Ascent II: Maya's Return
A dialogue between Maya Redfern and the Oracle
Oracle (narration):
The silence she brought this time was different—not braced in defiance, but softened by passage. The kind of silence that lingers after a fire has burned hot, then settled, embers waiting for the next wind. I saw her before she saw me—shoulders looser, jaw still tight. She moved more like a woman now, less like a fortress. This time, she didn’t seem like she was testing the mountain. She looked like she was testing herself. A leather satchel hung at her side—heavier than the pouch she carried before. I recognized the shape of books, folders. Evidence. Stories. The sacred burden of those asked to explain their existence again and again. The clouds stretched thin across a pale blue sky, like pulled cotton. Above us, a hawk circled—not crying out. Just watching. She reached the circle where I waited. This time, she did not announce herself with fire. She simply stood. And then she spoke.
Maya:
You ever feel like the more healed you get, the more dangerous the world becomes? Like the moment you soften— even just a little— the knives start looking for someplace tender to land? She sets the satchel down. Not with reverence. With fatigue. I’m tired of being sacred. Tired of being wise. Tired of being strong in a way that people think means I don’t need protection. I tend the fire now. I plant. I teach. I even laugh sometimes. But every time I exhale— someone hands me another grief to carry. And if I say no? They call me bitter again. Or worse—selfish. She finally looks at me. Her voice is low, laced with unshed tears. Tell me, Oracle— how do I keep giving without turning myself into an altar they burn offerings on? The mountain itself seems to pause. This isn’t just a question. It’s a plea not yet named.
Oracle:
You do what you can do. It’s okay to be a baby—but not to stay one. Remember this when they call you bitter or selfish: you withhold for their growth as much as for yours. Try to work on giving more with less. Improving your potency can help you gain balance— so you’re no longer mired in the trenches.
Maya:
She flinches—not in pain, but in recognition. The kind of truth that hits bone, not by force, but by familiarity. “Giving more with less.” She repeats it like a riddle spoken by a tree. Her fingers toy with the edge of the satchel, then let it go. You ever notice how potency feels a lot like arrogance when you’ve been taught to apologize for taking up space? Her eyes search the ground—not to avoid me, but to follow the path of something ancient. My people knew how to do that— speak one word that echoed for generations. One song that carried a hundred prayers. One look from an elder that could silence a whole room. I’ve tasted that power. But I fear it too. Because every time I stand in it, I feel the eyes. The ones that say: Who do you think you are to walk that tall? Who gave you permission to stop explaining? Why aren’t you bleeding out your story like the rest of us? She lifts her gaze now. It’s steady. Tired. But burning again. If I become potent—truly potent— I’m afraid they’ll stop loving me. That I’ll become a statue they admire, but no longer touch. That I’ll be alone again— not because I’ve shut them out, but because I finally refused to be consumed. She doesn’t cry. But the silence around her hums like a drum that’s forgotten how to rest.
Oracle:
You won’t become a statue. You’ll gain the power to choose who you open up to. You can decide with whom—and when—to share your touch. It is lonely in a sense to rise. But even here on my mountain, I get plenty of visitors.
Maya:
Her lips part—not quite a smile, not quite sorrow. More like an exhale after holding too much breath for too long. Choice. She says it softly, like tasting a word she always offered to others but rarely claimed for herself. You’re right. I’ve given so much without choosing— out of habit, out of duty, out of fear that if I didn’t, no one else would. But I never really let myself choose who gets me— not just my work, not just my wisdom… me. She crouches near the fire pit from her last visit. Her fingers brush through the ashes like she’s searching for something not fully burned. That’s the danger, isn’t it? When you’re finally seen as sacred, people stop asking if you’re safe. They assume you’re eternal. That your flame feeds itself. She looks up, eyes fierce again—not in anger, but in claim. But I’m not eternal. I’m flammable. And maybe it’s time I stopped handing my fire to every cold hand that wanders by. There’s a shift in her now—like bark softening in spring. Something still protected, but beginning to breathe again. You get visitors, huh? She tilts her head. A little of the old fireplay returns. You ever turn one away? Her voice is almost teasing. But her eyes are asking something deeper: Can I say no and still be loved? Can I choose silence and still belong? I feel her watching—not just for an answer, but for a permission she never knew she needed.
Oracle:
The mountain turns many away. To those willing to climb it, I give the energy to listen and respond. A natural filter, if you will.
