Like mist slowly stretching itself through a vast forest where lichen and mushrooms grow, she pervades the very air we breathe. She is in the blades of grass bending to the will of the wind. She is the feathers that fall from winged’s perched high in the treetops, the earthworm that burrows between the winding rooted road of a tree. She is the tree, the earthworm, the winged, the grass, the wind, the soil.
She is the animating intelligence that stirs all of life into a dance and song.
She lives in the pain of childbirth, in the sweat and tears of motherhood, the death of loved ones, the howl of Wolf, the cry of Whale. She is the Gaian web that tethers each of us to one another. She is birth, life, death and rebirth.
She is a cellular memory of our primordial and primal origins. She is the wild world calling to us in our dreams, begging us to lament what we have lost so that we can draw close once more to the very essence and nature of our Soul.
Known by many names and stretching across tradition and time, she is Yin and Shakti, Innana and Gaia. And though she was dismembered, aspects of her whole form fragmented and scattered along the larger psyche of the world, known to us today as Durga and Diana, Kali and Artemis, Saraswati and Athena, Aphrodite and Lakshmi, Mary and Quan Yin, Persephone and Demeter, Pele and Nepthys, she still grows through cracks in the pavement. Blossoming each petal of her wholeness from a sensual vortex of dusted gold, calling in her melissae to pollinate the Earth with a message of her return.
Though engendered through pronouns of “she” and “her,” she is neither female nor male, but rather both. She is the bursting seed of the Universe; the dark cosmic womb that houses an infinite expanse of galactic potential made visible by the sparkling, vibrant colors that fill the night sky.
She lives in the cellular pulse of life. She is spanda - that eternal and spontaneous vibration. She rides the cyclic wave of the breath. You can feel her, even now, massaging the inner walls of your lungs, the bony chamber of your ribs encasing your heart like a temple. If your ear could press to your own chest, you would hear her voice thrumming through the pounding beat of your heart.
She is the imagination on fire, spiraling through endless pools of dreams. Worlds upon worlds celebrate her through dance, play, and song.
She is the frenzied stomp of bare feet touching down upon Earth, wildly calling in the light of stars with yips, grunts, and groans.
Her hair is both tossed and tangled, as well as filled with streams of silken light. Her eyes are a hall of mirrors that bend like the rings of Jupiter. If split open, her skin would reveal layers of igneous rock, cooled over after a millennia spent diving through deep seas where Orca echoes magical hymns where each note steps lightly along rays of moonlight. And the waves of these seas are those that lift her onto a sinuous bed of green and purple light, stretching across a southern sky.
She is the winding river, and the undertow.
She is the contradiction that bleeds between the lines, and rolls down the softened chin of mortality. She is the one waiting for us inside the wound. The one brewing in the infection. The one burning in the fever. She is both creation and destruction, and lives within the paradox of destruction as an act of creation.
Her medicine is a turning toward the discomfort. A steeping in the pain. A faithful walk through the dark, for she is the darkness; the deep void that births and is home to everything.
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