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