Friday, May 14, 2010

Hair and Bone and Hide...


There is a place I visit 
when weary in my heart,
of who we have become 
and how we have forgotten. 
The journey there is long, 
through cave, mountain, and remembering. 
 I crunch through lightly falling snow, 
trail of woodsmoke 
and cedar scented air. 
Wind blows delicate flakes in bursts and
breathes through tribes of swaying, reaching pines. 
It is night. 
When I reach the glowing shelter, 
flakes die,
stars are born. 
Soft drumbeats and low voices 
hum together from inside. 
I bend and enter
 a flickering world of fire 
and women, 
wrapped in blankets and furs, 
singing songs of moss.
Hair and bone and hide
bound and tethered and known. 
I sit without a word, 
meeting 
- soul to soul-
 the ancient one, 
keeping rhythm 
with antler and broken heart. 
Gentle sounds of rattles, 
shake me into presence. 
I am here, 
as I am, 
nothing more to do or say or be. 
The eyes of each one gathered here, 
 knows of death, 
and of going beyond. 
A raw, exquisite knowing - 
running through the forest, 
hunting a life worth living,
glancing and grinning, 
at the toothless shadowed one, 
running along beside. 
Breathing 
together 
in this circle, 
 drums and rattles and crows,
building, weaving, praying,
there is no forgetting who I am, 
or what I am to do, 
or that owls,
bears, 
and stones, 
are breathing with 
me, 
too. 

*   *   *
This was to be a quick post.... get out my journal, and copy this bit of writing I did over a year ago, that I keep coming back to. It is another day of low, lingering mists, a day when   the forest calls me deep inside myself, and into the shadows between hemlocks and ledges and mysteries. A treasured kind of day, when the reason for my landing here is close to the surface. I used to think writing was easy.... but that was before... before what? Its a mystery. But as I typed the words above, things needed re-arranging, molding, no... more specifically, things need to be trimmed, cut down to bone. I think maybe I am beginning to understand how to write like I paint... but there are miles to go before I sleep, miles to go before I sleep. 


I once had a naturalist friend with an amazing collection of feathers from all over the world. He lent them to me for a time and I felt as though I had come home to my body- a winged body of myths and flights. Once, I called a friend (fire spinning Lita) to take photos of me with them. Soon after, the feathers were returned, had to be, it is illegal to have them, unless one is a scientist or native with tribal papers.... but I knew I belonged to those feathers, and the brief moment when they lived with me taught me more than a lifetime of schooling. 

7 comments:

  1. we are what we are and there are echoes of previous connections, connections to be becoming and binding it all is love. steven

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  2. Great post and a great piece of writing. I collect feathers when I find them - usually buzzards, owls and woodpeckers - but they don't compare with you collection.
    Laurie

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  3. Yes, Steven... yes, yes....

    Lauried - thanks for your feedback! Wish I still had the feathers.. they've been gone for years now.... there were jars and jars of smaller ones, too!

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  4. Thanks, faerie finder! I'm a fan of yours, too.... love those sweet, white kitties!!

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  5. I do not connect with feathers, but with the huge spruce trees in the forest where I live. They sway and creak with the wind, and suddenly I feel a part of the earth and all those who lived here before me.
    Your blog is filled with wonder. I will return!

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  6. Zuzu - yes... I, too, have a deep, primal relationship with trees... thanks for visiting, and DO come again!

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I love reading your comments and sometimes I'm good at responding right away, sometimes not! Glad you had a wander here, I hope you found the mossy path soft on your feet and heard the call of the Raven.