The sacred dance of water

a way of sharing why I paint

The first chapter in my coming book: The Sacred Book of Women
By SÏRÏ

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Story One: Sacred Dance of Water

There are nights when silence presses in like a tide, washing over the bones of a woman who has given, held, nurtured, and waited. Nights when the air turns thick with longing, and your own breath echoes like an unanswered question. That night, the one that gave birth to this painting, I felt as though I might shatter. The house was quiet, the clock ticking like a metronome to an invisible grief, and I was suddenly swallowed by the thought of growing older—alone. Not just without a partner, but without being seen. Without the sacred witnessing I had once taken for granted, or hoped for. The idea of moving into this next phase—perimenopause—with aching joints, hot flushes, and waves of unnameable sadness felt like a cruel joke life had saved for later. The kind that sneaks up when no one is looking, least of all you.

And so I did the only thing I know how to do when words fail and the heart speaks in a tongue made of tears—I painted.

I stood at the edge of my emotion like a shoreline, brush in hand, letting pigment become prayer. Each color a confession. Each stroke a scream, a sigh, a letting go. I didn’t know what I was painting at first. That’s the beauty of this kind of work. You don’t need to know. You just have to trust the water to carry you. I let it pour, from brush to paper, from soul to sky.

I dipped into indigo and violet like diving into the unknown, swirling the brush with the hunger of someone who needs to say something but has no language for it. That purple storm that circles the piece? That was me—my grief, my rage, my ancient fear of being invisible. Of fading. Of being dried up and discarded like something no longer useful. The black arc that frames the painting like a womb and a wound? That was the abyss of uncertainty I was staring into. And yet, there is water—always water. Teal blue, cool turquoise, the color of tears and oceans and memory. It came to me not as sadness, but as connection. As lifeblood.

The figure in the center emerged slowly, like a dream forming from mist. She’s me, but she’s also every woman who has stood at the edge of this threshold. Her head bowed not in defeat, but in a kind of sacred concentration. She’s listening. To the body. To the stars. To the pulse of her own becoming. Around her swirl the cosmic signatures: stars, spirals, eyes—symbols of sight, cycles, and intuition. The brown lines that curl and dance like roots or flames—they are the nervous system unraveling, rewiring, remembering.

I called it “Sacred Dance of Water” because I realized halfway through painting that what I feared most—being alone in this—was an illusion. Water moves in cycles. The moon waxes and wanes. The tide goes out only to return. This body, this stage, this perimenopausal unfolding, is not a descent into decay. It’s an initiation. A becoming. A washing away of all that no longer serves. And in that movement, I was not alone. My tears joined the saltwater of countless others who have come before me, and those who will come after. That is the water. That is the dance.

This painting is the first in a new story I am telling—not just for myself, but for the women I serve. The ones who come to me feeling overwhelmed, off balance, unheard. Women who feel their fire flickering, their waters rising, their center dissolving. Through painting, I’ve found a way back to myself, and I know they can too. Not to perfection or smooth skin or endless energy, but to truth. To strength. To softness. To mystery.

Each brushstroke is a ritual. Each color a reclamation. I teach this not because I have mastered it, but because it keeps saving me. Painting is how I metabolize emotion. How I dance with the unspeakable. How I find clarity when life feels like fog. This piece was born from devastating sadness, yes—but what it gave me in return was connection. With myself. With the elements. With the rhythm that lives beneath the chaos.

So to every woman who is standing on the edge of her own transformation, wondering if she is disappearing: you are not. You are dissolving into something more whole. More holy. You are not broken. You are becoming. And if you feel like no one sees you, know this: I do. I see you. In every violet tear, in every sea-salt breath, in every trembling dance of water—you are sacred. This is your dance too.