July 6, 2018

Speaking the Sacred- Mother


Me, Tania Kavathas and Cameron Semmens at Speaking the Sacred - Mother
Photo- John Englezos

Last month the beautiful soul-weaver Tania Kavathas invited me to speak at the exquisite and intimate event Speaking The Sacred - Mother. There was a very deep sense of collective engagement and a rich opportunity for all present to speak and share what was stirred in them in the presence of this theme. Cameron Semmens offered us all a delightful sample of his poems and offered a very tender and enlightening exploration of the poetic form of the blessing. Here are some photo's of the event by the talented John Englezos. @johnephotography
Partaking in this event stirred a deeper exploration of this theme of Mother in my life, and I felt gifted by the insights that came through as I journeyed it's currents in preparation for this event. These are some new poems that came through.



Atoning the Mother

We pour the oil slicked deluge 
of our detritus down her throat, 
it seeps across her ancient, life-giving  terrain, 
the rivers of her holy water polluted with our debris, 
as we dredge her depths 
for more than we could ever have really needed.
We turn from the life-giving fountain of her love 
and suckle at the dry teat of consumerism.
We have been taught to blame her, 
to validate our wayward betrayal, 
or to numb us from the daily details 
of her rape and pillage, 
all the orphaned pain of our fear and demise 
coming to land in her precious body.
We are taught to fear her, 
to distract us from the true predator 
that feeds the feeble surrogacy 
of our acculturated dismemberment. 
She is scapegoated, 
just as the culture has taught me 
to blame my own mother 
for the mismatch of care, 
inflicted by a mis-attuned people, 
who disrupt the true nature of her blooming, 
with interventions of misogyny, 
an indoctrination of maladapted attachment, 
so that woman is not to be trusted 
just as Earth is not to be trusted, 
as though she were the one to construct 
the devastating infrastructure of dominance, 
with its imperative of mother-blame, 
when her abandonment and neglect 
means that she becomes the hand of not-enoughness, 
she the one who cannot give, 
with her instincts severed, her hands tied 
and the flow of her wild milk brutally dammed. 
We blame her, the one who has been brutalised, 
not the culture behind, 
who has brutally maimed her capacity to love, 
through millenia of colonising the feminine imperative. 
Deforesting her wild terrain, mining her resources, 
making a slave of her care-giving, 
so that she becomes the handmaid of patriarchy itself. 
The withheld love, 
the harrowing ancestral trauma of our own withholding, 
the polluted landscape, 
the depleted resource, 
the incapacitated flow of nurturance,
legacies of our mortally maimed 
and broken inheritance. 
Because we will never stop needing 
the love that She was born to give, 
and its absence is like an aching maw within, 
each and every one of us.

Can we remember how it is that we can trust her, 
the wild earth inside us, the great mother within?
Can we delve deeply down to the bedrock 
of our own depths to find the unpolluted seam 
of pure presence and exquisite attunement 
that is our birthright? 
Can we find again within us, 
and in the earth at our feet, 
the burgeoning wellspring of her ancient sustenance, 
ever flowing, fertile and powerful, 
birth/death mother, so intricately balanced, 
so achingly poised, so bountifully generous, 
so tenderly attuned, 
despite the desecration of our uninitiated mayhem 
upon the back and belly and breast of her sacred terrain?
Can we gather up the millennia of trauma, 
that is the belonging to a culture that seeks 
to dominate the ancient unseen She, 
that has raged war with fire and brimstone 
against a woman free to birth and to heal 
and to keen and to tend as she sees fit 
to the creative interface of existence? 
Can we bundle up, with the gentlest of care 
our ancient wounds, our harrowing shame, 
with at last a tenderness befitting the tragedy 
of our very own severance? 
Can we reach across and place the preciousness 
of our own pain to the pendulous breast of our true Mother, 
trace with our innocent fingers 
the scars of her stretched and ancient flesh, 
may we place our very own brokenness 
into the life-giving curve of her round and comforting arms, 
can we let her rip aside all that does not serve us, 
and may we let her lick the wounds of our becoming clean, 
allowing the weight of our despair 
to rest into the soft warmth of her belly? 
Do you hear the constant measure of her heart beat 
and how it reweaves the broken strands, 
as she floods our mouths with the cosmic star-milk 
of our own immutable belonging? 
Can you feel the medicines sprouting from her earthen pores, 
balm for the breaks and bruises of our enculturation casualty? 
Can you feel her great womb taking us all in again, 
making us her own again, 
newborn and ancient, 
sons and daughters once more,
of the mother?




