Muladhara

the path was so similar and familiar
to the ones I've walked before

the pain soaked wind
blew the soft, furry weeds
who billowed, bowed to, and danced for me

my core grew numb
yet warm tears streamed
down my face and tickled me

the birds who feared my hunters
perched silent in their tree
but still they sang their song for me

this path unknown
I've walked before
I know the dance, I sing the score

I remember the time when I wrote the sad poem above.  Walking down one of my favorite paths, flooded with sooty ash that had rained just days before, from the Witch Fire. When you're recovering from your own firestorm it is not a stretch to identify with the pain of others- even when it's Mother Nature.  This past Mother's Day while making dinner for my children, my hand slipped causing boiling water to scald my hand.  If you're imagining that it was painful, you would be correct.  It took days before it didn't sting constantly and a week before the entire area wasn't sore.  Just a week and a half later I treated myself to an incredible spa package which included a heated rock treatment for my hands.  I had forgotten about my injury until heat was placed on the weakened spot.  It felt as if I was burning all over again.

At the root of all emotional pain is a comfortable grounding in that discomfort.  Whatever it is that is dragging us down is something that we have always known, and always been able to count on.  For some people pain is the root of what we are.  Whether we had parents who did not know how to love us, or if we were abandoned, or perhaps resented by those who were supposed to keep us safe and loved- somehow we missed out on what should have rightfully been ours.  As a result, pain became our parental constant or our true north.  

My formative years were not completely devoid of love.  I was one of many children and we loved each other (consistently displayed by our angry fighting and bickering), and our mother loved us in her own way- the only way she knew how.  I know that she gave me some pretty awesome gifts including a love of words and some wickedly sharp emotional reflexes.  Always trying to read her whether it was to harvest the bits of fruitful crop, or to avoid the machete that would come flying out of nowhere to chop down the stalks.  It might not have seemed like a gift back then, but now I know better.

So I made some bad choices along the way because my decisions were, although masked in delightful garb, always rooted in the familiar pain.  But one day I woke up.  I don't even know what woke me, but I knew that it was time to change.  There have been times that I've gone forging up hillsides, gung ho, in search of bigger truths.  Sometimes it was crawling through bloodied shards of glass at a snail's pace.  And then there were times when I woke up right back at the bottom of the hill, wondering if I had just dreamt it all.

What a process, and what a long time it takes, to re-discover the beautiful gift of our birth-right.  But in discovering that beautiful divine light that is in each one of us, we are finally free to realize our worth.  This is that step that heals us and brushes away the debris of what is not the authentic us.  Love of ourselves is what frees us.  I continue to honor the pain that has molded me, but I no longer let it choose  for me.  Now, there is no choice- happiness, security, love and divinity are the roots that keep me grounded.


.....................
Carnivorous

Prowling the hills
solitary we hunt
for sustenance
we scour the earth

Finding the kill
that pertinent fill
but rooting for pain
we’re just hungry again

Rip it to shreds
mouth dripping with blood
Coming up for air
we have nothing to fear

Can you survive the stream
Of the blood that flows
Can you rip it to shreds
Will you break bread with me

Will you wear the warm pelt
As we worship the sun
And peacefully slumber
Once the feasting is done

Can the warmth of our flesh
thaw the raw of our souls
Can the depth of our truths
quench us, hungry carnivores

As they lay in the dirt
our hearts beating aloud
They poke and they laugh
The finger pointing crowd

Can you swim up the stream
Of the blood that flows
Can you rip it to shreds
Won't you break bread with me