Cycles refused and never lived.
I have always criticized the endless pursuit of Spring and Summer. Creation
and full-expression on endless repeat. That could have been my first clue
that I was in my own endless pursuit of Autumn and Winter. Twilight and night,
death and dying, mourning and grieving, distilling and hibernating in the
cellars of life's offerings my favorite palette.
Traffic jams on bridges, dead ends, one-way streets going the wrong way, dark alleys, thresholds transformed into endless hallways, hinge moments that rust with immobility. Dust and grime are still gritty under my nails from all my bricklaying and (de)construction work.
So I went to school. Thinking I might learn how to do this better. How to be different.
I cannot name what I learned, only that it was not that. I can only name what I feel as I stand here, ready to walk deep into the cave I've never visited but unconsciously tried to replicate thousands of times.
Comfortable warmth surrounds me, a hooded cloak on my shoulders reminding me that I was literally made for this. Hunger and thirst for nourishment I've never had hone my focus forward. Echoes of love, acceptance, and the sound of my name whispered on the lips of so many sisters a soft breeze reminding me that I am not alone, even here. Especially here. Reverence is at my side; this is nothing less than a pilgrimage. An invocation of my own holiness and the desperate hope I will find it.
I did not leave school with empty hands.
My cloak is heavy now, tree sap seeps into the fibers and sings gentle songs of flow in harmony with my lymph. The steady pulse of drums penetrates its weave, inviting my heart to dance, dance, dance. Iron runes amplify the chanting wisdom of my bloods, all of them. Glyphed codex patterns the colors, reflecting moon and star light, inside and out. A mystery shimmers over the fabric, a whispered echoing response to the secrets my womb holds. Shield, sword, bow, and arrows sheathed inside and invisible, offering quiet readiness for necessary predation ever present in my hands.
As I take my first step, I offer this, my closing prayer. May it open me.
As I sink my feet into the sand of my internal shores, may I embody the truth I have witnessed.
The ocean welcomes all rivers, as can I.
As I unbury myself from the shallow grave of survival, may I live the truth I have seen.
Spirals are not labyrinths, unless I make them so.
As I face the day and all its brightness, may I feel the truth I have known.
The sun also shines for me, no matter how much I exalt the night.
As I encounter loss and pain, may I cherish the truth I have felt.
Pyre ashes hold the truth and burden of the past, not I.
As I experience death in living and life in dying each and every day, may I rejoice in the truth I have received.
Each sunrise and sunset is a promise kept.
May I be the dignified guardian and reliable witness of the sacred and the wise inherent in each step of every path, starting with my own.
Amen.
Hood up, I follow my gaze with my footsteps, going into the dark again, yes. But not out of habit this time. This time it's to find a different way in, and finally, a way out. This is not a dead end. For the first time and always, I go into the dark, guided by the flame that shines through my eyes even when they are closed.
