptile with a powerful jaw, armored skin, and a long, muscular body, living mostly in warm rivers, lakes, and wetlands.

Definition, metaphorical:

A crocodile is a hidden, ancient force beneath the surface of your awareness. The parts of the psyche responding to danger, instinct, and the unpredictable depths that rise when you wait anxiously, unsure whether the next movement will harm or transform you.

Moving forward feels like stepping into waters where you can’t see what might hurt you.

Or what might be eaten.

Or what wants to eat you.

And she does not feel like this.

So maybe we shouldn’t mind the crocodiles at all.

Who brought them in anyway.

I can think of other things I’m more afraid of than crocodiles;

but they are here now.

And I never really thought about them before.

This is becoming interesting.

Because they appeared as something my subconscious chose as a shape for fear.

Okay, what do we got.

Crocodile tears: how sincere is my sadness?

Snapping like a crocodile: yes, I’ve been hating that part of me lately.

Playing dead like a crocodile: disappearing into stillness when I feel overwhelmed, moi!

Sinking to the bottom: dropping out of connection the moment things get too real, tadaaaa.

Cold-blooded moments: shutting down instead of feeling. HELLO DON’T FORGET YOU HAVE A BODY !

E:

Yesterday, at high tide, there was a small dinghy that sat on the sand beyond the waterline. 

It became the shape of my love. 

(I have faith in what this moment offers. Exactly this one. Now. 

I have faith in each of us and the way our voices care for one another. I have faith in this practice and what it does, its importance and generosity. Whatever ends up here on the page is what needs to be seen.

And all those who have decided it is not sufficiently important or unwelcome - it is on them to find clarity for their own reasons to be here or not to be here. These reasons move. This clarity moves. Rises and falls. Like the tides.

I can see - if the others were not here - i would still be - doing exactly this. Because my faith does not require anything beyond it.)

We must all know the shape of our love.

And question, too, the perimeter of refusal (in its various shades). Our waterline. 

It does something funny to my bladder when I speak with so much certainty.

I climbed into the dinghy while I waited for the others who never came. 

I wrote letters to the sea on little bristol cards. 

And then let them leave me in the water with the lowering tide and the lowering sky and the lowering mind.

The dinghy had been painted over with many skins.

And had little rusted scars where bolts loosened. 

It was my whale for a time. It was my arc. 

I have little rusted scars where my bolts have loosened. It is my favorite color.

At Gosha’s dinner, we drew hues. I have been sitting with mine. And the color of the sky, and the color of the rust yesterday were exactly them. 

Hallelujah. 

Obligation is no reason for doing anything. It is either alive. Or it is not alive. And one can only ask what serves what longs to be served. I am weary of wasteful forms of self-service. How can I know when I am serving myself and when I am serving the whole and when those are different? How can I know when I am serving myself and when I am serving the sea and when those are different?

“Listen.

We must all stop dying in the little ways,

in the craters of hate,

in the potholes of indifference—

a murder in the temple.” 

- Anne Sexton, from The Awful Rowing Towards God

I need to know the shape of our temple.

That’s what this is for. 

Now. And the dinghy.

 R: The body of everything.

I can choose. How do I choose? It just feels cold and sad.

That is wonderful! Amazing!

I feel how it feels like, now.

Like a sort of big strange glass structure flying kite… with wind and space debris… and howls of uneventful … formless beings that mirror me one another …

all is tied with a thin thread by the ground…

just a second…. The storm, the rain the cold, the rust of the light, the iron taste of the ice, the abundant broken mirrors unseen…

all move in such a way, in this distorted glass greenhouse flying in the sky…

the thread pulls, pulls in such a way… that a spring of warm white plasma springs///

It is spring. The spring springs. It is so much spring that all the unobserved shards of scathing distortion turn into seeds of husky flowers.

I mean.

I mean it like that.

A spring of husky flowers.

I have decided.

From now on… every shard of cold, distorted, alienating, scathing, discouraged, broken, discarded, abandoned, monstrously alone…. Shall become a giant Husky flower… it has the trunk like a Platanus tree… do you know it?

Anyways… it is decided…  

D:

As she passed through the thermosphere, the light noticed an emptiness in the gloaming far below.

The tide is low. The water’s gone. The boats are beached outside.

This moment of emptiness haunted the light.

She was distracted by the lonely sight.

Reflecting on her own solitary existence, she began to veer off course and tumble through the mesosphere at an unusual cant, consumed by thoughts of doubt about her role in this world

“I feel a slippery slope…of wanting to give of my time and energy…but at what cost?”

She has pushed herself to be the purest white hot light (and that color temperature at the surface after moving through all off the atmosphere and bounding around all the mountains and off the water - to maintain that color through all of that is not an easy task - even if she makes it look easy) 

She has pushed herself  for every day for an eternity and without a rest. Without break.

By the stratosphere she noticed something that caught her attention…

ROUND 3

J:

What do I wish to ground?

What do I wish to let be?

I wish to have the strength to hold a space of presence, 

deep stillness, 

As deep as the space between bottom of the ocean and ripples on the surface,

All for my love

For you my love.

For the shape of my love. 

In this way I wish to hear her, see her, feel her, hold her and all the parts of her.. 

That she feels seen, heard, held and safe. 

Safe from crocodiles.

I wish to cultivate this without taking the weight into the dinghy

this creates more instability,

more fear, more confusion, more guilt, more miscommunication, je mal comris.

