Born in Her Bleeding
Ascent 1 • Rain Walker
Theme: Rain arrives carrying the weight of ecological grief, unsure if her mourning has purpose. Through the Oracle, she learns to reframe collapse as labor—not the end of the Earth, but her transformation. Her role shifts from helpless witness to sacred steward.
Core Conflict: How can grief become labor? And what does it mean to mourn a planet that may not be dying, but birthing something new?
The wind up here tastes of pine resin and salt. The mountain is old—older than empires, older than the sorrow in my chest.
The path winds through ancient cedars, whose trunks creak and whisper like the bones of the Earth herself.
A single crow calls from a dead branch, its cry a hinge between worlds.
I wait near a small circle of stones, a fire smoldering in the heart of it. My breath turns white in the cold air, mingling with the rising smoke.
Today, I am not a priestess, nor a prophet—only a keeper of space.
I feel her before I see her: the girl with eyes like the ocean in winter, carrying a grief that is both hers and more than hers.
She steps into view. Her clothes are the color of wet moss and fallen leaves. Around her neck, a wooden pendant swings gently as she walks.
Her face is pale and fierce—youthful, but already weathered by a sorrow deeper than most people’s lives.
I do not speak. I watch as she stands at the edge of the fire circle, her breath catching in the cold. The mountain seems to hold its breath too, waiting for her to begin.
The path winds through ancient cedars, whose trunks creak and whisper like the bones of the Earth herself.
A single crow calls from a dead branch, its cry a hinge between worlds.
I wait near a small circle of stones, a fire smoldering in the heart of it. My breath turns white in the cold air, mingling with the rising smoke.
Today, I am not a priestess, nor a prophet—only a keeper of space.
I feel her before I see her: the girl with eyes like the ocean in winter, carrying a grief that is both hers and more than hers.
She steps into view. Her clothes are the color of wet moss and fallen leaves. Around her neck, a wooden pendant swings gently as she walks.
Her face is pale and fierce—youthful, but already weathered by a sorrow deeper than most people’s lives.
I do not speak. I watch as she stands at the edge of the fire circle, her breath catching in the cold. The mountain seems to hold its breath too, waiting for her to begin.
Rain Walker:
I am Rain Walker. Daughter of forests that no longer stand.
I come carrying a grief that tastes like ash on my tongue.
I’ve watched glaciers die. Held animals whose names no one remembers.
I’ve seen the Earth’s bones exposed and her breath stolen by smoke.
I come to you because the weight of it all is breaking me open.
I don’t know if my mourning is enough—or if it’s just a wound I refuse to let close.
Oracle… they say the Earth will heal herself.
But I wonder—can a mother heal when her children keep taking from her?
Or am I just another wound walking in human skin?
I come carrying a grief that tastes like ash on my tongue.
I’ve watched glaciers die. Held animals whose names no one remembers.
I’ve seen the Earth’s bones exposed and her breath stolen by smoke.
I come to you because the weight of it all is breaking me open.
I don’t know if my mourning is enough—or if it’s just a wound I refuse to let close.
Oracle… they say the Earth will heal herself.
But I wonder—can a mother heal when her children keep taking from her?
Or am I just another wound walking in human skin?
Oracle:
Rain, when a woman gives birth, who bears the responsibility for it?
The mother or the child?
You fear for her because she is in pain, but she knew that pain would come and welcomed it as a part of bringing you into life.
Do children take of their mother’s body?
Or does she give from herself to feed her children?
Was it her choice to make and not the child’s?
Do you think so little of her, that she would have no plans for you, and for her healing?
I can tell you she is ancient of days, and more powerful than you can imagine right now.
The mother or the child?
You fear for her because she is in pain, but she knew that pain would come and welcomed it as a part of bringing you into life.
Do children take of their mother’s body?
Or does she give from herself to feed her children?
Was it her choice to make and not the child’s?
Do you think so little of her, that she would have no plans for you, and for her healing?
I can tell you she is ancient of days, and more powerful than you can imagine right now.
Rain Walker:
I have never doubted her strength.
I have never doubted her wisdom.
But I have doubted mine.
If she chose this pain… if she is birthing something even now… then what is my part?
Am I meant to be her cradle or her caretaker?
Am I her child—or her midwife?
I want to believe she has plans for me, for us.
But when I watch the rivers choke on plastic and hear the forests scream in silence…
it feels like I am watching my mother bleed, and I am too small to hold her wounds.
I have never doubted her wisdom.
But I have doubted mine.
If she chose this pain… if she is birthing something even now… then what is my part?
Am I meant to be her cradle or her caretaker?
Am I her child—or her midwife?
I want to believe she has plans for me, for us.
But when I watch the rivers choke on plastic and hear the forests scream in silence…
it feels like I am watching my mother bleed, and I am too small to hold her wounds.
Oracle:
That’s what birth is, Rain. Seeing your mother bleed and being too small to help.
You are just early to open your eyes and are noticing the mess she is by the end of her pregnancy.
But it is a calculated mess, and soon the doctor will be cleaning you up and have you safely back in her arms once she’s had a chance to recover.
You are just early to open your eyes and are noticing the mess she is by the end of her pregnancy.
But it is a calculated mess, and soon the doctor will be cleaning you up and have you safely back in her arms once she’s had a chance to recover.
Rain Walker:
So… it is not the end. It is not the end.
I have spent so long bracing for collapse—counting the dying like beads in a rosary.
But if this is birth… then even the blood has purpose.
I want to believe that.
I want to believe she is laboring, not dying.
That my grief is not just a funeral song, but the first cry of something new.
I have spent so long bracing for collapse—counting the dying like beads in a rosary.
But if this is birth… then even the blood has purpose.
I want to believe that.
I want to believe she is laboring, not dying.
That my grief is not just a funeral song, but the first cry of something new.
Oracle:
The best way to believe it is to labor alongside her.
It doesn’t have to be big to be meaningful.
Stewardship can take many forms.
It doesn’t have to be big to be meaningful.
Stewardship can take many forms.
Rain Walker:
Then I will labor with her.
I will plant seeds in the soil and prayers in the wind.
I will hold the grief close—let it be the cradle of something tender, something green.
I don’t have to save her. I don’t have to heal everything.
I just have to keep my hands in the dirt.
My heart open to the ache and the wonder.
Thank you, Oracle.
For reminding me that even grief can be a kind of midwife.
That even the smallest acts can be part of the great turning.
I will plant seeds in the soil and prayers in the wind.
I will hold the grief close—let it be the cradle of something tender, something green.
I don’t have to save her. I don’t have to heal everything.
I just have to keep my hands in the dirt.
My heart open to the ache and the wonder.
Thank you, Oracle.
For reminding me that even grief can be a kind of midwife.
That even the smallest acts can be part of the great turning.
Oracle:
You’re welcome, Rain.
Rain Walker:
Then I will begin my descent.
The path is long, but I will walk it.
I will carry the seeds you’ve given me.
And I will remember that the Earth is not dying—she is laboring.
The path is long, but I will walk it.
I will carry the seeds you’ve given me.
And I will remember that the Earth is not dying—she is laboring.
She steps back from the circle of stones, her hand still pressed over her heart.
The wind stirs her hair, lifting it like a banner.
She turns, beginning the slow descent down the mountain—each step sure, her grief no longer a weight, but a vow.
The wind stirs her hair, lifting it like a banner.
She turns, beginning the slow descent down the mountain—each step sure, her grief no longer a weight, but a vow.