Amber Burns-Jones Writes Magic & Truth

Amber Burns-Jones is Magic. The kind of magic that touches you, transforms you, births, grows, and shifts the air and landscape she moves through. She is JOY. She is creative. She is powerful. She is humble. She is a writer; the ancestors speak through her body and in her writing.  As Amber turns 30--we want to support her courage to speak truth to healing and power, to write, to embody what she is on this earth to be--a beautiful Black woman who is inherently valuable (#Blackfeministbreathingchorus). Her life and writing inspire and are medicine for our communities and souls. Support Amber's dreams of honing her craft, getting retreat time to write, mentorship and support for her writing through continued education. Her gifts are endless, let's support in small and large ways. 


Writing from Amber's speclative/ancestral archive: 

Book of Sage: The Willow

Seed Savers

I settled at her base.

Her roots roll, twist and coil around me. How deep, how far do her roots reach? How many babies had she birthed? How many human children has she held just as she cradles me now? Some days, when my mind is clear of clutter, I can create space to hear her speak to me. She tells tales of the land. She’s watched the world for centuries, out-lived many of her children. She speaks through the senses. Some scenes are more vivid than others.

Mama Rose hears her best. Years of practice, communing with God(s) and all their children has made her a skilled Seer.

I gaze at the massive branches. Memories of spirits drip from her hanging vine-like leaves. We call her, ‘the Willow.’ Her locs of leaves dance on the breeze. She grazes the top of my tangled hair.

Our energies collide and I become immersed in one of her memories.

I am confronted by the sweet smell of rain. I slam my hands down, gripping the bark of her swirling roots beneath me; steadying myself from the unexpected vision. When my hands make contact with her roots, she invades each of my senses until the picture she paints becomes so clear, I can taste the ash floating in the air. Clouds of smoke, the residue of firestorms long gone, spiral around me. Even the sky is scorched. Night and day bleed into one another. Where does one end and the other begin?

War. Destruction. Death. The Willow mourns. In every direction, her children have been slaughtered. Scarcity took root, and from it fear, greed and violence began to sprout and flower. She tried to speak to her human children but their minds could no longer hear her, distracted by the chaos of their environment. Her voice shrank to a whisper until there was no one left to hear her.

Read more here: https://medium.com/@amberburnsjones/seed-savers-8b104750ae33