33
It began with a promise to honor the deeper calling from my core
A blood sacrifice and an inking into my skin that commitment
I moved into ceremony, I called witnesses around me, I called women to hold me.
A strength and new knowing began to become me, I had such hopes
And then heartbreak tore the seasons to pieces.
No Spring or Summer but eclipses and a celibacy like an insult to my loud fertility
The seasons all dark, all cold and all turned inward
A long winter, untouched
An initiation not into motherhood as I hoped, but into shadow and grief and loss
I bent into work, months passed, and work bent my back, so much forgotten.
I wish to bow deeply in gratitude to the dreamer
To offer prayers and tears of such sweet sorrow for the silent, unseen weaving of dreams
into truths deeper than comprehension and consciousness.
Ebbing and flowing directly from Mysterious Source
Nurturing like a mother, ravaging like a beast.
Underneath this shroud, enshrined, dreams resurrected the un-tilled work
Seeds of fleeting, ephemeral symbols slowly stitching back together a wounded soul.
Unhindered by an uncontrolled mind running circles around its self of suffering
The white tiger, a horse like an oroboros eating itself, a mandala leading me to heal
where I have only ever sacrificed
Bear came to remind me to rest event if winter will last all year
And when I feel rested in my bones, to seek sweetness again.
The Aspens are wearing now their golden mantles and sighing
Autumn comes and turning back toward the dark half of the year I sigh too in relief.
Winter is far more congruent with grief, there is space to rest and no hurrying to release.
Seeds too need this time in the dark and cold to find their own worth
There will be a time later for bringing forth gifts and unfolding new petals
But the journey I began at 33 has not yet returned me home,
Only now with the days growing shorter have I turned to face the road back and consider,
tentatively, those tender steps.
A blood sacrifice and an inking into my skin that commitment
I moved into ceremony, I called witnesses around me, I called women to hold me.
A strength and new knowing began to become me, I had such hopes
And then heartbreak tore the seasons to pieces.
No Spring or Summer but eclipses and a celibacy like an insult to my loud fertility
The seasons all dark, all cold and all turned inward
A long winter, untouched
An initiation not into motherhood as I hoped, but into shadow and grief and loss
I bent into work, months passed, and work bent my back, so much forgotten.
I wish to bow deeply in gratitude to the dreamer
To offer prayers and tears of such sweet sorrow for the silent, unseen weaving of dreams
into truths deeper than comprehension and consciousness.
Ebbing and flowing directly from Mysterious Source
Nurturing like a mother, ravaging like a beast.
Underneath this shroud, enshrined, dreams resurrected the un-tilled work
Seeds of fleeting, ephemeral symbols slowly stitching back together a wounded soul.
Unhindered by an uncontrolled mind running circles around its self of suffering
The white tiger, a horse like an oroboros eating itself, a mandala leading me to heal
where I have only ever sacrificed
Bear came to remind me to rest event if winter will last all year
And when I feel rested in my bones, to seek sweetness again.
The Aspens are wearing now their golden mantles and sighing
Winter is far more congruent with grief, there is space to rest and no hurrying to release.
Seeds too need this time in the dark and cold to find their own worth
There will be a time later for bringing forth gifts and unfolding new petals
But the journey I began at 33 has not yet returned me home,
Only now with the days growing shorter have I turned to face the road back and consider,
tentatively, those tender steps.
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