We are on fire out here, again.  The wind, despite how I may love her, is cruel.  And yet, the presence of her here is electrifying.  My hair tingles at the places where it meets my scalp.  Before, I am asleep.  Now, I am suddenly awake.

At the group meeting, we sit in a circle.  That is our shape.  But our meaning is gathered deeper.  Inside of our circle, things move.  They transpire.

The wind is wicked.  She has torn apart my garden, and lit the lands around us all afire.  She must do this—it is the nature of her work, to undo things time and time again for sake of newness.

In our circle, we light sage and meditate.  Outside, our world’s on fire.

I am air.  It is my element.  Something in it speaks to me and I grow wild with all the aching needs that quake from deep within my mother womb.  It is sensual, the way she plays upon my face.  Violent, how she whips my hair.  Ancestral—something ancient that I cannot quite describe.

I am awake.

The moving energy and force upon the earth the way the sunset burns in a form words cannot compute and how I’m here and growing and becoming something different and yet entirely the same.

Who are you little flower?  And what will you become?

The wind destroys so something new can grow and yet sometimes she is too fierce and too strong and sometimes the things she leaves behind her in her torrent are impossible to gather up and rearrange quite like they were before.

What will I become?

All the churning of the words upon the page the little whirlwind plumes of thoughtsmoke how it undoes the patterns of the brain.  Neatly ordered chaos in my mind.  To become another self entirely we must first become entirely undone. 

When the land is still and quiet I grow stagnant.  Sitting outside in the sand upon the earth I long for movement for a change for something I can smell or grasp or taste.  Something different, unfamiliar.  When the wind breaks the earth open, it lands upon the places that are still and forces our exposure.

How loudly must the wind scream until I listen?  How many times will I undo myself before true newness comes?

I am listening.

I am awake.

22 thoughts on “undone.

  1. ‘…How many times will I undo myself before true newness comes?…’ Interesting question. 🙂 … the answer is, of course, that the process never stops.
    Change surrounds us, even when we think all is still.Rock wears away, bacteria beneath the earth grows, the Earth Herself moves through all eternity. To see our Selves as separate form these immutable things is folly, because we never are.
    It’s our domestication more than anything else that muffles our senses.

    Liked by 1 person

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