but then...then I hear a ravaging poem or a heart-searing song, or a story of true courageous love, or hear a dream that has me knowing that Dream-maker is indeed listening in, and Mystery is still here and in this deep in-breath of wonder,
I am again rejuvenated.
What times we are in...still I have to trust that I...We... were born for these times of Universal testing.
This is a call for each of us to remember our particular greatness that we alone must offer up now. Open your fist...wear your ceremony...the Silence has never been so loud. What is YOUR greatness?
Is it so very personal, erupting from a deepest heart of prayer and profound connection with the world? Is it an inside job that you can offer privately?
Or is it your voice that pounds from the inside on the skin of your body drum, begging to be heard....finally...in all its piercing truth?? or is it your Art screaming to be made manifest and seen?
Your demonstration of the vital beauty that we as humans are capable of.
Or is it your time to step up for office...to recruit...to sing your heart of vision to those that need leaders and hope?
Or are you the one to care for the hurting...the rivers, the waters, the babies, the animals, the plants??? Can you? Will you?? Where would you start?
Open your Fist.
There IS a place for you and you ARE needed.
We are animals and we cannot be caged.
And as you do step forward do bring with you the sharp pointed image of the balancing edge that we all must remember to consciously stand tall upon as we say yes and approach the world with our genius. We cannot, though the world seems to call for it, give everything and forget that we too are motivated by and held inside the same laws of cyclic vibrance that demands that we balance ourselves so that we too are sustainable resources for the world....vaults of golden wisdom to be given out in wise measure. Earth shows us over and over that rhythm and life giving offerings of one's gifts is essential...she never gives everything at once without viable seeds in her fertile pockets and a space reserved for hibernation....though the human world ask her to and tug on her relentlessly without the intelligence to see that rest too and pausing to feel, renew and to listen are absolutely essential.
Last week I spent 6 days and nights camping on a barren bluff above a beautiful flowing river in the desert of Arizona's spring...day by day the river's flood calmed and turned its waters to green, while one by one wild flowers mustered their courage to open and expose themselves to the sun's gaze. The women I circled with did this as well. The Mother so freely heals us, whispering gifts into our hearts, and reminding us of what is wise and beautiful. Turtle, Otter, Javelina, Red Tail Hawk, Raccoon., Owl...all leaving tracks of sound and texture and image inside of us...each showing us who they be in sacred communion with Earth...inviting us to return to an integrated tale of magic alive and well under the jubilant starful skies.
May our love letters not be lost in the stars, but heard by keen ears.
There in that wild harsh land I courted a poem that caught my startled heart, and day by day I spoke its words to the canyon, the cactus, the river and stones.....committing to them.
Love letters to God, these were.
And my heavy heart, so ripped, confused, and curiously full...pounded in synchrony with the All of it...trusting that we are here with purpose and power.
There is a storm a coming...open the door.
An immense wave looms over us...
GIVE YOURSELF OVER ....NOW.
Considering Leaves: After John Trudell
by Ben Weaver
You could rake leaves while the glaciers melt
and horses stand somewhere in a field
with the sound of wind blowing rain into their manes
you could go to a job you don’t love
and live in a house you don’t want
and sit in traffic and feel trapped watching
the eagles dive above the light posts and power lines
or you could stop raking and lay down in the dirt
with the leaves scattering around you
smelling like the coming snow
and the rattling ghosts of summer lightning
you could pick up a river and hold it to your eye
watch a turtle crawl through it
the light turbulent out of the sky beyond the bluffs.
Instead of serving these mad corporations and law makers
oblivious to the dew on the pigs hindquarters at morning
or the effort it takes ducks to find food after such a wet summer
you could sit round a fire next to the lake and
listen as the water carries voices from a canoe
out somewhere near the middle
back to your camp along the stony shore
and as the fire licks at the red pines
you could uncover a memory that
smells like moose hooves and orchids
wild rice hulls and trumpeter swans
and helps you to remember the millions
of invisible miracles which must occur within the sky
so that a blizzard can become a blizzard.
This memory is what the mad kings and architects
of the anthropomorphic rivers want you to forget
because if you do not remember the smell or feel of the land
then you will believe anything they tell you about it
including that it is just another body to exploit.
But if you remember the sound of waves
pulling back through the hair of beaches
or the ring of wind among icicles and sparrow caves
you have not forfeited all of your freedom and power
to the ruthlessness of modern convenience
and if you remember otters sliding across the lake at dusk
or a bear rushing back into the alder
then you also remember
that you are among the millions of tiny miracles within the sky
that allow a blizzard to become a blizzard
and if you can remember this
then you can speak sing and dream loud as thunder
for every quiet piece of land and water on this earth
because you have not forgotten
not the mad kings
are the one with power.