sitting at the edge of a ring of redwoods i know their roots
are beneath my feet, tangled inextricably. every twist and turn is
deliberate, dependent on where nourishment can be had. these roots roll out for miles and miles,
twining underneath the crust of Earth, the shade of flying creatures and storm
clouds, the eye of the sun and the moon. they make a fine and hearty web, just like the one we are all tangled
in. i feel pushed and pulled in a
thousand different directions. is it
any wonder i wish to flee from it all and be still?
every morning i sit in front of my altar, decorated to
honor the power of the great Divine Feminine, the source of my being and my
womb. this harsh world in which i reincarnate again and again is made beautiful
by meditation. i root from the base of my spine into the center of the planet and drop into my wonderful, imperfect body. whatever is not serving me, i drop into the great Earth, the Mother that expects
nothing of me and gives everything in return, that takes in what i give out
without complaint. it is her i honor,
her i weep for, her i love so deeply; and in doing so i honor, weep for and love my own animal shape. she absorbs the shock and toxic waste of my scattered, disharmonic energies and transmutes these into quiet stillness, the
heavy clarity of stopping, pausing, waiting. i fill my eggshell being with light so that i might fill up tears and
holes, suture the deep psychic gashes and patch up the missing chunks of energy
gouged out by those who want want want need need need take take take take, those who once told me to shut up, get out, give up, hold back.
i want
beauty and i want not to fear the truth. i fear the dark tangled underbelly of my
roots, but i want to dig down anyway, and isn't that the meaning of courage? i want to follow the labyrinthine passageways like
capillaries carrying blood to the delicate surface of skin. i want to excavate with simple
tools, not to remove or disturb, but to gently brush aside the rock,
the grime and humus and memorize every gentle curve, every graceful lifeline to the core of the earth, umbilici bringing nourishment and
drawing away the poison of negativity. i know there is nothing else to
do. what could be more important?
in the darkness, rank with the smell of decay and death, i
remember that the opposite is life and light, and that these are always present in
the other. only from my bed in the muck
do i appreciate the open canopy of sky and wings. the solid trunks of giants are the pillars of a temple built
with nonhuman hands, carved with sculpted faces, written with a lost language and
the poetry of the Great Mother. the
light wrapping around through, casting long locks that reach from sky to
dust to ground. the branches and twigs
holding a deep embrace, giving, receiving, supporting, uplifting, stroking,
comforting, pointing, guiding, gesturing, dancing, even singing: the creaks and
clicks and violin-cries of limbs moving in sacred play.
in the time it takes me to connect and reconnect, the world has moved on. but i am exactly where i need to be, here and still.