Her Greatest Gift

I see now, in its excruciating magnificence, 
the full extent of her dual face,
the light and the dark of her,
what it truly is that she carries for us,
and that perhaps her greatest gift is not her love after all,
but her wounding to the love, 
so that we may come to know it from within our own selves.
and she carries this task as her greatest sacrifice,
that even though she gives us everything in her power,
to nurture and to nourish and to sustain,
even when she does this with little or no support from her culture,
even though every fibre of her being is honed to care,
it is written into the stars that she will also wound us, 
it will be her greatest gift and it is her cross to bare,
that there will be the time
when she cannot meet our tender needs 
in the particular way that is needed
in that particular moment
and the wound will slice,
and she may not even know that she has done it,
but there will be blood on the sword
that she weighs in her hand.
Because without this wound,
 we would stay child to this mother forever,
without her not enoughness
we would never leave
the temple of her grace.
It is her capacity to hurt us,
that will become the path of our own individuation,
it is the first seed of our impetus
to come to know the archetypal mother within our own beings,
rather than always seeking her from without, 
So that we may come to inhabit and embody 
our own great capacity to mother,
self and other,
and world and earth,
and child and creation and cosmos.
And because we have lost our mythic intelligence,
we take the wound so literally
and we might live our whole life
stuck in the blame we feel
towards our personal mother,
the betrayal of her love
becoming the excuse for our own not-enoughness.
But if we can dig in deeply
to unearth this gift
of her inadvertent severing of us 
from the primal unified field
in which we are immersed in, if we are lucky,
in the womb and then at her breast,
and inside her gaze and her unconditional regard,
When we can mature enough to pick up this wound as our greatest gift,
it opens a path for us
to come to know this primal unified field within our own beings.
This is the two faces of mother,
she is wired to nourish
and she is wired to wound,
And it is because she is actually woman, 
she is not god.
and she will do both of these things without thanks, 
the nurturing and the wounding,
and she will carry the weight of it to her grave
unless we come to pick up the gift
that is buried inside the wound.
The Earth needs us all to remember ourselves now as Mother,
this vast capacity to hold
apposing energies in a unified field,
to nourish and to nurture,
to exquisitely attune and selflessly care,
to fiercely protect,
to fiercely protect,
to fiercely protect.
Mother blame is a weapon of a dominator society,
that wants us all to remain insatiable children,
we cannot love the Earth until we make peace
with the personal mother who gave us everything she had
in a world that would not hold her giving in any sort of regard,
though her hands were bound by trauma, 
her breasts withheld from her own withheld love for self,
her empty cup, 
her power suppressed by her fear,
her fierce love gagged
by a disempowerment hammered in
for generations of desecration
to the feminine principle of life.
She still gave everything she had
to nourish and to nurture 
and the thing is,
it was never going to be enough,
and you were always meant to wake up
to the fact that the wounds she gave you were her greatest gifts,
because through them you will come to follow
the path to knowing the divine face
of the holy mother inside your own cells,
it is only through the excruciating pain of her absence
that we will come to know her as the God within us,
who reminds us what it is to birth and to hold,
the alchemical matter of our blood and our semen
and our sweat and our tears,
the sacred waters of our wombs manifesting life into being,
our bodily intelligence gestating in collaboration with the masculine,
bringing forth,
primally birthing and tenderly attending
the world into being
in every living moment,
each and every one of us.
We are all born with the primal imprint
of the maternal matrix
of the feminine face of god within us, 
waiting to wake up to ourselves,
as the custodians and caretakers
of ourselves and each other,
and of the earth
and Her cosmic interface.
And I know this because I have been the child loved
and I have been the child wounded.
And I know this because I have been the mother who loves,
and I have been the mother who wounds,
and I am so bone wearily tired
of living my life through the lens of the wound,
instead of seeing it through the lens of the gift.
The gift of the love and the gift of the wound
which is the homecoming to the heart of love 
and the belonging to the Mother 
who lives beyond and beneath and behind and within,
The gift which is the coming to know this mother inside of me,
to feel the magnitude of that love, and the pain of that sacrifice, 
the mother who wounds and gives life,
the mother who loves and gives life,
and that even as she lives inside of me 
she is also one of the faces of the multitudinous god,
into whom I was born.


