Universal Fury

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The mouth in the clouds opens

into a universal scream

because there is no space

for a dream

-ing of future, places, tense for little girls;

Ripped from the bosom of the Mother

then forced unto a Father whose

hellfire and damnation

damned the father to disconnect

from all that is truly holy and

created a new hell.

The African Queen roars

for the pain of her pride,

ripped from the ground and the head of the vessel

that brings the birth of the next generations

shatter

-ing the chalice and creation of pleasure

for the pursuit of power

structures that inhibit growth

beyond the perpetual pregnancy

of what freedom might feel like.

Morrigan speaks her pain

and power and self into being through

a mortal man

who would like to remain mere

-ly quiet, in his soft bubble of

self and softness

while injustice reigns.

La Madre

is honored for false virginity but

isn’t for the power of her presence

and presents of peace–her daughters’

virginity transformed into whore

by greed and with gusto.

We cry “Save the Mother”

theatrically

but conspire to keep her children

in the depths of torment upon the

first forced parting of their thighs…

saying, “Shhhhhh…..”

Selling them shortened lives and

into chains of bondage and fear

Now, though, Wakiyan are called to walk

with Pratyangira,

angels and devas dive into the

world of the eagle embodied

bringing together iron and thunder

trident and truth.

The Silk Lady’s red ribbon

drips and twists from heart to

heat,

stoking the fire of

the Furies

and, where it meets her feet,

Aphrodite is reforged.

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Speak Now or Forever…

The weight of this sad time we must obey

Speak what we feel, not what we ought to say.

The oldest hath borne most, we that are young

Shall never see so much, nor live so long.

~ King Lear Scene 5, Act 3

 

Oh, my love. In the midst of despair I only heard “Don’t say anything to anyone. I cannot tell anyone who you are or why you are here. You must keep you mouth shut, not even share your prayers with anyone. When you give your prints in a sweat, hold your tongue. Do not say what you are praying for or who you are to be working with. Say nothing. Hold everything inside.”

Behind those words were deeply held fears passed down to you by those who ‘taught these things’. There was a time, not as long ago as many may think, that holding everything inside is what kept individuals alive and communities intact; when the threat of the ‘savage’ accessing the powers that be and to Be as they were meant to meant death for those who spoke allowed, sang and danced with the rhythm of the heart of all that is.

Those who taught you these things were taught by others who tried desperately to erase your families from their own identities, histories, stories and, for some, existence.

However, we face something very similar now and to not speak truths of things; truths of things of spirit, the spirit of nature and nature of spirit, and our relationship with all those things. To hold our tongue still and heart closed will continue the process of losing identity, history, story, and, yes, for some, existence.

For two years, I’ve not known what to say when the Ancestors and Others who walk with me have shouted, “SPEAK!” with an occasional, more gentle, “Speak, child. Speak.”  I’ve asked again and again, “What would you have me say?” not in such a gentle way. Now I know.

Now I will hold neither my tongue nor my heart. There is no turning back. When They ask me to go find those disappeared at the hands of others and being disappeared because their sight and their voices, too, are being blinded and shuttered, I will. I will find them to bring them home; some to their families and some to their own hearts, their own nature. I will speak so their truths may be heard.

I will be quiet no more and ask you, my kind sir, do the same for we must do this together. No one of us can do this alone. We were never meant to.

In Telling the Holiness, I wrote :

In the Apache tradition, storytelling is to ‘tell the holiness’.  The myths that speak to the holy are “performed only by medicine men and women for the purposes of enlightenment and instruction.”

We may have finally come to the time where many  realize that storytelling isn’t only for medicine-people to tell; the truths of all things holy come from each of us, as much as we draw breath our own stories give us life.

