Wild Heart, Wild Body
It is a quiet thing, learning from wilderness, becoming less tame, and less inclined to tame every little moment and every little action, to let time roam freely in me, my hair to tangle, my ears to grow as big as jackrabbit ears. ‘Wild’, as I am coming to know it, is learning a different way of being, and discovering, once the old veneer of self has chipped off, the original wood of self, it’s grain, it’s sap, it’s roots burrowing into the soil, clutching rock, insinuating tendrils between the layers of lime, prying them gently open over a century while the mammoth chunks roll impossibly slowly, tumbling since the last Ice Age. Each part of me is beloved. My invisible feelers, the long quiet tentacles, float in wind and drape along the ground. I have become a silk veil with its threads unweaving, collecting in crevices, billowing, catching silvery sun between tree trunk and branch.
Beginning and Ending of Time
This is the dance now, lifted and carried, where my body shivers with forest sound. There is a moratorium on my blunt dances–rageful slashing, redundant seductions, because these blind me. I don’t have to do anything to stop them; Nature has sucked them out of my cells. This moment takes my body, drinks my tears, eats my sour heart, relieving me of disappointments that have lashed me to a rock where vultures gouge out my liver every day forever. Beginning and ending consume one another, Beloved putting aside the time. So I can’t know how long have we been together, sitting between two birds with long tails, calling back and forth to one another like the swing of a pendulum. Moment, Moment, Moment, Moment.
Path, a Rotten Stone
We all think we can force the Moment by thinking it, by squeezing the mind and heart and body into a small dense capsule of understanding and labeling it “I/One”, but more often than not you find yourself clutching a rotting stone, and real stones don’t rot. Seekers stumble into aberration, into illusion. That is the sorrow of spiritual seeking; it is easy to end up more separated and egotistical than you started.
Yet it is just as easy to end, and begin, in Beloved if you can enter the bliss-crisis of ‘letting.’
I woke up between two ancient rocks that had once cuddled an ancient ocean. The water has become air. What is the difference? A slender, indomitable clasp of electricity. A spark. A charge. Eons before, moments piled onto one another pressing molecules together, squeezing into lava, cascading over the brim, dancing down the side, velvety and hot. Earth’s mantle given, inside, out.
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