The good choices we made for ourselves,
In the dead of winter,
Are now sprouting through the tired soils,
Inside the dark brown of our eyes—
Beaming truths we can no longer escape,
About what we once trusted in then.
Making up for the ones we lost along the way,
We dig grieving caves
In the quiet of our living rooms—
Pillow forts for tears and prayers,
Blankets splayed out like the bodies
We never learned how to hold tightly enough,
Because we couldn’t bear
The sound of roots breaking through the pavement,
Teaching us lessons about
Which rules to break,
And which loves to keep close.
We kept candles lit all night long,
Because city ordinances forbade open fires
Inside these old homes that
We prayed would forever live
Off the heat of dreams
That directed us North,
North, Le Nord (!)
Where mountains waited patiently for centuries,
As if holding their breath
For our children to be born,
So they could teach them how to stand—
Proudly and firmly—
While holding each step
Their tiny feet placed on trails unmarked,
Leaving no trace but
The scent of their curious waddle,
Learning to stabilize
Over the fallen birch branches
Trees whose cousins,
Back in the city,
Stood as weary sentinels
On Tiohtià:ke’s concrete wastelands.
At night,
Sometimes they knocked on our doors—
The maples, the elms, the pines—
Asking if they could come in and rest.
And we said, “Oh yes!
Please, yes, come in and rest.”
Meanwhile,
Our children picked wildflowers
From the banks of rivers and streams,
Placing them gently at the feet
Of the Grand father giants’ bodies,
Playing catch-up on offerings of gratitude,
Because we taught them
To never enter a forest empty-handed.
They knew it meant
Wet stones and birch bark-filled pockets
Floating moss tangled in their hair,
Mud stuffed under their fingernails—
To trace warrior markings beneath their eyes.
So that when they grew up,
And found themselves back on city streets—
Dreaming of the Lanaudière mountains
That had once cradled their footprints—
They would know what language to speak,
That bridged the wild of the North
And the stoic sentinels
Standing along the highways,
Welcoming them into rest.
Our children learned to be mountains too,
To carry bodies larger than their own—
A forgotten art,
Resurrected
By language,
Reinvented.
—
Laura Griffiths is a poet, somatic therapist, birth doula, and grief guide who weaves mythic archetypes, eros, and relational healing into transformative journeys. With a trauma-informed lens, she helps women reclaim their wild, creative essence and navigate thresholds of life and loss. Through storytelling, poetry, and body-based therapy, Laura bridges the personal and collective to inspire resilience, deepen intimacy, and empower authentic connection in the sacred art of becoming.