In the time before we were not separate from ourselves and the places we stood upon and looked up into, we were a people so connected to the earth that the earth took our pain in the same manner it gave us life.  Absorbed it like a rare rain in the desert and held onto it like it was holding onto their dear lives. At one point, back in our time, we were each those people.  And, now they are mere remnants of our fabric; tossed and hidden away when not murdered from existence, removed from the collective conscious except when it appears to serve our romantic nature or reliance on greed.

I listen to those struggling to maintain communities in a good way fight to keep parking lots from plowing over medicines. My heart breaks when I’ve brought a 40 year old man back to his tribe but the 15 year old sitting next to him is desperate to escape “because I can’t be me here. I’m not safe. I’m not ready to kill myself, though. Yet.”

And in the places where we have shoved those people who represent the past that we have collectively deemed unworthy of our attention, we die along with them. As they bleed the interest in life, the earth withholds it–for them and for us. There’s no need to feed & give life if life is no longer lived in the manner it was made to support.  And this is repeated around the globe, again and again, even as we struggle to manipulate natural and created systems to feed our futures.  This cycle will be repeated as if a contagion until we vanish.

Like those before us who were starved of connection to their sacred places & spaces, we disconnect even further from each other.  Some run in any number of ways to escape, some escape to feel free yet yearn to come home.  Those who have walked before and those now.

I have felt the lost.   I have held their hearts in my hand and I have stood in the spaces where the ancients realized all that is was no longer; that relationship with the ground, that relationship with each other, the ties that bind us as a people, that relationship between spaces below and above; the very representations of all that is home.

To walk onto home and feel the defeat between the highs and to hear the kindness of strangers turn to meanness to kin who aren’t enough of any measure to be accepted by family or community, reveals that same lostness, but not of the Ancestors but in the hearts of those beating now. “How can I be me if I can’t be seen?” “All this talk about spirits, why am I called crazy for seeing these things?” “I can’t tell anyone the trees speak to me.” “I could just die.”

Oh, love. Please stay. I hear you. I’m coming. I feel you. I’m coming.

 

 

Deadly Devotion

To  cry “Save our Mother”

while prying

open the thighs of her daughters,

slashing and burning through souls…

 

To dance for Durga and honor the cow

while murdering

their  brothers in skin and sinew

incensing  streets with iron-clad odor….

 

To dutifully bow to the East

with desire

to bend little boys over at the waist…

 

To lay flowers at the feet of the Virgin

while planting Los Desaparecidos

and mulching them with lies….

 

To pray in my name for  bounty

and well-being

while blaspheming the same

 in bloodlust…

Devotion was never meant to be deadly. Those who let the blood of others in any holy name, in any name of any god or God, are beyond hypocrisy. Those who would diverge from their devotion to cause harm to the least of these are apostasy in action. Those who praise and bully from the pulpit are neither prayerful or praiseworthy.

Belittling or betraying the connection between humanity and the holy, to serve as fear-monger, lyncher, and liar and money-changers at the temple of greed does not offer hope, share love, or imply sacrifice worthy of divine notice.

Supporting and replicating those processes and their perpetrators in the here-world, does not give one special access to any after-world. Nor  is it an loving reflection of spiritual communion or any kind of community.

These are not acts of any devil other than ourselves and we have reached a point where we need to decide if our ‘devotion’ is of that replicating the fierce love of those we claim fidelity to or if we’re going to continue false offerings for favors while acting in opposition to those loving aspects they represent. Do we choose to help and heal or harm?

 

Joy Abandoned

Taken from a FB Q & A yesterday:

Joy left in November and only shows her face briefly. Holding it together doesn’t seem to allow for joy. How can I invite joy in to my life again and trust that it will come?

Joy doesn’t leave. It’s not the emotion’s responsibility to show itself to you. And, it doesn’t have a singular nature of, say, showing up in a high or grandiose action or activity. It’s there. There’s no need to ‘trust that it will come’; it doesn’t abandon or retreat or hide behind the couch waiting to jump out and surprise you. Why are you not seeing it? If you want to, all you have to do is look and allow yourself to feel it, that’s your responsibility. You can start with the mirror.

