Soft Fervor

A Lyrical Healing Piece ~

This is a story drawn from my own life. It traces a thread in my spiritual journey of empowerment, of vulnerability, spirit, and soft strength, moving from the liminal space of healing after acute leukemia toward the threshold of rejoining the world.

Told in the third person, I offer it as a companion for those walking their own tender crossings in life, where newness, whether in form or energy, seeks emergence.

~

How was it even possible that she was writing these lines?

It still felt so close. The horror of it.

The devastation.

The sickening smells.

The sore skin.

Hair falling.

Nails loosening.

Eyelashes in the sink.

Who had that person in the mirror been?

The wounds were still raw. And yet, not. It had been three years since she emerged from the chemos. Holy poison, she had called them. They had saved her life. But they had broken her. Utterly crushed her. Shattered her structure into pieces.

It had taken such a long, painful, arduous time to gather those pieces, to glue them back together.

But she had.

She had become a walking piece of kintsugi pottery.

Some of her lived in the sky. Some of her was rooted in the earth. Some pieces were lost for good. She had, and continued to, replace them with something new. A new her, dreamed back into being.

But wait. Was she pottery? Broken shards? Or was she clay, still moldable, still warm? Could she shape herself anew?

The holy poison had burned like fire. It had consumed her from within. For months, her body had been a battlefield. She had melted from the inside out. Then her structure had imploded.

So perhaps she was a bird, then. A phoenix? Rising from the ashes of her former self.

Or maybe a flower. Her name was Buttercup — Sacred Buttercup, no less.

It might have sounded overly sweet, like something out of a fairytale — whimsical, almost too delicate to take seriously.

But when she thought about it, there was grit beneath the petals.

It held toughness. Resilience.

Every spring, those yellow blossoms returned with soft fervor —

shining little suns, brightening meadows,

golden dots against summer’s green.

Reminding the world of life’s sweetness

after the harshness of winter.

They sprang back even after being stepped on, as if their softness could endure what force could not. Both subtle and strong.

As she explored her name with her inner senses, a vision came to her. It was of a friendly cow, grazing in a sunlit field, chewing slowly, peacefully. She had big, beautiful eyes, “like mirrors of serenity”, she thought to herself. In the depths of those gentle eyes, she saw the reflection of a little girl with a halo of buttercups crowning her head, barefoot in the grass, smiling with life.

Was it her?

With her arms outstretched, the little one offered a bouquet of juicy grass and colorful wildflowers to her animal companion. There was joy in her. And kinship between them. They were happy together.

As the vision began to dissolve and her conscious awareness grew more alert, she instinctively knew: that little girl was her, her innocent self, the part of her now ready to begin life anew. To start over. It was she who had been seen so deeply by the cow. Her soul. Her essence.

That wise, reflective gentleness, that warmth and acceptance, felt like true grace.

To be acknowledged by an animal, whether in vision or waking life, had always felt like a sacred gift to her — a deeply precious blessing.

✫ ✫ ✫

In the first fragile weeks at home, after she had finished all her ferocious infusions, she would often sit on her east-facing balcony — an acute leukemia survivor, savoring her freedom.

One spring morning, bathing in the rising equinox sun, she had watched as it began to snow a little. And the snowflakes had glistened like diamonds in the sunlight. And a flock of birds had flown toward her, straight from the heart of our Beloved, our brightest star, the sun.

The birds had moved toward her like divine rays of light.

The scene, awash in beauty. The experience — purely numinous.

She had felt like a seedling. A new being. Being shone on. Nurtured by light and warmth. Fed, and watered. And sung to, by the soulbirds that had landed on her rooftop, just above her head, and had started chirping, softly.

The newness and the sparkling magic in the air, had reminded her of a few words she had written a decade earlier, in a piece she had aptly named Soulflower, about our awakening to Soul consciousness:

“As the pure authenticity of our soul melts our rigid personification manifested through conditioning, I salute our innocence, our bravery to journey, as the seed, vulnerable without our shell, not knowing, yet yearning for Life. Yearning to break through, to be unsheathed. How can we grow without being exposed?”

