I didn’t plan to become an inkkeeper.

But somewhere between the silence of sleepless nights, the ache in my bones, the softness of my children’s breath, and the unraveling of everything I once called identity — it found me.

Or perhaps, it was always there, patiently waiting.

I am SÏRÏ — mother of five, former teacher, soul-dreamer, and vessel of stories too wild to be spoken plainly. I walk the land of northern Norway with feet that I now know remember. It feels like my skin still holds the scent of moss, salt, firelight. I love to light a bonfire in the autumn and winter time, to light the light in me and to burn away what I no longer want to carry. I live in a body that has bled, birthed, burned out, and risen again. And now, I create from that place. The raw. The real. The sacred.

A life that undid me, and a breath that remade me

For many years, I lived by shoulds. The shoulds that the system and others around me fed me. I gave and gave, not knowing that giving without pause can silence the voice inside. I was good. I was tired. I was breaking.

And then, in addition to all of that, perimenopause arrived like a tide I couldn’t hold back. Everything old began to fall away, invisibly and not for me to grasp at first, as the signs were almost too small to be felt, but I felt them — roles, rhythms, even my name felt too small. My nervous system unraveled thread by thread, until I could no longer ignore the whisper: There is another way to live. And it begins with listening.

So I stopped. Stopped doing, and started being! And I listened.

To my body. To my dreams. To the ink that stirred inside my bones. For a feeling of inner peace.

And that is when the meanings of my drawings became clear to me. I saw that they all meant something. Looked at in retrospect, I now see the not perfect ones. The ones not for show. But the raw, urgent markings — prayers and poetry in line and breath. Soul fragments. Maps. Medicine. They were all messages for me, and being for me, I know they also are for other women in this phase: the second spring, as it also is called. Which I think is a wonderful name for perimenopause.

Drawing became my lifeline. It became my remembering.

What is Drawing It Out?

Drawing It Out is not a course. It is not a brand.

It is a soul journey — a way home.

I created it for the woman who no longer wants to perform. Who is weary of fixing herself. Who aches to make visible the quiet knowing she buried to survive. It is a lantern-lit path back to her voice, her body, her stories, her symbols, her sacred name.

We don’t draw to impress. We draw to express, to excavate, to return.

Drawing It Out is how I reinhabited my life. How I came back, when I thought I didn’t manage how to. It’s how I process grief, rage, beauty, desire. It’s how I mother myself now.

It’s how I remember the girl who once made spells from stardust, and dared to believe she was made of magic.

The inkkeeper

I also call myself an inkkeeper now. Because I keep the stories that don’t fit into tidy boxes. Because I listen to what others silence. Because I believe there is medicine in what is messy, sacred, unspoken. Ink is breath made visible. It moves with grief. It flows with joy. It maps our becoming.

Being an inkkeeper is not about knowing. It’s about being willing — to enter my cave, to sit at the fire, to pick up the pen even when your hands shake. And my, have I cried and wept, and felt sorry for myself when I felt so so alone and hurt. But I was shedding the old. And I didn’t know.

For you, woman of thresholds

I am here to let you know this: If you are a woman at the edge — if your name no longer fits, if your marriage is crumbling or your roles dissolving, if your art has dried or your heart is weary, if you feel the fire returning to your belly after years of numbness — this space with me and Drawing It Out is for you.

This is not about becoming someone new. It is about returning to what never left. This is your invitation to draw it out — your pain, your desire, your visions, your longing, your prayers.

Let the ink be a trail back to yourself. Let your body be the altar. Let the breath guide your hand.

We create not to perform, but to remember. We draw not to decorate the world, but to resurrect our truth. We gather not to fix, but to witness.

A sacred offering

I have gathered all this, my experiences and feelings, into sacred offerings — meditations, artworks, visual rituals, guided sessions, and soul-to-soul creations for you to find yourself. You will find them on my site, in my store, and woven into my words. They come from lived experience. From ceremony. From deep listening.

But more than anything, they are made for you. The you that is becoming. The you that is enough. This is not a trend. It is a transmission. This is not content. It is context. It is your return. If your breath catches as you read this, if something within you whispers «Finally!..», then you have already begun. Come. Let us draw it out — together.

:: signed in breath ::
SÏRÏ

Connect with SÏRÏ

• Instagram: @siriopli
• Email: siri@siriopli.com
• Art & Soul Shop: planetsiri.carrd.co and payhip.com/theSIRIstore