Bort Meadow, July 2012

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.