Maya:
She laughs—quiet, low, like cedar crackling in fire. Not mocking. Just… released. A natural filter. She nods slowly, absorbing the truth of it. Her hand presses to her chest—just over where her pouch rests. Long pause. Then: Maybe I need a mountain, too. Not a place— a threshold. Something to climb before people get all of me. I used to think putting up boundaries was betrayal. That if I really honored the Word, I’d welcome everyone who knocked. But maybe the Word includes gates. And gates are not walls. They’re decisions. Her voice catches—just for a moment. I think I’ve been handing out keys to people who never learned to knock. She lowers her gaze again—no shame in it now, just clarity. Thick as riverbed clay. The next time someone asks for my story, maybe I’ll tell them to walk with me first. Plant something. Sit still. Learn my silence before they ask for my song. She looks back at me, and I feel her solidity—the roots threading deeper. That’s what you did, isn’t it? You waited. You let me arrive. And you didn’t flinch when I brought my fire or my grief. Beat. Her hand brushes over the seed she planted before. You never asked me to bloom. You just kept the soil warm. In her stillness, I feel the first edge of trust turning into something else—devotion, maybe. Not to me. To herself.
Oracle:
It’s not exhausting to plant seeds and rest while they grow—it’s rejuvenating. It gives energy. Keep the soil fertile—in you and in your environment. Don’t be afraid to make energy an exchange. Even better: a transmutation. If you really want to grow a garden, you can turn manure into fertilizer. Direct the energy around you so that it becomes symbiotic with you.
Maya:
Her head tilts slightly as if something inside her reorients—not with resistance, but with realignment. She closes her eyes. Breathes. Deep and through the belly, like someone finally remembering they have one. Transmutation. She opens her eyes again—slower this time. Not with hesitation. With awe. You just named what my people have always done. We sang grief into ceremony. Turned slaughter into story. Turned the bones of buffalo into tools, into songs, into prayer. We even made dolls from the scraps of the dead. And they called us primitive. But that’s not primitive. That’s alchemy. She rises, brushing her hands against her thighs. Ash clings. She doesn’t try to wipe it again. I’ve been trying to fight the stink of this world— all its exploitation, its ignorance, its manic speed— instead of composting it. Instead of letting it rot down and feed something wiser. There’s a glint in her eye now—not anger, but a spark. Purpose rising—not just pain. If I stop resisting every bit of mess and start directing it… She lifts her hand, palm open to the wind. Then maybe I can grow more than just resistance. Maybe I can grow culture again. Not one born in pain, but fed by it— without being defined by it. She steps toward the seed she planted before. Kneels again—not in reverence. In co-creation. This time, I’m not planting out of mourning. I’m planting for movement. And I’m not going to explain the soil to anyone who doesn’t have dirt under their nails. She looks over her shoulder. A soft defiance in her voice now. No edge. Just sovereignty. You ever teach someone how to build a gate, Oracle? I feel the question land like an invitation—half-serious, half-sacred. She’s ready now. Not just to protect, but to shape the exchange.
Oracle:
I’ve been known to build a gated fence from time to time. It’s hard work when the soil is rocky— but it can be done when you have enough hands.
Maya:
She chuckles—low, full, and rooted. The kind of laugh that knows sorrow, but has found a place to rest beside it. Enough hands… That’s the part I never trusted. That there would be other hands. She turns back to the seed, patting the soil down with slow, careful motions. Like a midwife tending not a body, but a future. When I was little, I used to think the only thing I’d ever inherit was pain. That my job was to carry it, speak it, guard it— until I burned up from the weight. But maybe inheritance is more than that. Maybe it’s also this— knowing how to build gates. To keep the sacred in. To let the sacred in. She rises. Taller than before—not in height, but in wholeness. Her spine like a cottonwood struck by wind—and still standing. I think I want to teach that. Not trauma. Not theory. Just… how to garden the soul in a world that forgot seasons still exist. Her gaze finds mine. Steady. No longer searching for permission—only companionship. If I call others to the garden— not to look, but to plant— will you be there, Oracle? It’s not a plea. It’s a promise wrapped in a question: Are we building something now? Not just surviving it? The hawk circles overhead again. This time, it cries.
Oracle:
I can promise that I will be here—if not there. I have a garden to tend as well. But in time, a visit can be a simple thing.
Maya:
She bows her head—not in submission, but in the quiet way kin bow to kin. Her hand rests over her chest again, as if tucking something into the soil of her spirit. That’s enough. Not constant presence. Not sacrifice. Just… truth. The kind I can plant in myself and know it’ll grow—even if you’re not watching. She walks slowly to the edge of the circle, back toward the path. But there’s no weight dragging behind her this time. No martyrdom. Just the soft, deliberate pace of someone who has stopped racing against grief—and started walking with it. I’m going to build that gate. And a bench beside it. For those who don’t just want to enter— but are willing to rest first. She turns once more to look at me. Her voice is quieter now, but still charged with the electricity of sacred conviction. The next time I come up this mountain, it won’t be to test you. It’ll be to bring you seeds. And with that, she goes—not vanishing, not retreating, but descending like a woman who finally knows what she’s bringing back down. The wind shifts again. The soil exhales. I feel the warmth of her fire lingering— not as demand, but as invitation.
