🎧 Listen While You Read: “Everglade March” — Of The Trees
Awakening has a rhythm—not gentle, not polite, but relentless. It pulls you room by room, bone by bone, shadow by shadow. This is the rhythm of The Resurrection Map. A pulse, a march, an insistence: we cannot stay buried in the debris of our own lives. Not here. Not now.
I step into the front door. The air is heavy, thick with yesterday’s residue. The threshold is not just wood and paint—it is the seam between what was allowed and what I will reclaim. My footfalls echo, metronomic, the first beat of the march. This house is not a house. It is a body. Every room a chakra, every object a neuron firing memories and spells, habits and prayers.
The foyer—the root. Grounding. Grit. Dust-stained memories of the footfalls of ancestors, of the small cruelties of self-neglect. I sweep, I scrub, I sprinkle salt and ashes. The floorboard creaks: a drum, a warning, a heartbeat. This is the place where the work begins. Where the seed of reclamation touches soil. I feel it rise in my gut.
Living room: the sacral. Fire in the flicker of candlelight, water in the sweep of floor polish, the arc of my arm as I dance alone to the echo of Everglades March. Desire lives here. Play lives here. Memory, the sticky sweet rot of pleasure and longing. I place mirrors, not to see my reflection, but to fracture it—so the room remembers its own power. Every table, every chair, every neglected lamp becomes an altar, a witness, a witness to my insistence on joy.
Kitchen: solar plexus. Heat, alchemy, transformation. I burn sage over counters, imagining the smoke as veins and arteries. Each utensil a vessel of intent. I grind spices, crush garlic, not just to feed the body, but to feed the will. The rhythm of chopping, stirring, tasting—the march of movement, repetition, ritual—aligns my solar flame. Power is reclaimed here in the mundane, in the overlooked, in the way knives become swords and pots become cauldrons.
Hallway: heart. The thin line between private and shared, internal and external. Photos stare like constellations. I touch the frames, whisper the names. I bleed incense into the corners. Each door I open, each closet I purge, is a drumbeat, a step forward, a pulse in the symphony of reclamation. I can feel my chest rise, not with vanity, but with the effort of remembrance: the heart is both tomb and treasure.
Bathroom: throat. Words, water, release. I draw sigils in condensation, trace them with fingertips. The mirror remembers my voice before it formed into language. I speak here, aloud, to walls and to spirits, to the plumbing, to the tiles. Let my language ripple through the pipes, let it reach the shadows behind the medicine cabinet. March, march, march. Speak, speak, speak.
Bedroom: third eye. The archive of dreams, of failed intentions, of secret wishes that will not die. I rearrange, I fold, I open windows. Curtains flutter like flags in some unseen breeze, and I feel the pulse move through the crown. The mind opens—not in clarity, but in blur. Vision emerges in the rhythm, in the patience, in the insistence that each object, each shadow, each discarded piece of fabric is a step, a beat, a signal: wake, Emily, wake.
Closets, attic, basement: chakras deep, root and soul and hidden marrow. Here, the march intensifies. The pulse is relentless. I uncover the items I forgot, the spaces I feared. Dust motes hang like stars, spirits unclaimed, waiting for acknowledgment. I name them, claim them, release them, integrate them. This is excavation as resurrection. Every beat of Everglades March echoes through the boards and plaster, as if the house itself is awakening with me.
The march is not linear. It loops, it spirals, it repeats. I find myself back at the foyer, but not the same. The air is different. My feet have learned the rhythm of reclamation. My hands have drawn maps that exist only in movement. I have traced every shadow and returned it to light. My home, my body, my soul—they are aligned in a cadence older than memory.
This is not perfection. This is not neatness. This is not silence. This is insistence. This is rhythm. This is resurrection.
The pulse remains after the march ends. I sit, I breathe, I feel the echo of footsteps still reverberating through rooms, through bones. The map is never finished. It can’t be. Every day is a march, every object a drum, every room a call to claim the life that has been waiting, patient and insistent, for me to return.
Do the Kendrick March. Take your own map. March room by room. Draw sigils in dust. Speak to shadows. Sweep the floors of memory. Claim your body, your home, your soul. Share your pulse. Send your footsteps into the rhythm. We are not passive observers—we are the drum, the marcher, the magician of our own resurrection.
🗺️ Babel Index
A glossary of mythic infrastructure, ritual movement, and psychic cartography.
Pulse
The heartbeat of reclamation.
Rhythm of movement, ritual, and attention.
Map
The blueprint of becoming.
Both literal and psychic; home as body, body as home.
March
The choreography of intention.
Cyclical, relentless movement of attention, ritual, and will.
Chakra
The architecture of energy.
Rooms aligned to energetic centers:
Foyer = Root
Living Room = Sacral
Kitchen = Solar Plexus
Hallway = Heart
Bathroom = Throat
Bedroom = Third Eye
Attic/Basement = Hidden Chakras
Sigil
Visual spellwork.
Marks of intent in dust, reflection, or surface.
Excavation
Descent as devotion.
A deep dive into memory, shadow, and forgotten energy; a reclaiming act.
Reclamation
The rite of return.
Active retrieval of lost energy, power, and will.
Integration
The sacred reassembly.
Returning discovered fragments of self to conscious awareness.
Interesting I’m curious why the hallway is associated with the Heart? Is it because it is the link to the other rooms/chakras? As the heart is an important one right?
I like the analogy!!