Coordinates: In the covers on a rare rainy day. Hurricane Agatha arrives tomorrow up from the Eastern Pacific. I’m under the weather, as it were, with the stomach flu, so today’s post is pulled from the archive. Somehow this topic keeps returning for another look. CW: mention of the existence of violence
You are love, you are love, you are love.
You are made of love. Your bones are love. Your tooth and tongue are love.
> But I’m tired. I want to go to sleep.
Sleep will come and with it your dreams.
Duendas.
Cielitos.
Languages never spoken.
You are becoming. You are a becoming. That will never change.
> Will my soul come out to play?
Yes, make sweet time to speak to it.
> I’m so, so tired. I don’t know how to rest.
Rest not in supermarket fantasies of bedtime dreams. Search for simple pleasures. Smear together your past and present with shimmering futures.
> What about all the violence that’s happening?
Swamp it out. Move it through. Tell no lies about truth.
> How do I tell the truth to my family?
Pick the pocket. Dip the rocket. Pish the posh. Ding the dong.
Right the wrong. Sing the song.
Might doesn’t make right, we’ve known that all along.
> What’s gonna happen next?
Don’t ask questions about the future. You already know it in your bones.
The wind brushes your cheek. The cold rain mixes with your warm tears and washes the dust off your skin. Salt and fresh, old and new, wine and water, red and blue.
The enemy, always the enemy… the monster under the bed seeking and stealing only cinnamon for their bread.
But this sin stinks where no perfume can hide.
The cow’s hide now tanned and black takes no more lashes from its kind.
The streets burn from gas canned so long ago.
The Molotov throws wide, it smiles high,
bringing black and brown and blue blood.
> How do we? What do we? When do we…
Hide? No, there’s no more hiding.
No more smiling at the wide
gap
between.
We don’t take what’s given…
No, we don’t take anymore.
We don’t take, we don’t take, we don’t take.
We give, and we give, and we give.
We receive, and we receive, and we receive,
the gift, the gift, the gift.
The gift of the land, the gift of the sun,
the gift of the apple tree, the oak, and the deer,
the tomatoes who make fruit,
never having seen a KPI,
an ROI, or a strategic plan.
The numerous without number
who we never counted,
but now we count.
We count ourselves worthy of love, of compassion,
of boundaries that we don’t have to fight for anymore.
For dignity, for honor, for peace.
We number the numberless.
We shape the shorn.
We unsaddle the weary.
We mourn.
We mourn.
And
when we have done our mourning –
we rise.
We wake.
We walk,
up the mountain to the fresh air,
up to meet the clouds as we sing our songs.
To battle no more.
To sow seeds instead of storms.
It’s always a good day to visit the dragon. What pressing issue is on your mind that you’d like more clarity about? What’s been in your dreams? Each card brings new light to old bones.
Beautiful! Thank you for this brightly colored Wisdom :)