 

Feeling the Pain is not Failure to Thrive

dancing-the-feels

The avoidance is

There is a new, perhaps renewed, ‘depth’ of raw feeling within many and a deep desire to express it. As if, the uncapping of the well of torment has given, at the same time, a glimpse of the possibilities of love and the doubting capacity to dive into the wellspring of it all and bring it through.

There is still profound pain. It is manifest in physical discomfort that is awaiting recognition and release. It’s the fog of the mind that feels as thin as a veil but heavy as stone. It will begin to feel lighter when you allow yourself to feel it all.  You will also begin to notice hints of delight, joy, and desire more meaningful than ever before because without being willing to feel the pain, you’re missing the ‘real feels’, the pantheon of emotional experience and capacity to touch and be touched in the most deep and holy way.

This is not a thing to fake-until-you-make. You cannot bypass the feelings and expression of them. Anything short of diving in and opening up into the wholeness, the holiness of you, will aid in your devolution. You are not bound by any law of nature to hold onto your pain once it no longer serves you.

Feel it. Sing it. Weep it. Wail it. Dance it but don’t sidestep it. Write it. Touch it. Lance that boil. Give it a name if you need to.

Be in it. We won’t let you stay in so long that you begin to stink like it.

On Hope and Harm

 

hopeA few days ago I posted this on the PlaceofFace:

Hope, faith, justice, freedom and love do not require the disparaging of or denial another.

In fact, they are the antithesis of it.

Can you be in hope, have faith, share justice and freedom and love without harming another?

The responses included:

  • Hard to say. If the other is forcefully obstructing those qualities , I dunno.
  • Sound[s] like unconditional love, it’s doable but….
  • Unconditional anything is unrealistic, and it could be destructive. There may always be a possible need for limits. We are humans (along with being something else in essence.

None of these responses answered the question:  Can you be in hope, have faith, share justice and freedom and love without harming another?

My curiosity was piqued because in the furious responses to our politics, I was taken aback by how horridly people speak of and to other people; degrade them as animals (while often in the same breath maligning other who use the same language), mock the results of their lack of access to information or choice to not engage in what others identity as The Way, and use twists of scripture to deny what is universal.   None of these things are new, I know. However, it seems that if we’re talking about a lack of unity while actively seeking to hurt others, we’re then talking out of both sides of our mouth and mimicking the one we deride.

Can you answer the question?  Then, if you can in the way I hope you do, are you willing to change your language to reflect the answer?

 

 

 

“I never knew I was cherished. Until now.”

-1383January 02, 2005

I never hungered for food as a child. I starved, though, for the love of my mother–something beyond the loneliness in the emotional sea between us and the actual fear of her ferocity. I thought it’d be in the cupboard of good grades, good behavior (and the occasional hope the connection would be found in the bad as well), diligence and, perhaps, talent.

As an I’ve grown into thisness, though, the opposite has become true. I’m often physically hungry but live steeped in the kind of love that exists beyond a mother’s capacity–that thing of the larger universe that binds us through those perceived seas between us.

There is no longer an attachment to those feelings held as a young child and young adult. They helped mold me and guide me to this place and the beings I am and work with but no longer exist as they used to.  My brain and body no longer hold them but I am reminded each time I touch another whose path has been similar to mine.

When the cells and selves that have held the fear of fist, abandonment and invasion of safety and sex zones, are ready to be opened into the light of mercy, what happens is the thing of dreams. That love that I’m steeped in and of, is felt for, often the first time, in the entirety of another.

To be with someone who, for the first time, can know they are cherished and treasured by all that is holy is magnificent.  When inner strength formerly girded by insecurities opens into love and begins the process of angelic unfolding, I’m reminded of our glory, our potential and the hope that each of us brings the rest of us.

To know–and to feel within every fiber of our being– that we are cherished–without exception, without expectation–is our birthright.

I love you.