That closing question had lingered within her for a while, pregnant with meaning:

How can we grow without being exposed?

Realizing that she was fully embodying those words, right then and there on her balcony, had made her cry — wet, salty, human tears. Not of grief, but of wonder, beauty, and awe.

For the first time since the harshness of her treatments, she had dared to unveil her vulnerable face to the sun. The equinox glow had been so soft and gentle, it had helped her surrender to the sacredness of the moment. No wonder she had been moved to tears by its embracing beauty.

The feeling of freedom had washed over her.

She had become one with her feathered friends.

She had merged with their freedom and strength.

They had reminded her that she had survived. She was still alive!

Yes, she had been utterly exhausted — had felt like a weakling to her bones. She had barely begun breathing after all those months of ruthless exposure to cancer-killing drugs. She had felt delicate, a mere sliver of a thing. Emotionally depleted. Almost not there. Somehow see-through in body.

But she had sensed her Soul. Oh yes! Her Soul had radiated. Through her ordeal and suffering, she had grown and matured in spirit — to meet theirs. The resilient Spirit of her Soulbirds.

“How can we grow without being exposed? All life must bare itself to bloom,” she had wondered, the singing of the birds above her reaching her core. “There seems to be no other way than to be exposed to the elements — for growth. It is the sacred way of Nature. And therefore, of us, as we are one with Her.”

✫ ✫ ✫

Now, three years later, those words were calling her back. After so long in the liminal — healing, recovering, rehabilitating — it was time. Time to be brave again. To bare her skin again.

How could she grow otherwise?

Yes, she still felt pain. Her body ached almost every day. Miscellaneous physical weirdness came and went, and she was constantly tired — late and long-term side effects, apparently. But Life was calling her, beckoning her toward the surface once more. Pain or no pain, it didn’t matter. It was time to continue onward on her journey. Turn the page. Cross the threshold.

No rush — just slow, steady steps toward what was hers to live, in full cooperation and harmony with the living intelligence of her well-being, letting her body’s and psyche’s day-to-day capacity lead — not external demands.

✫ ✫ ✫

To fear for one’s life, day after day for months, changes a person.

One’s inner landscape reforms itself — drastically.

And now, she was one of those people who knew what that felt like.

After living through acute leukemia, there were so many things she no longer worried about. She didn’t sweat the small stuff, as they say. How she looked. Who liked her, who didn’t? “Who cares?” she thought.

She was immune to people’s opinions and judgments. She was who she was. And she would never give her personal power away again, as she had before her illness — not to anyone or anything. Her vitality, her energy, was her most precious treasure now. A resource to be fiercely protected.

It had become essential to live in a way that nurtured her. To truly live her life. To love deeply. To protect what sustained her. To release what drained her.

She had made a vow during her treatments: that if she survived, she would do everything in her power to support Life. To serve the Light, and the wisdom of the Dark.

If she could help in any way, if she could share her joie de vivre, her story, her spark, it would be to remind others how stunningly beautiful life is. And how deeply worth it living truly is. While we still can.

She wanted to remind people of life’s generosity. Its wild abundance. The nourishment and the rewards of tending to both our inner and outer gardens. And how vital it is, for our health, our heart, and our soul, to let go. To let life move through its own cycles. To honor its natural rhythms. To trust in ebb and flow.

She wanted to remind people to greet each day with presence, and to live the fullness of life. To celebrate existence, celebrate life, in joy and in sorrow.

“When our celebration is sincere,” she mused, her eyes resting on the greening trees outside her window, “its harvest is a deep and delicious peace of heart.”

Those words settled deep in her bones — an inner truth she longed to share. She only hoped she had the courage to do so.

✫ ✫ ✫

She now stood at the edge of a new life.

After what had felt like endless months of rehabilitation, dwelling in the quiet safety of the liminal, healing in the hidden spaces of the in-between, she knew it was time to summon her lion-heartedness, awaken the radiance of her inner sun, and return to the world as all that she had become. A Soulflower, radiating with soft fervor.

She was fully aware that to move forward, she would need valor. She would need to trust the endurance grown in the dark soil of becoming, and greet the unknown with the strength of her essence.

