Every Thing flows towards its full aliveness. I look at the ancient stone walls cracking open with green flowering buds that bloom upwards as if through a miracle.
And with us too, there’s remembrance in each cell, instant recognition of what is un-nameable, beyond thought, beyond the small mind’s ability of grasping. We are clay bodies always seeking to return to our original shape. An immutable impulse towards wholeness.
I play with weight and weightlessness. What is it like to sink and soar? To be of the earth and yet to fly? To birth my dissolving and die into birth, leave what loves me and love what’s left?
I dismantle my dreams like an old house in need of a full reconstruction. I dig for symbol with such urgency, as if it’s the only thing that will feed me, guide me, offer me nourishment, substance, weight.
I stand on the edge of dreams like an eager fisherman, a hungry fishwife waiting in the heart of home.
One day, I’ll find the tree that will feed me, the river, my very own, water that will rebuild the ground of my being.
Till then, I open my dreams up like a map, dreams that light the way like a silver moon, each symbol a star bleeding out the moon’s womb, leading north.
There is no dream that offers no resurrection. Our suffering always brings with it its mending, our solitude its warmest reunion, our lostness holds the way home.
Even in the breeze of this beginning hour we breathe farewell.*
*Title and last line from “The flower of farewell” by Rilke
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