I lost myself in sounds and purged this in a trance of sorts. I leave it here, I share it there. I'm not speaking out my next step until it's completed.
Every instinct I have at the moment is being tested and challenged. Everything I know and speak from my heart is being rebutted. It feels as though I must stop pretending like I even need to vocalize what it is I am going to do, I am to move forward and just complete the task. It has now come to a point where my internal dialog is present in all of my external dialogs. Just waiting there for me to announce what it is that I am about to do. Just waiting to stomp upon it with the doubt, confusion, riddles and more questions than answers.
So you see the answer is as it's always been. To trust one's instinct without provocation nor a need to justify or be approved of. I know what to do. You know what to do. Stop seeking validation.
Coyote came upon me in the fullness of the moon. He crept with grace and touched the earth softly with each step he took. Nothing under the pads of his paws would be left crumpled or would wilt. When his gaze met mine there was such a brilliant fire that's spark exploded without warning. Not one of ignition. One that would light up the skies beyond the star's glow and the Moon's luminous beams. One meant to burn, char and reduce. He arched his back, threw back his thin wild head and howled fiercely in the moon. Never have I seen such quiet, graceful, beauty become twisted so sharply in unnerving torment. A howl I have never seen in all of my time. To come out as it did, was perplexing. This was not the sweet creature I warmed up to. I wrestled with my mind, I wrestled with the sounds of the Moon who was singing to me to calm my heart, my spirit my mind. So I walked out to her. I left Coyote with the druid. I left Coyote to chatter and yip.
I gave over the struggle with the sounds of the ethereal medley that was being sung by the Moon. It was clear then what her message was, and there is no need nor will I give clarity now. But her song filled me, it engulfed me, took me into her trance and left me with her breath on each exhale. The Moon in her glow, the Moon in her grace. The serpent in the eye of Coyote imparted wisdom to and fro. Connected through it's gaze piercing the back of my skull still entranced by the song of the Moon, the chanting tones of sounds with no words. Shadows playing with mine, my shadow wants to play alone. No more to be touched in the darkness of another. But that's never the way of this sphere. Darkness is everywhere. Darkness bows to your will and you to it.
Covered in sleep, shedding waters to the earth's body as my body lies twisted feeding the source of all that I came from and went to. And all that I am is all that was and all that is. And all that you are is all that is and all that was.
And there is healing in this space and there is pain. And there is suffering in the sustaining of the festering of this wound. I could play with it all day in the muck of it all. Or so it would seem. Does one ever actually say those words? Does one actually ever admit that they look for this pain? They search it out in themselves and in others to mesh it all in one lump of miserable feedings. And it rips you, it grips you and holds you down hard. Far away from here, far away from your conscious mind, it's there in the shadows, lurking. The idea that began this descent into the hole in the first pace. The instinct wound. The one that makes you no longer trust...
What was it that you were feeling again? Is this falling into sequence? Is it coming to a head? Is there a fire in there?
Can there be another way to find this space or have you sat here in this cave of reflections, and decrepit bones and dried skins? Sticks and stones and rubber and glue we bash our skins and break our bones and we can't put that all back together again can we? Are we supposed to?
Then we sleep. In the glow of the Moon with her sacred hymn, she lulled me to my slumber and sleep well I did. Sleep well you should.
For when the calm comes, the Fool appears all bright and glorious in his garb. Change is no stranger to this creature, this rogue of the mysteries. Lovingly, laughingly, languidly trotting to and fro with no direction or purpose. And that is his greatest trait. Not knowing or caring where the path may lead you. tempered, restrained and knowing the riddles don't matter. The game is afoot and he's not playing. You're not playing. I'm not playing. We're not playing anymore.
And those instincts begin to kick in again. This distraction of madness and lack of temperance. It's time to go home.
And that moment arose where we realized we didn't have to speak anymore. There was no validation to be had. There was no more time to wade in the muck of the bloodied stinking wound that festers at the core. No more reason to feed the parasites that suckle at the foot of the wound so deep.
You've been sitting here long enough. I've been sitting here long enough. We've been sitting here long enough.
Go look for your plants, go search for your herbs, collecting the dew of each day's new light, transcending one moment to the next. Each new light, a new poultice to mend the tender and vulnerable wound. New winds to breathe fresh life to the source of the infection so deeply embedded so far from the space you once thought was the original wound. No this is so much deeper. This is something that has abscessed, and the waters will cleanse and the fires will mend, and the muds will be packed to nourish your soul and strengthen the space within you that has been lacking. Feed yourself this manna of the elements while you wash yourself in your internal majesty that you have been a stranger to all this time. That is what is lying beneath the festering ooze of the muck. The clean life waiting to be reborn.
You've broken and bashed, torn and stretched the skins and pulled out the hairs and burned it all to ash. Another healer for you in this time. Something to rise from when the fire ignites in its true form once more. Open wounds, bloodied heart and torn to bits, but that was the remnants of the impostor. No more brittle bones and tattered robes of flesh. No more skunky wound of wretched, twisting pain. Burned, bled, washed and aired, coated in mud and ash. Hide yourself under all of this cleansing, bury yourself within it. This is who you are now. This egg of new life waiting to be reborn. Your old impostor is gone. This is new. This is uncomfortable; the unknown.
The work isn't done. Your work isn't done. My work isn't done. Our work isn't done.
So you lie with it, in fetal position and truly, you are the fetus. There is no wound. There is only everything you were before it hurt. Before your spirit was torn in so many ways that mending seemed impossible. But silly creature, a soul does not tear and does not rip. It only scatters and fractions itself until that time when you are ready to put it back together again. When you are ready to call it all back into yourself.
Are you ready to call it back? Can you put it back together again? Can I put it back together again? Can we put it back together again?
What comes next? I don't know. I haven't stopped sleeping with myself yet. There's more work to be done.
I do know that I'm not speaking whatever is next out loud, until after I have completed the task.
Author: Cari-Lee Miller
Understand this, dear reader:
This blog space is like a diary to which consent for my writings/feelings/expressions, is never needed or asked for. This is my space and if it brings you uncomfortable feelings, feel free to look no further and keep to the spaces that do you no harm.
I am a seed burst forth from its shell. I have mingled and fought in the dirt. I am ready to kiss the Sun. *CLM
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