Seer, seeker, light-keeper, grief-holder.
About Zoe Winther
Too alien to be human around normal folk, inescapably human around other like-minded aliens.
architect of story
savourer of soul
voyeur of breaking and rebuilding before a lens
journaler, scrapbooker, poet, artist, Taurean, dirty-hands-ed creatrix
How do I define my zone of genius?
I don’t
I can’t
I create and I destruct and I create
repeat
repeat
repeat until I remember who I am again, in poems I’ve written from the past to who I am now because I knew I’d forget, in videos where my brain is enveloped in the idea of who I might be now, in all the kale and roses I’ve learnt how to sew and propagate and watch grow.
I spent a lifetime feeling unseen in order to learn how to see myself. And I saw it, and I found myself again and again, and my soul wills for you to see yours too.
And these are the webs I spin from my oceanic view of none other than most precious you:
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- Intuitive poetry
- Sessions of self-expression
- Guided journaling
- Written content for entrepreneurs and businesses
- Bonfire stories, snakeskins and obituaries
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My poetry is my book of shadows, the love notes to the murky depths of my shadow self.
Story is medicine and self-expression will breathe life back into your soul.
Credentials:
- Work
- Uni / education
- Doco
- Seven sisters experience
- Edge
- Being unseen to be seen
- Taurus + scorpio
My Scorpio moon tethers me to the underworld. I’m tied there, always, sometimes pulled, often adrift in the swells of being alive and dunked, splashed, dragged but the riptide into the depths I didn’t realise I was hovering over.
It’s easy for me to get taken down, spiralling into darkness for days and weeks and months at a time.
I’ve finally learned it’s easiest just to surrender to the journey of lungs filled with water, accept the psychic death that is apparent and swim with the tide, deeper and deeper and darker and darker.
I’ve realised when I commit to marrying my darkest nights, the sun always seems to rise faster than when I resist them. The more I surrender to parts of me dying, the more alive I feel.
We inhale, we exhale, we pause.
How many lives can we live in the pause?
How many times can we die?
Poetry, thick thighs and all my wildest love.
When I write, I write to heal. I write eulogies for my past selves and love letters to who I am now, however transient she may be. I write notes of gratitude to the humans in my life, and to the ones I haven’t met yet. Sometimes I write from my head, and sometimes I write from my blood, my bones, my womb. I hope you can feel that.
I’m into glitch art and neon auras, and sometimes I don’t know how to reconcile that with the tendency towards the dark liminal spaces that take up so much of my mind. Like my palms, I feel I’m at least two different people, at all times Neon and yet: black hole, bottom of a well, mother of the dark, wet hair weeping into the underworld, holding your hand, holding my hand? leading you down to the place where you will find your home again, your self again, down in these places we feel most lost, home.
I see dark, barely-there images of a woman made of fire, bones ablaze. I see a skeletal face, but it is the most welcoming sight, I am not afraid. Ghosts are shown to us as scary but this one feels like my soul. Like I am supposed to just step into it and become whole. Not even like I am supposed to do anything; I just am. I just am. Slow, burning coals. Embers at the end of a fire that’s been burning for weeks. Could I walk across them? Or are they just a part of me?
I just am, I just am.
I’m on my own healing journey, alchemising my pain into purpose in order to create containers for people to come undone and rebirth themselves in.
To help people remember who they are.
I’m here for soul-shakers, trouble-makers and earth-quakers
Journalist turned journal-er. Everything is an oracle to bring you back home to yourself. I make films and write poetry and can’t shake the call to help other women tell their stories. A Taurus Sun and a Scorpio Moon, every day tears me in two between the dirt of everything that is real up here and the mysticism of everything that isn’t in the underworld. I see things that don’t make sense to me when I spend time with people, but I’ve found in telling them it heals a little part of both of us. I’m endlessly fascinated by the light dancing on the wall but I feel more alive watching the light in the leaves. I work with my cycle and that of the moon, I chart my dreams and the positions of the planets, and I listen to the wisdom of silence. And I forget who I am daily, needing to be reminded of my own wisdom and power with every word I write. It is a consistent and uphill battle. I feel alone most of the time, even living in a crowded house of people I love. Creativity and exercise are the only religions I subscribe to; I’ve never felt worse after partaking in either. But love is the only thing I believe in. Twelve years ago I read The Egg in my Philosophy course and since then I can’t help but see myself in every person I encounter. I’d rather dance than talk, so I usually show up to parties at 2am in order to skip the small talk and jump straight into the fire of mingling, sweaty energy tearing up the D-floor. I never met my grandmother but I can feel her sitting behind me most days, smoking a cigarette, wearing a navy blue dress, and she’s shaking her head disapprovingly because she doesn’t believe in spirits and talking to the dead. I was a serial monogamist until I decided to fall in love with myself and then couldn’t imagine dating anyone except my own reflection. The only time I’ve ever felt normal was during a festival when I looked at someone with only love and she started crying immediately. I have about 37 books in me struggling to be set free but 37 thousand fears about why I can’t. I either want the loudest thing I hear all day to be the turning of a page, or I want the music to be so loud I feel it vibrating my bones. And all of this is barely the surface. We are so human. A million different reflections from the disco balls we are, but getting to know each tiny square of mirror better, and discovering more and more hiding in dark corners waiting for a spotlight to be shone on them… it is the sweetest and most painful dance, and I wish it for you, too.
