I hold the Moon

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.