After some disconcerting pips and squeaks on Sunday evening, and after reading #mountainjewel’s blog and agreeing with her that we are trapped in a $ wheel, I remembered: the narrower the rings the tougher the oak. It will have withstood the drought and the relentless sleet well into April, and towered through the grinding year upon the one leaping in bounds. It’s sap rising and falling in a rhythm of trust, it’s yearning ever increasing. It will make a keep a mighty fine solid door. Wouldn’t we want such a musical majesty crafted into an entrance to peaceful living for every worthy Steemian?
I fear not. We hardly give it a thought.
And so we create infinite loops of no escape.
I have a plan!
I have been watching, for many years now, the trees lead by example. The solitary hawthorne, brushed into a mark of questioning, clinging for the love of life onto the ridge. I have heard the brotherhoods of beech whisper their incantations. I have walked through the cathedral of limes, drawn to the rosette of dancing translucence. No matter the losses, the crises, the lows, they stand and deliver the breath our souls need for the greed to expire.
As I was barely surviving my own body to 12 Little Spells, I saw a djed and picked a book and found a spell. I call upon the tribes for a torch maker, a sculptor of men, a lover of dogs and a stable person of much endurance for the baking of clay into four bricks upon which will sit four amulets. A scribe may apply for the script that will repel evil.
He with tamarisk wood, please begin on our coffins, that we may have time to gild them yet; she with black paint do come to fertilise our canopic jars.
After our crafting, we shall carry on to reestablish the balance with the rituals of the Opening of the Mouth and hear the Mother-god speak.
In the east: Anubis - who repels the rage of a hostile one
In the west: the djed pillar - which keeps off the “one whose steps are backward and whose face is hidden”
In the north: the mummiform - the protector of the soul from all overthrowers
In the south: the reed torch - to keep the floor free of sand, and our lungs spared choking.
Let us incant:
May the spherical be rooted in the structure of revolving seasons down to the square.
May all who have ears, hear it.
To conclude, weary now we are, of the same old same old lessons, never about love, let the abdominal portal speak.
I am just going to quote Esperanza Spalding raw.
Is to be
Longing deep down inside
It's fucking hard
To be longing
Deep down inside
Longing deep down inside is
It is fucking hard to be longing
And at the same time feel your own belonging
Where it's real
May you all realise your Selves and be neither burdened by abundance or wrangled by lack, but find enough.