More inertia,

More motion sickness.

I wish for less of these experiences

I wish to anchor the light and joy in all my bodies 

Je suis la

I am here.

Still, i am here

I am here still

Still.

L :

I summon you to return to the depths.

Crocodiles. Crocodilo’s,

croccies, croccos.

The only crocs I’ve had in these past years were pink, and

against the opinion of many, I find them very comfortable and pretty;

I like the shape of crocs and how they fit.

It’s honest.

And that’s what this is about, isn’t it?

This is about honesty.

About how honest I am.

I am honest,

I tell you that with my hand on my heart.

But I am afraid of being it.

I do often hide at the bottom,

stay low,

sink into the dark water

because the suffering of having a voice,

and having beliefs,

and showing myself,

has always been dangerous.

The parts of the subconscious responding to danger hold me back.

It’s dark, really, to carry my name.

Lies. I’ve still not come to terms with it.

As if I’m destined not to be believed.

Well, I am not the plural of a lie.

I am just afraid of honesty’s consequences.

Honesty is letting yourself be seen,

and showing yourself can cause violence,

and rejection,

and neglect,

and suffering.

What does this all have to do with her?

She who puts me in a boat,

With my heart in the lap of the ferryman,

On the river of magic.

she is a name that planted itself in my head,

and that comes in name tags,

and as an Italian city where he studied,

and as a friend my godchild made on her holiday,

and as someone who wants to tell me something

about a child

and a man

I’ve never met before.

And maybe that is why

the river of magic is full of crocodiles.

Not to warn me about her,

but to show me what still lives in the depths of me

and what rises

the moment I try to follow something true.

E:

The roofs of these buildings are covered in slate. Rectangular. Perfectly rectangular slate. Laid like the scales of a reptile. The slate is harvested from the shoreline. It is the shoreline - in plates. And then squared. So that it may be laid. To keep us dry and warm in the rain of November. 

I can hold each of you like a candle flame under my hand, keeping me dry and warm in the rain of November. And with this, I can feel the shape of my love for each of you. And then I begin to cry - because I begin to know you. And I realize how lucky I am to be able to say that. To make each of you alive in me. And to see what each of you have opened in my heart (the organ of faith), in my spine (the organ of courage), in my hands (the organs of care). 

I am learning to accept the shedding of tears before you. 

I am willing to be the watering can for these seeds.

I have walked the road between two swamps in the everglades, with the eyes of countless alligators perched above the swampwater. And an occasional tail surfacing. 

I knew then what it was to be a person before all this. Before all these words and their record-keeping. 

And if ever you want a way to remember what’s important, we can simply say : face your imminent death. It’ll tell you. The grim reaper on the moorlands. It’ll tell you.

Maybe I am drinking in the color.

Maybe I am drunk with all the color. 

Because pain is a reminder of the fragile body, of the death watch, of the alligators and their cousin, crocodile.

The oldest parts of me are alive. 

The parts that know. 

I became an island this morning, floating off the coast in the drowning zone.

Praise the womb of night 

and the cesarean of dawn. 

These days are for knowing, finally, what words can do - and what they cannot. 

Maybe I can teach them a few tricks. 

Maybe I can find them a treat or two so that their hunger grows larger than their hesitation. 

Words are hunters. Words are famished. Words are fed up with distraction, 

and begging to be asked to do what no one has dared to. 

Like all of us.

R: 

Someone will ask me about what happened next with the pack of husky flowers…

First of all, my granddaughter, it is not called a pack. It is called a spring of husky flowers.

They grow from the discarded shards of most unbearable distortion. They grow everywhere.

It seems that one decided to reverse the logic of what is desirable.

I have a new map of everything.

The desireful is reversed.

My spring of husky flowers is hunting for the most uneventful. The dreadful. The robbed.

The map of my body of everything gets excited in the most unbearable places.

This is my function. This is my faith. This is how I love the logic of everything. It must be so fucking awesome that it wiggles its tale with the discovery of the most brain-dropping-in-the-mud-filled-with-glass-shards-monday-morning-at-la-source possible moments.

This is how I love the heart of everything. This heart will certainly not rest until all the children bodies paralyzed and rust-tree-grown through them will be fully heard, fully seen, fully embraced.

I made another map. I shall use this map for this week….

I shall decide that desire is reversed… the undesirable becomes the desired.

D:

While plunging chaotically through the stratosphere past a weather balloon, the light saw in the corner of her attention a sole figure far below in the waters of a freshwater stream.

A solitary crocodile lay in at the surface of the water, its back exposed to the cold dark above the waters surface. Peculiar the light thought. Something seems off.

The crocodile was …smiling… content.

But how could this be? The light was perplexed. This ectothermic reptile should be miserable.

“Hey!” shouted the light down to the crocodile. The light had only begun to approach the troposphere and was barely visible to the crocodile.

Nevertheless, the crocodile heard the distant voice and responded, “Hello?”

The light introduced herself and proceeded to inquire why she seemed to be happy there in the cold water in the cold and dark and shouldn't she feel miserable and alone?

The crocodile responded, that the light had no need to introduce herself, as she was quite known to her, and to answer her inquiry, the crocodile was not miserable in the cold and the dark, because she was expectantly faithfully waiting for the light. The light which warms her and her waters every morning and brings her joy and light.  She knew she would come, as she is, and that would be enough.