With her eyes closed, pen poised over her journal, she asked herself with fierce sincerity:

“How can I, a survivor, best serve Life today?”

And the answer came, luminous and clear:

“By telling the truth. The whole truth, and nothing but the truth.”

A shiver went up her spine.

“But my truth hurts.

Right now — I’m scared.

I’m no lion.

I’m a cub.”

Yes, scared of the outside world. She admitted it.

How could she be of service, trembling like a leaf?

And yet — she was deeply willing to honor her vow.

To lend her voice to Life’s sacredness, as she had promised she would — if she made it through.

Her heart was on fire. Devotion lived deep in her soul.

Life, in essence, was glorious,

and she wanted to roar that truth from the highest mountaintop.

But taking that first step,

crossing the threshold of that quiet, solitary world her healing had required,

was excruciatingly hard.

She knew she must.

Still, she was terrified.

And now, as she wrote, the truth wanted out.

Why was she scared?

Because she was a gentle soul. A gentle woman. Sensitive. A lover of beauty, of harmony.

Yet with immense inner strength.

So why then was she so afraid to reenter the world after her illness?

As she searched inwardly for the truth, it came as a feeling — a dizzy, almost seasick awareness of how violently her deep sensitivity clashed with the world’s rudeness and brutality — its unyielding roughness, its increasing desensitization.

Yes.

That was the truth.

It was the harshness. The sharp edges. The collective craziness. The overwhelming stimulus of today’s society.

The constant noise. Not people’s opinions or judgments. Those didn’t scare her anymore.

But the crudeness. The cruelty.

To become visible again — to be exposed to a world that could be so ungentle.

To open herself to places and people that no longer knew how to be tender.

That frightened her.

The possible provocations.

She longed for candlelight and kindness. For circles and coziness.

As a sensitive, she feared not being able to breathe in this fast-paced, AI-powered modern world. Where was the romance? The sweetness? The beauty in people’s hearts?

Where was our wild wisdom? Our authentic intelligence?

Our tolerance and curiosity? Inspired creativity? Our collective harmony?

She feared illness might return — from all the wars. The coldness. The conflict.

The wars between countries. The wars between leaders. The wars between people from all walks of life.

She feared illness might return — from wars between friends. Wars within families.

War was raging in the Heart of Man. In the hearts of Earth’s peoples.

Individuals were at war within themselves.

Everyday internal battles.

How could anyone survive that? What was the solution?

There had to be resolution.

Harmony through conflict — was that even possible?

What was a soul to do?

How could anyone be brave enough in today’s chaotic world,

for the sake of the whole? Brave enough to listen and trust in one’s own heart-song?

And brave enough to listen to other people, be there for them, but to let them be. Trust in other people’s evolving sense of fairness, and of self-compassion? Trust in the ever-evolving design of the Divine. Trust Life?

With her inner vision, she conjured up the image of her friendly cow companion once more, and allowed herself to gaze deeply into those serene, beautiful eyes. It was calming. They were as deep and wise as the whole of the cosmos.

And then, slowly, like the warm aroma of her mother’s baking filling her childhood home, a gorgeous realization enveloped her: The cow was a sacred guide. A guardian.

A mother spirit, come to support her. The sacred feminine, gently guiding and helping her, equipped with deep-rooted sturdiness and a wealth of tenderness.

The cow was the spirit of Nature herself, entwined with her own sacred nature, now renewed, yet still healing into wholeness through the spiral of life. The spiral of becoming.

The spiral of selfhood into Oneness.

She slipped into a deep, soul-embracing meditative state. Her breathing slowed and deepened.

She could feel her beloved cow beside her, radiating warmth, chewing calmy. By instinct, she reached tenderly for the cow’s soft ears. She leaned closer, felt the steady heartbeat, and stroked the smooth coat — coarse and soft all at once. Her hand followed the sturdy line of the cow’s spine. The warm, earthy sweetness of the outdoors, mingled with her cow’s soft musk, comforted her to the core.

