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

The Primordial Bones of my Belonging

I wrestle and churn, 

hungering for the primordial and the unmediated, 

hankering for the meaning-made-manifest 

through relationship to land and plant, 

animal and bird, elemental primacy, 

enmeshed belonging to the maternal matrix of Gaia, 

to embedded cosmic ecology, 

to tribe and custom and craft and way, 

the free flowing conduit between body and earth 

unsevered and pure, 

the great ear of my heart bent close 

to the cascading current of co-creative arising, 

weaving the vibrational threads of existence into harmony 

through the undulations of my vocal chords 

and the pulsation of my muscles, 

the ululating of my sinews, 

the earthquakes of my pleasure, 

as they are moved by the great dance 

of love’s living moment in cell and bone, 

flesh and organ, 

dancing, toning, undulating, 

partnering in a unified improvisation 

with the primordial web of creation, 

honing myself to source, stilling my mind 

so that the plants and the earth 

and the menagerie of living beings and the planets 

may speak to me of the wisdom they carry 

and of the hungering at the heart of Earth to be received by us, 

to be reciprocated with co-mingling communion,

receiving the magnificent bounty of wealth 

that lies at our feet in every moment, 

the vast and glorious treasures of fresh air and clean water, 

of fertile earth and life-giving fire. 

Even on this stolen land, my womb knows she is indigenous, 

that I belong here, on this Earth body, 

that Her breast is generous enough to offer me 

and my broken heart succour, 

to awaken me, enliven me, 

compost my separation into fecund belonging. 

May the rigid grids and sticky membranes 

of dominator culture decay, 

may the fear of persecution fall away, 

may the separation of my shame dissolve, 

may the illusion of my imprisoned inferiority erode, 

that I may be homed to the unified consciousness of Gaia, 

to the great cosmic web of creation. 

For so long I have been held captive in a colonised mind, 

from the cages of this linear perception, 

the wisdom ways of my people buried and lost so far back, 

in another land, a far distant time, 

I am orphaned from my ancestral power. 

I have not been taught the language of the ways and medicines, 

the stories and dreams and songs and dances of this country 

upon which my body abides. 

I have lost the songs and the stories 

and the language and the lore 

that held me in the tapestry of my own ancestral cohesion. 

And yet in the great cyclic dream-weave 

my soul knows beyond a shadow of a doubt, 

She remembers, that my body belongs to a cosmic weave 

of love more vast and magnificent 

than any shallow trinket promised by my culture, 

than any trauma my personhood can endure. 

I was there at the beginning of all of this 

and I will be there at the end, 

so much bigger and more exquisite than I could ever imagine, 

unified and vast, eternally nourishing, eternally receiving. 

Was I born here, on this Earth at this time, 

misplaced and cast adrift in a culture 

of brutal rape and devouring avarice, 

of plastic and hunger, colonised and dismembered, 

to endlessly drown in the wave upon wave 

of my own lostness and despair? 

Or can I weave my way home to belonging and to cohesion, 

to song and to story, to dance and to vibrational integrity? 

Can I leave the words of separation 

and division and brutal ownership 

that are a part of my cultural inheritance, out of my mouth? 

May they cease to move my tongue? 

May I create new words that bind and attune, 

that embrace and send out roots and shoots 

to mend and to heal, to connect and to re-member? 

Can I allow myself to be re-membered? 

Can I surrender the need to be seen as something seperate and special, 

to know myself as something vastly insignificant and deeply connected? 

Can I recall how to be in relationship 

with the microbiome of soil and the cadence of soul? 

Can I allow myself to be moved by the tide and rustled by the breeze, 

my boundaries thrown wide open to let the sunlight in and the mosquito, 

the owl and the star, the pulse and the spark? 

Can I be born again, wild and instinctual, primal and alive, 

tender and pure, listening and receptive, courageous and co-creative, 

to this Earth that is my home, 

this body that is my nest 

and my deepest rest, 

to this womb that carries the universe within it, 

to this heart that is born to sing in gratitude 

for the rain of blessings life bestows, 

to this mind that has been undone and remade 

across the vast stretches of time, 

that whilst holding a leaden understanding 

of the atrocities of humanity, 

also holds within it the hologram of my own divinity 

and the birth right of my ancient belonging 

in the ever-present ecstasy of the now.

Text © Lucy Pierce 2018