Every month (sometimes e/o), I’ll share one card~something to spark reflection, give you a moment to breathe, and maybe, just maybe, help you see yourself a little differently. You’ll get:
🌿 A glimpse into the card’s meaning
🌙 Questions to chew on (or ignore—your call)
🔥 A simple ritual to honor where you are
These cards are about creating that space—for the brutal and the beautiful, for every raw, unpolished part of you.
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Mountain Keeper does not rush.
She does not announce herself.
She endures.
She is the presence that remains when the noise clears—the steady body beneath shifting weather, the knowing that comes only after time has done its work. She teaches that strength is not force, but continuity. Not hardness, but the capacity to hold what matters while releasing what no longer serves.
The Mountain Keeper is not separate from the land. She is the land—shaped by pressure, marked by seasons, softened and strengthened by what has passed through her. Her power is quiet and immense, built layer by layer through lived experience.
She appears when you are being asked to trust your own weight. To stop explaining yourself. To stop climbing for approval. To remember that steadiness is also a form of courage—and that knowing when to let go is also a form of strength.
Mountains form through pressure, yes—but they are shaped by the small work of water, wind, and time. A single rainstorm carves no canyon. But ten thousand storms, each one barely visible in its impact, split stone and reveal new paths.
The mountain teaches that transformation is usually incremental. Most days, nothing looks different. But the work is happening—frost wedging into cracks, roots reaching deeper, surfaces weathering grain by grain. Then one spring, the avalanche. One season, the rockfall. The dramatic shift that was actually building all along through a thousand quiet mornings.
Fern unfurls slowly, one frond at a time. It doesn’t announce its resilience—it just keeps growing after fire, after frost, after being crushed underfoot. Each small unfurling is an act of persistence.
Cedar doesn’t grow fast. It grows steady. Year after year, ring after ring, building strength through consistent presence. Its medicine comes from time, not urgency.
The mountain goat doesn’t charge up the cliff face. It finds one foothold, tests it, shifts weight carefully, finds the next. Progress is made through countless small, precise decisions—not one heroic leap. And sometimes, the wisest move is to turn around and find a different route entirely.
The mountain itself knows when to let go. Rockslides happen. Glaciers retreat. What can no longer hold falls away—not as failure, but as necessary release.
Change happens through small daily choices compounded over time—and through knowing when the ground beneath you is no longer solid.
When in Balance:
You feel grounded in who you are, even when life is uncertain.
You trust your pace and honor long timelines.
You hold boundaries without defensiveness.
You move steadily, guided by inner authority rather than urgency.
When out of Balance:
You feel weighed down, rigid, or emotionally immovable.
You resist change out of fear rather than discernment.
You confuse endurance with self-denial.
You carry burdens that were never yours to hold alone.
Ritual
Claiming What You Carry
Find a stone—something with weight, something that fits in your palm. If you don’t have a stone, use anything with heft: a book, a mug, something solid.
Sit somewhere your body feels supported. Hold the stone in both hands.
Close your eyes. Feel its weight. Let it represent everything you’re carrying right now—the responsibilities, the expectations, the things you’ve been holding for so long you forgot they had weight.
Now, with each breath, ask yourself: Is this mine to carry?
If the answer is yes—if it’s aligned, if it matters, if it’s part of what you’re building—tighten your grip slightly. Feel your capacity to hold it.
If the answer is no—if it’s someone else’s burden, an old story, a should that never fit—imagine setting that piece down. You don’t have to physically release the stone. Just notice the possibility of letting go.
Do this for several minutes. Breathe. Ask. Hold or release.
When you’re done, place the stone somewhere you’ll see it.
Let it remind you: you get to choose what you carry. Not everything heavy is yours.
Blessing
The Mountain Keeper Blessing
May you remember that strength does not always rise—it also holds.
May you trust the wisdom of time and the intelligence of your body.
May you stand rooted in who you are, unmoved by urgency, softened by grace.
You do not need to climb to be powerful.
You already are.
Reflective and Curious Exercise:
• What am I building slowly that no one else can see yet?
• Where have I confused “staying power” with staying too long?
• What small, daily choice have I been making for months that’s actually changing everything?
• If my body is a mountain, what weather has shaped me—and what needs to finally erode away?
• Where am I waiting for permission to trust what I already know is true?
• What would it mean to be unmovable about this one thing—and let everything else shift?
• When was the last time I let something fall away without calling it failure?
Catch up on more Live Brutifully Cards
