Many moons ago I knew that I was the Earth. I held the Moon
in my belly. The currents of wind and tides and water flow tugged and pulled on
my conscious and subconscious being. I lived in the rain and rode my bike
through the weight of the tides, morning and night. I walked barefoot at night through the wet,
muddy forest, down to the seawater where luminescence greeted me to light up a
momentary space of time. Feeling my way back up the trail, through blackness so
thick I could not even see my fingers or my feet, I felt places of danger and
places of calm. My heart would lurch at those moments when danger made my hair
stand up and forced my eyes to try to see whatever it was that made my body
react. I would clutch the hand of whomever
I was walking with, as if together, hopefully, we could fend off whatever it
was. And we kept walking, upwards, mud
squishing through our toes, and it would be calm again. Goosebumps receding
back to smooth, warm skin.
When I was 19, my Grandmother wrote me a note: “May you walk always in
beauty.”
Those younger years were defined by beauty. A dreamy, lunar consciousness filled my
being. My heart was my guide, and my mind was soothed by a certainty that all
in life would work out.
When we moved back to New Mexico, that certainty was
fulfilled again and again. A job, a house, a better job—those things opened
before us effortlessly. If I envisioned a desired change, the change came
about. Intuition made itself clear to
me, especially when I did not listen to it.
But slowly, quietly, I stopped feeling dreamy. I stopped intentionally laying on the Earth,
feeling the exchange of energies between us. I started worrying about little
things. Sometimes big. My connection with my spirit and the earth became unclear.
Major things occurred. Beginning of a business. A home lost
to wildfire. Building a house. Birth of
a baby. Head injury and coma. Closure of the store. Recovery. Birth of a baby. Employment
obligations. Living a life. Homeschooling choice. So many big things seemed to define my 30s.
And then, suddenly, I was 40. It was 2012. The world could
end, figuratively. Emotionally. Spiritually.
I decided to make changes. I started sitting on the Earth. I
started observing again. I yearn to walk in the dark up a cold, wet, muddy
trail to feel the mud squish between my toes. I miss the luminescence. I started talking to my place.
I speak to the mountains where I live. We have an understanding. I live in within a
mountainous ampitheatre, the jagged, rocky peaks rise toward the sky and form a
rugged arc around where I am. Nuptse and I walk up into this ampitheatre, and
then I stand and observe. I listen to
the ravens. Woodpeckers chatter and talk to one another. Sometimes, when it’s
really windy, the wind howls like a banshee through the dead, fire-burned
trees. Two mother-goddess peaks form this cirque, and whenever I walk up into
this place, I know that I am where I am supposed to be.
Lately, I have felt an indescribable need to reconnect with
the real me. The me I know I am. The me
who dreams, and knows about the things that we cannot see or describe. For a number of years, I have somehow allowed
myself to be swayed by a perceived need to present my knowledge within a
scientific explanation. I have struggled to scientifically describe the things
I know, when it would be easier for me to simply flow with my knowledge and not
try to frame every little thing into a scientific picture. Not every thing can be described by science.
Not everything should. This struggle has caused me become disconnected from
myself.
So, for now, I am going to reconnect to that dreamy,
subconscious me. I am going to do whatever it takes to regain my grasp on those
things that cannot be explained, so that I might move forward on this pathway
being me, and not being someone who I think
I should be because other people might disagree, or question, or dislike who I
am and what I know. I am feeling the mud between my toes, and sensing whatever
is out there without using my eyes, because I know I hold the Moon.