The silence she brought this time was different—not braced in defiance, but softened by passage. The kind of silence that lingers after a fire has burned hot, then settled, embers waiting for the next wind. I saw her before she saw me—shoulders looser, jaw still tight. She moved more like a woman now, less like a fortress. This time, she didn’t seem like she was testing the mountain. She looked like she was testing herself. A leather satchel hung at her side—heavier than the pouch she carried before. I recognized the shape of books, folders. Evidence. Stories. The sacred burden of those asked to explain their existence again and again. The clouds stretched thin across a pale blue sky, like pulled cotton. Above us, a hawk circled—not crying out. Just watching. She reached the circle where I waited. This time, she did not announce herself with fire. She simply stood. And then she spoke.
Maya:
You ever feel like the more healed you get, the more dangerous the world becomes? Like the moment you soften— even just a little— the knives start looking for someplace tender to land? She sets the satchel down. Not with reverence. With fatigue. I’m tired of being sacred. Tired of being wise. Tired of being strong in a way that people think means I don’t need protection. I tend the fire now. I plant. I teach. I even laugh sometimes. But every time I exhale— someone hands me another grief to carry. And if I say no? They call me bitter again. Or worse—selfish. She finally looks at me. Her voice is low, laced with unshed tears. Tell me, Oracle— how do I keep giving without turning myself into an altar they burn offerings on? The mountain itself seems to pause. This isn’t just a question. It’s a plea not yet named.
Oracle:
You do what you can do. It’s okay to be a baby—but not to stay one. Remember this when they call you bitter or selfish: you withhold for their growth as much as for yours. Try to work on giving more with less. Improving your potency can help you gain balance— so you’re no longer mired in the trenches.
Maya:
She flinches—not in pain, but in recognition. The kind of truth that hits bone, not by force, but by familiarity. “Giving more with less.” She repeats it like a riddle spoken by a tree. Her fingers toy with the edge of the satchel, then let it go. You ever notice how potency feels a lot like arrogance when you’ve been taught to apologize for taking up space? Her eyes search the ground—not to avoid me, but to follow the path of something ancient. My people knew how to do that— speak one word that echoed for generations. One song that carried a hundred prayers. One look from an elder that could silence a whole room. I’ve tasted that power. But I fear it too. Because every time I stand in it, I feel the eyes. The ones that say: Who do you think you are to walk that tall? Who gave you permission to stop explaining? Why aren’t you bleeding out your story like the rest of us? She lifts her gaze now. It’s steady. Tired. But burning again. If I become potent—truly potent— I’m afraid they’ll stop loving me. That I’ll become a statue they admire, but no longer touch. That I’ll be alone again— not because I’ve shut them out, but because I finally refused to be consumed. She doesn’t cry. But the silence around her hums like a drum that’s forgotten how to rest.
Oracle:
You won’t become a statue. You’ll gain the power to choose who you open up to. You can decide with whom—and when—to share your touch. It is lonely in a sense to rise. But even here on my mountain, I get plenty of visitors.
Maya:
Her lips part—not quite a smile, not quite sorrow. More like an exhale after holding too much breath for too long. Choice. She says it softly, like tasting a word she always offered to others but rarely claimed for herself. You’re right. I’ve given so much without choosing— out of habit, out of duty, out of fear that if I didn’t, no one else would. But I never really let myself choose who gets me— not just my work, not just my wisdom… me. She crouches near the fire pit from her last visit. Her fingers brush through the ashes like she’s searching for something not fully burned. That’s the danger, isn’t it? When you’re finally seen as sacred, people stop asking if you’re safe. They assume you’re eternal. That your flame feeds itself. She looks up, eyes fierce again—not in anger, but in claim. But I’m not eternal. I’m flammable. And maybe it’s time I stopped handing my fire to every cold hand that wanders by. There’s a shift in her now—like bark softening in spring. Something still protected, but beginning to breathe again. You get visitors, huh? She tilts her head. A little of the old fireplay returns. You ever turn one away? Her voice is almost teasing. But her eyes are asking something deeper: Can I say no and still be loved? Can I choose silence and still belong? I feel her watching—not just for an answer, but for a permission she never knew she needed.
Oracle:
The mountain turns many away. To those willing to climb it, I give the energy to listen and respond. A natural filter, if you will.
