Wednesday, January 9, 2019

A Great Perhaps





How ecstatic it feels to be open, like a sieve, fresh water pouring through holes, like nerve endings, another energy melding with your own, blood pumping through arteries and veins, across synapses, traveling from the crown of your head to the tips of your toes, electric.

Sharing my soul with another forms a most holy union protecting us both from the onslaught of the dank energy of this middle world.

But like seasons, we change, and the essence of humanity has waned. Each time I share my soul with another, instead of filling my chalice, they drink. And drink.

They drink so gluttonous it seems the sky will swallow me right up into the atmosphere to be lost among the heavens, eternal, and every time my feet hit this dear Earth, I am sure the ground will grab my ankles and pull me right down into the deepest depths of what I imagine to be hell.

I prefer to be a sieve. It is my natural state of being, but to exist in this land of humankind as an open, accepting, empathic soul, is quite the arduous task.

I often wonder how Mother Earth feels, always alive, breathing, bearing her breasts for any ole fool, never ashamed nor worried for her own health and well-being, always with open arms, she is willing to embrace even the crudest of our kind.

Perhaps this is why, for me, this is the only place I can be a sieve, in her arms, beneath the safe canopies of her treetops, holy angelic halos, with my hands deep in her lifeblood, the dirt and clear water streams, where salamanders and damsel flies play, where there is no noise, only the wind, Mother Earth breathing, heaving from her lungs, billion year old carbon.

Perhaps, this is why I adore Joan of Arc, a maiden on voyage, silver gilt and shielded, eyes ablaze with wonderment, brain abuzz with messages, otherworldly.

I too, shall ride stallions into war, one arm raised, in great holy thunder, battalions behind me, forged steel as protection, the Gods and Goddesses, holding their palms above my dear head, rays of light streaming from behind clouds.





 © photo and words Susan Marie

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