Photos © John Englezos 2018
Text © Lucy Pierce  2018

May 11, 2018

The Resurrection

There is a way of belonging to myself
that beckons to me like an undeniable imperative.
It beseeches me from my dreams
and asks that even when I wake
I peel back the veil,
step through to the dream-weave,
so that my mind is transfigured,
unhinged a little from the world
no longer as capable of attending
to the hyper-rational imperative.
Instead her boundaries soften and fray,
stretching wildly into the cosmic terrain
and as I heed the call and stretch and dream,
soften and surrender,
I enter the sensorial theatre
of all the memories that have ever been lived,
but never really felt,
through all the incarnated lifetimes
through all the ancestral bloodlines,
never viscerally embraced,
or kinaesthetically integrated,
into the whole-hearted, 
womb-anchored consciousness of love.
As I loosen the imperatives of the mind 
to brutally ride the domesticated beast of my body, 
foaming at the mouth, 
pumping its resources high and dry
on adrenaline and stress and self-loathing,
so as not to feel in the cells of my holy embodiment, 
the millennia of pain and grief 
that has waited on the wings
for its time to step forth and be seen,
to have it’s moment,
to be known and received for what it is,
inside the body.
Lifetimes and generations of disembodied trauma, 
coming to land in the profound interface of the living body,
alive and awake to sensation,
becoming present to this living moment 
that is after all, all that we have.
I surrender to the visceral unravelment,
welcoming the annihilation of the false withholding 
from the truth of why we are here, 
to feel and to sense, to hold and to release, 
to love and to birth, to care and to endure 
the living death in order to awaken to this life.
As I walk this path ever more deeply 
into the body and into the dream,
I choose the pain, I open myself to the repugnant 
and the cold and the brittle and the sharp,
to the barren and the lifeless,
I know myself as the holocaust, 
as the predator, as the ghoul.
I wrap these ancient petrified bones
in succulent wave upon succulent wave
of fleshy, pink, wet love,
homing, beholding,
returning, restoring.

It hurts sometimes, 
as though my skin were raw and flayed,
exposed to the elements,
hideously maimed.
It’s excruciating at times
as though there were a live, exposed cable
resting inside my body
and when my mind’s eye scans
and chances to touch that place,
bolts of charge, surges of volatility 
course through my cells, repelling consciousness,
the shock that seeks to dismember me, 
exile me yet from the nest of my body.
She is violent sometimes,
ripping herself to shreds on the inside
with razor claw and searing tooth,
the visceral annihilation of all the stories left unfelt across time,
waking up inside me.
This my crucifixion,
this the thorn and the nail,
this the Adoni, Adoni.
To feel the stories inside the flesh,
that my ancestors put down,
rose above, suppressed, imprisoned,
that my soul has died for again and again, 
that I have chosen the relief of disembodiment from for millennia,
so that the longing to excarnate has been so intoxicating,
it’s impulse reaching to kiss the lips of death, 
hungering to be released from the overwhelm of the embodied feelings 
of all that has not yet been integrated home to the now,
restored to belonging, 
nurtured back to the heart of love.

I take them inside me now,
I let the claw tear and the tooth rip through my flesh,
I bring my awareness back
again and again to the live shock
of amplified volatility within,
and I bare witness, I allow my love to bare witness.
I cradle my traumatised DNA to the breast
as I would a new-born babe, 
suckling her deep to the bone, 
restoring life to the withered unworthiness 
of my inherited pain.
I pour the healing waters over the vilified flesh,
I anoint the wounds,
I attend to the exposed fascia of my untended experience.
So that at last and after all,
I can belong in the home of my skin,
finally to incarnate into the exquisite birthright 
of my sensorial sovereignty,
so that the shimmering quiver,
the exquisite tremor,
the burgeoning wellspring,
the pregnant bliss,
the enveloping ocean of love’s enthronement,
the ecstatic gestation of the compassionate deluge,
the cosmic intelligence of the one-song of creation 
may also enter
the temporal inhabitation of my body-being, 
enfolding me in healing tendrils,
shining inside me with the one-fire of existence,
inundated with the holy elixir
of our sacred inheritance as the hologram of God, 
of Source, of Creator, of Spirit,
our profound belonging to the truth of love 
and the power of healing within us.
This the resurrection,
this the resurrection

of love upon the Earth. 


Text © Lucy Pierce 2018