SUE WESTWIND

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Mental wellness, Earth-spiritual practice. Ecosexuality.

Sue Westwind writes from America’s prairie woodlands.

Woman dipping hand into water

When author Sue Westwind marries at midlife and moves to sixty acres of prairie woodland, she imagines that her life will now be fulfilled in ways she has always longed for. Yet the man she marries soon chafes at the demands of their rural life and tragically loses the passion for her that once had assured her their union would always be idyllic. As her husband grows silent and distant both from her and the land they live on, she finds erotic fulfillment in the swells and folds of the earth itself, in trees and creeks, in deer and stones. She awakens to the land erotic, and in her ever-expanding and intimate connection to it, she discovers a kind of earth-based sexuality that rejuvenates her and gives her strength to endure.

Born into a family full of shame and secrets about their legacy of mental illness, Sue Westwind received her own set of labels when she ran away from home in 1969. Depression, anxiety, migraines, and chronic fatigue grew worse as she grew older.

The story could have ended there: a lifetime spent taking prescription drugs to treat her myriad list of illnesses. But an open mind and a desire to heal led Westwind to an extraordinary body of research. She learned that our toxic Earth plays a dangerous role in the human epidemic of bad moods and violent behavior.

Sue Westwind's Most Recent Posts

ECOSEX GEMS TO SAVOR

I wondered: how many ecosexual passages might be contained on my bookshelf and in the library books currently piled on my desk? They were everywhere! I started with poetry texts I’ve had for years that

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FOR THOSE STILL SWIPING

After mourning for a time—a widow—I moved like my lonely-heart brethren to inhabit the online dating sites. Someone remarked that the endeavor was like a cage fight with too many participants. Things do move fast.

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MY MOTHER, THE MIRROR

She was 96 and lucid to the end. Today I found another of those little containers she saved—it once held bath gels when I gave it to her as a child. Repurposed to hold her

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THE GREEN FUSE, LIT

“The force that through the green fuse drives the flower/Drives my green age . . . .”   Dylan Thomas I sing the body eclectic, a mix of sparks, age, rage, and change. Everyday an erotic

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WHEN A WOMAN NEEDS A FIRE IN THE NIGHT

In my backyard nook, the moonlight’s dear silver calls. What a project it was! A woodlot lumpy with garbage—former tenants’ milk cartons, clothes on hangers covered with a thin layer of dirt, and the detritus

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