When the veil comes down, we are standing there like Innana, naked. Or maybe we are already turning on the spit.
What they don’t tell you about Innana is that by the time she gets to that point, she is so desperately relieved she could kiss the ground. She is sick of the long haul, the grasping for something, anything, the agony of loss – and she’s glad it’s finally all gone. Because now she can see that which could have never been taken. It is herself. And that undignified humiliation, that unbridled relentless unapologetic agony is what brings her to herself. She faces herself, and then she knows all that she has always known, this time without interference. And she thinks, “Holy crap. I am home”.
And all that has been stripped, she knows she’ll never want back. Her jewels, her crown, if necessary will only be a prop for the real show that needs no casing. It is the people who need it to be encased in order for it’s rawness to be bearable to them. She can give them that. Such is the power of a woman.
And the veil to the outer world is torn down too. The antics of humanity, the circus show that has always tantalized in some way has now become a low hum because she no longer wants. She does not hunt. Her power, her nourishment is found, and she has become like the rocks, like the waterfall, like the moon. She channels the archaic ages of time and sips her tea while she watches. And she waits. She may try to trip us up once in a while hoping we may find our way to her, to keep her company, but she knows that no one can do that finding but ourselves.
Yes, we. We are all forces of nature, some to glow, some to build, some to sing, some to purge and some to awaken. Like waves crashing upon each other we greet, we encounter and we retreat to await the next surge. What will it be like next time? Will it be different? But who will we be? There is no other.
The wise woman, she breathes on the sea bed. She has seen it all. She has lived every form from hay flower to flea, from bat to snail. She has growled and been prey. She has birthed and she has lay down to die. She has loved and she has burned. She has prayed and crawled. She understands the value in things and the waste in trying.
The old woman, she is endlessly awake, her awareness our daylight, her dream-time our moon. And with her gaze she holds us all. She holds us with a love yet unfathomable.
The orchid will bloom in her own time.
The dirt will lie, perfect patient receiver of the rotting life. It will change slowly as pungent passes and chaos reorganizes into readiness.
Then she will lie down too and listen as everything passes by her. She will dream her dreams and sort through all the possibilities of what to be. She will listen and listen until she remembers and then she will yearn with all of her might, her yearning the only power within her purview. Her yearning can only be truly answered by that which makes orchids, so any wrong turn, any receiving of haphazard medicine will shape her asunder.
So, patience, patience.
She yearns, her little mind filled with orchid visions and of the sun kissing her buds.
One day, in delight, she realizes that her yearning has burst her shell and she has become a seedling, thrumming with tender excitement. She dawns in her stretching and she ever reaches. Her intoxicated wonder bursts forth with her bloom and then dances a wild interplay with her new world, filled in the diversity of the cosmos. She receives and receives, sure of her vision under the nurturing great forces of moon, sun, water and wind.
Be an orchid my friends, bide time. We cannot stay forever in the cauldron, but we cannot leave until the Goddess opens the way, lest we run our dreams back into darkness. As decomposition turns to fertility, as the path is etched in dreamtime, each step is a long passage, each a juicy time of medicine to be schooled by and digested.
Our yearning is synchronistic faith and singular force of creation together. The nature of yearning is to birth, to co-create with the Gods. Hold this, my ones. Nothing is more important than the clear, unprecedented arrival of your bloom.
I reached out
and I fell.
I fell into myself
my deep, deep well
and was washed over with relief
to know that I cannot harm myself
for I will always be there.
Like a child tottering along the edge of a rail and
the mother who won’t let her -.
Because it is back with myself where all things reside
where the moon is the richest
and I can safely lie on my back
in the summer dewy night
and look up
eyes awonder, up at the stars
private and safe
the sweetness of the night.
It is in the well
where the sacred resounds
with edges and echoes
that reach far beyond its thick moss.
It is here where the dreaming is strong
the mind is at peace
and the churning, more meaning
Chaos reaches high above the sky
order sifts between its heat waves
dust sinks and rises
patterns on the land
and I go,
traveling far within the crevices
the ravaging land, untamed
yet holding wildness only in moments
when the wind turns to look at you
or me or them
and then the storm picks
one of us
and we fall back within
to realize that we
have never left
that the beauty in awe is remembering.
I reserve myself
and the fragrances within intensify, dream to potency, ready to be tapped like nectar.
I pour out
and my heart learns its opening once again, as it was many lifetimes ago.
I don’t stay sure
for sure is in motion, in the wheels spinning beneath me as I ride on my bicycle, clear day, summer beach, tempestuous storm.
There are two songs singing their wares, their ways all around and inside of me.
One old, it’s source unkind, pointing, pointing, pointing always at me.
The other, a luscious garden, so new I forget, I forget in some waking days that it can be there.
The rasping song, so old and known, plays and plays, its needle scratching the phonograph’s ear.
The other remains. It has become, like a blossom and will not fade.
Their musics swell and flow.
I am riding my bicycle.
Joy streams like a blue ribbon. Or two, or three. Red, green, blue.
My colors blend. I take the low road by the river, feeling happily endless,
before and behind, balanced in the middle.
I have been through cinder, nettle
Drowned in flood plains all amore
I have walked through, death and barren
valleys, never finding golden ore.
There’ve been chapters, many chapters
Filled with glue and glass and stone
Times when I was living under
surfaces to me unknown.
My traveler’s stick, my hard-earned wit
it kept me sane and safe and sore
My lantern it seemed overwhelmed
but now I know it was much more.
I shunned the sun for what I knew
the dark spark drew me while it grew
it drew the magic all around
but was so intense, those there were few.
Chaos ensued, the years went by
the sparks did come, the sparks did fly
and then one day I met a man
who returned to me my soul, this guy.
The globe of light, it filled my middle
The world became less like a riddle
I lost my friends who were not true
I learned to love to hear a fiddle.
I tracked the source, the gift to give
So I could help some others live
My eyes adjusted to the light
My sorrows melted through the sieve
This joy I find when in the road
come from love and laughter told
but also from my weathered boots
that tell me of my older roots.
For if I fall, I do not fear
as much as when in elder year
There is comfort yet to know
that love and light can only grow.
When the lotus blooms, she brings forth all that she has seen in the underworld. She pulls herself up and up, changing from muck to morning and when she blooms there is heaven there waiting to kiss her, happy kisses with tears of joy and the knowing, the knowing that all who have ascended know from their memories of the deep darkness beneath us. That which scares. That which taunts, which nourishes those who brave to look upon it, who brave to be caught up in it, to risk the terrible risk of not coming back home.
And when it blooms, it blooms in slow motion, sequentially, many times over, overlapping, creating petals of motion which caress, coax joy, sing songs unheard, sweeping in freshness from the sweet world which we live in.