With her ancient friend so near, she felt deeply held by the sacred rhythm of her becoming, hand in hand with Nature and Life itself. She was at one with her graceful guardian: child, girl, woman, and sage, seamlessly united.

In that stillness and trust, her fears of facing the frenzied world softened.

They hadn’t disappeared — but their grip was loosening.

She felt a readiness to surrender — slowly and honestly.

There was potent power in gentleness.

Just as the seed releases its shell in divine timing,

the sprout its soil,

the bloom its bud —

so, too, was she ready to let go.

To follow Nature’s rhythm,

and keep evolving —

despite the fear.

Despite her pain.

She realized her fear had served her all along — a protective shell against a world that often felt jagged and harsh. But beneath the shields, hers and the world’s, was beauty.

She knew it now.

The rage, the hatred, the fear in the Heart of Man — they were shields too.

Defenses against old unhealed wounds, against the unfamiliar, against threats to one’s deepest values and visions of Truth.

She could no longer hide behind her shield.

She had to make her softness her strength.

And her awareness — her superpower.

“The world needs gentle, intuitive souls… doesn’t it?” she whispered.

She could no longer bear to remain tight in a bud — it was suffocating her. She needed to breathe. To burst open, and blaze gently, with her flower sisters.

The sweet surrender, the unfolding of her inner light, was all she had left to give.

“Remember Buttercup,” she said, her voice steadier now.

“You can’t grow without being exposed.”

The inner realization bloomed fully then — a revelation that, over time, would allow her to grow into a flourishing creative relationship with the outer world.

She felt herself drift deeper into a numinous flow, her voice now woven with her higher self — innocence and wisdom tenderly intertwined.

It spoke of destiny.

Of stars aligning.

Of myth and prophecy.

And finally, of the sacred feminine seeds — the women of Earth.

“All you amazing Wild Flowers,” the voice sang,

“Each a bloom beautifying Earth,

administering Earth’s medicine,

your sacred nature — healing the people

by sharing your gifts, your essence.

You are Creatrixes.

Natural-born healers.

And your creativity is your cure.

The cure for fear of any kind.

Rose and Heather. Lily. Daisy.

Camellia and Hazel Grace.

My beloved Ivy and Veronica.

Let your magic and mystery empower you.

My beautiful Moonflower and my precious Marigold.

My dearest Jasmine and Iris.

You carry worlds within you, of wonder and wyrrdness, of wisdom and wildness.

Give it a voice.

Speak up.

Your voice is powerful.

Show up.

Your radiance is and will be your protection.

Always.

You don’t have to be afraid

as long as you are true to yourself.

Look up.

Open up.

It’s your passion.

Your purpose.

To shine brightly.

To be true.

To be you, wholeheartedly —

even when the world is in a whirlwind.

That’s the magic of women.

And remember,

My strong and resilient

Sacred Buttercup —

I will always love you.

Passionately.”

She returned from her transcendent state,

that holy passage,

transformed.

Liberated.

Held by inner strength.

Empowered from within.

Yes, the fear was still there — but she was stronger now.

She would no longer let it hold her back.

She would nurture the evolving, dynamic relationship between her surface life and her inner depth.

It was time to bloom — outwardly.

To radiate like the morning sun: the gentle queen and the lion king.

She could feel it — the steady, seasonal shift within.

The passing of time and nature’s unfolding rhythm were the compass of her earthly self. And she was ready now. She would say yes to it all, the ever-deepening magic of her soul and spirit together in human form. Life kept opening, moment by moment. It was still a mystery, and always would be. She would never know how it would all play out. But she would keep going anyway. Walk the path, slowly, steadily, and tend to the deeds. Rest in between. Breathe and enjoy the silences.

Life was precious, and she felt herself a living thread in its sacred tapestry.

✫ ✫ ✫

Buttercup rose from her desk and made her way to the bathroom. The world had gone still.

From there, she moved down the hallway without thought, carried by a deep, inner quiet.

In the kitchen, she opened the fridge — famished.

Hunger gripped her, deep and primal.

Her stomach growled, low and fierce.

Then it roared — like a lion.

.

༄ Sóley White

May 2025 Iceland

Image: Sóley White