Bedrock

Deepest gratitude to Talulah Gough of Making Sacred  for the potent 

experience of birthing my Medicine Drum.

Bedrock

In the darkness I am heaving with all my might,

sweating and sliding against the force,

striving to turn the tide, with it’s own mighty weight,

that I might pause a moment, to turn,

and bare witness to the consequences of my pain body

laid out like a war-field behind me,

stretching out before me into the lives of my children,

that I might stop and start to strip myself back,

veil by veil, layer by layer, less of me,

in the hope of one day being somehow more.

Even my own body is saying no now

to the false god of my own pretense,

to all the feeble structures I have built

to disguise the  shifting sands,

the marshlands of my own tenuous foundation.

It is time to dig deeper, down to the bedrock,

to become nothing that does not move

from the unknown truth within me,

to be nothing, so as not to be something false.

With my eyes closed, alone in the still darkness,

I am dismantling that place I made for myself,

so young and wounded,

when I felt the great eye of the world

turn to me and ask me who I was,

when I had barely begun to see myself,

already begun to burry myself,

had never really ever felt  safe enough to arrive.

But to please the world I smiled and pushed my pain down.

I smiled and started to build myself up,

like a child with lego blocks.

But that structure will no longer house my children,

with their tender hearts and robust wills.

It will not house the enormity of my love

and the man who dwells with me there.

My pain, it leaks out always from the cracks

that form in the walls I have built, toxic and corrosive,

as the ground shifts and quakes beneath me,

and though it seems I gain some ground,

the delayed collapse of the dominoes of my past action,

keep crashing down upon me.

And so with bloodied hands I am pulling it down,

piece by piece I am scraping back the debris

of all my failed attempts at being something.

I am seeking the bedrock of my being

so that the little one within can be seen again,

can be held while she weeps,

can say to the world, “turn your eye from me!

I am not yet ready, I have no yet arrived here,

from my starry realm.”

I am digging in the hope that perhaps the children I have born

need not pretend quite so much as I have,

that the truth of them might incarnate a little more fully,

through the terra strata of my pain

to the bedrock of my love.

Lucy Pierce © 2014

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