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,
It hurts sometimes,
as though my skin were raw and flayed,
exposed to the elements,
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