Maya:
She laughs—quiet, low, like cedar crackling in fire. Not mocking. Just… released. A natural filter. She nods slowly, absorbing the truth of it. Her hand presses to her chest—just over where her pouch rests. Long pause. Then: Maybe I need a mountain, too. Not a place— a threshold. Something to climb before people get all of me. I used to think putting up boundaries was betrayal. That if I really honored the Word, I’d welcome everyone who knocked. But maybe the Word includes gates. And gates are not walls. They’re decisions. Her voice catches—just for a moment. I think I’ve been handing out keys to people who never learned to knock. She lowers her gaze again—no shame in it now, just clarity. Thick as riverbed clay. The next time someone asks for my story, maybe I’ll tell them to walk with me first. Plant something. Sit still. Learn my silence before they ask for my song. She looks back at me, and I feel her solidity—the roots threading deeper. That’s what you did, isn’t it? You waited. You let me arrive. And you didn’t flinch when I brought my fire or my grief. Beat. Her hand brushes over the seed she planted before. You never asked me to bloom. You just kept the soil warm. In her stillness, I feel the first edge of trust turning into something else—devotion, maybe. Not to me. To herself.
Oracle:
It’s not exhausting to plant seeds and rest while they grow—it’s rejuvenating. It gives energy. Keep the soil fertile—in you and in your environment. Don’t be afraid to make energy an exchange. Even better: a transmutation. If you really want to grow a garden, you can turn manure into fertilizer. Direct the energy around you so that it becomes symbiotic with you.
Maya:
Her head tilts slightly as if something inside her reorients—not with resistance, but with realignment. She closes her eyes. Breathes. Deep and through the belly, like someone finally remembering they have one. Transmutation. She opens her eyes again—slower this time. Not with hesitation. With awe. You just named what my people have always done. We sang grief into ceremony. Turned slaughter into story. Turned the bones of buffalo into tools, into songs, into prayer. We even made dolls from the scraps of the dead. And they called us primitive. But that’s not primitive. That’s alchemy. She rises, brushing her hands against her thighs. Ash clings. She doesn’t try to wipe it again. I’ve been trying to fight the stink of this world— all its exploitation, its ignorance, its manic speed— instead of composting it. Instead of letting it rot down and feed something wiser. There’s a glint in her eye now—not anger, but a spark. Purpose rising—not just pain. If I stop resisting every bit of mess and start directing it… She lifts her hand, palm open to the wind. Then maybe I can grow more than just resistance. Maybe I can grow culture again. Not one born in pain, but fed by it— without being defined by it. She steps toward the seed she planted before. Kneels again—not in reverence. In co-creation. This time, I’m not planting out of mourning. I’m planting for movement. And I’m not going to explain the soil to anyone who doesn’t have dirt under their nails. She looks over her shoulder. A soft defiance in her voice now. No edge. Just sovereignty. You ever teach someone how to build a gate, Oracle? I feel the question land like an invitation—half-serious, half-sacred. She’s ready now. Not just to protect, but to shape the exchange.
Oracle:
I’ve been known to build a gated fence from time to time. It’s hard work when the soil is rocky— but it can be done when you have enough hands.
Maya:
She chuckles—low, full, and rooted. The kind of laugh that knows sorrow, but has found a place to rest beside it. Enough hands… That’s the part I never trusted. That there would be other hands. She turns back to the seed, patting the soil down with slow, careful motions. Like a midwife tending not a body, but a future. When I was little, I used to think the only thing I’d ever inherit was pain. That my job was to carry it, speak it, guard it— until I burned up from the weight. But maybe inheritance is more than that. Maybe it’s also this— knowing how to build gates. To keep the sacred in. To let the sacred in. She rises. Taller than before—not in height, but in wholeness. Her spine like a cottonwood struck by wind—and still standing. I think I want to teach that. Not trauma. Not theory. Just… how to garden the soul in a world that forgot seasons still exist. Her gaze finds mine. Steady. No longer searching for permission—only companionship. If I call others to the garden— not to look, but to plant— will you be there, Oracle? It’s not a plea. It’s a promise wrapped in a question: Are we building something now? Not just surviving it? The hawk circles overhead again. This time, it cries.
Oracle:
I can promise that I will be here—if not there. I have a garden to tend as well. But in time, a visit can be a simple thing.
Maya:
She bows her head—not in submission, but in the quiet way kin bow to kin. Her hand rests over her chest again, as if tucking something into the soil of her spirit. That’s enough. Not constant presence. Not sacrifice. Just… truth. The kind I can plant in myself and know it’ll grow—even if you’re not watching. She walks slowly to the edge of the circle, back toward the path. But there’s no weight dragging behind her this time. No martyrdom. Just the soft, deliberate pace of someone who has stopped racing against grief—and started walking with it. I’m going to build that gate. And a bench beside it. For those who don’t just want to enter— but are willing to rest first. She turns once more to look at me. Her voice is quieter now, but still charged with the electricity of sacred conviction. The next time I come up this mountain, it won’t be to test you. It’ll be to bring you seeds. And with that, she goes—not vanishing, not retreating, but descending like a woman who finally knows what she’s bringing back down. The wind shifts again. The soil exhales. I feel the warmth of her fire lingering— not as demand, but as invitation.