Prurient

I want you to know that I am free.

I wear the shackles willingly.

In fact I put them on myself.

 

I, who locked this infinite

presence into a devil’s shell,

a wind up toy. Twist twist and

let it dance to the drums,

making merry on a flute

which creates worlds,

don’t let it die,

don’t let it stop,

don’t let it go,

just make it play for eternity

for your prurient entertainment.

 

If the drums stop

you will die.

 

And when he comes to wind you up,

the one who doesn’t know you,

but cares so much

about not letting you die,

don’t let him for he can’t break you free,

neither can I.

Only you, little rabbit,

only you can twist tune into rainbow

and ride it high.

And when you die,

you never did,

just the shell turned to stone of man

shape and countenance,

not devil, not pan,

any longer.

 

And then, he reaches into me,

tears off the scabs from my heart center,

pulls off the shutters,  

pulls open the stained glass

and bades me see.

A tree.

In the middle of me.

She is dry, not enough

wet to the soil, which remains

far too light a hue,

and not enough light,

from divinity.

Clearly the dry brittle tree

Is me.

And so add water, darker soil,

expand the cage,

open the crown

and let in such bright.

 

And then you’ll see the chains,

they wrap round my wrists in shackles,

On my left: knowledge,

On my right: perception,

And on my ankles,

The right: attachments,

and the left: my soul.

So beautiful I could die to see

Shake them off, they aren’t locked tight,

indeed hang loose and then

I am free.

 

To know

I know

nothing. Yet.

 

Bade me back,

rehang the chains.

Shackle me again.

Willingly.

 

It’s all about vulnerability.

And curiosity.

 

I am willing. I am eternal. I am free.

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Healing Self Through Spirit Journey: Lessons Learned

Crying is an adventure in release.

Rejection begets rejection — instead embrace.

Only in a full body bow does one regain. Surrender (yourself). Honor (another). Humbleness (become). Each is interchangeable.

A broken body (ghost of) may over lap the physical. Clean away the broken body and keep ill health (in spirit) away from the physical.

A whole spirit body reflects a whole physical.

At the heart of human interaction remains not communication but pain. Pain is inflicted upon us, pain we inflict on others, and pain we inflict upon ourselves; this remains what we transfer, what we pass back and forth like disease. However, the pain we both give and take is not in aid of speaking to another, although some would argue its ‘a cry for help’. It is a cry for help, but it is a cry for help to ourselves. We must, first, before any heartfelt interaction, have full respectful communication with ourselves. If we have learned not to hurt the self which remains so close always we will not attempt to hurt it through another, in social interaction. This is the heart of the matter, the center, the soul. To relate to others on any level, but especially familial, platonic, and romantic, we must have learned how to have healed. Self healing is all healing. A doctor or medicine man or woman or an healer of any kind only does the healing at your behest, your need, your asking. In essence you heal yourself. The pain is a manifestation of your asking. You request the healing. And you do the healing. A doctor or healer only guides the physical or emotional or mental or spiritual body into the state of natural health which is its default. This ill body must do the healing itself, out of want and will. The doctor may dole out medicine, use energy, perfom a miracle but the healing in itself is not miracle, it is practical. It remains all you are capable of being, at any given time, did you only know you could be. The doctor is mere guide, just as the spirit animal you meet on a journey is mere guide, just as an emotion or sensation is mere guide. Therefore delve, I encourage you, into the deepest pain filled recesses of your psyche. Find all the hurt bodies there. Heal and release that pain. Once you have let it go, there goes the need to hurt others, intentionally or not. Then you find the relationships you hold near you will bring you only the beauty and connection you enjoy and the arguments and little pains  which keep you so separate will be far away.


How I achieved these results and lessons.

Using a Native American drumming mp3 I took myself into a mediation, a spirit journey. It is called entering the big dream. I went into the big dream already having asked what I need to learn from the spirits. What I needed to do. Briefly I will summarize: I wrote down on paper all the names of people I have had a relationship with that affected me strongly in my life. I then proceeded to use one word descriptions and make a list below each name. Then when the whole thing was finished I tallied the words which repeated ending in five. This was to be an exorcise to heal what I need within myself to allow the kinds of relationships I want in my life. I have noticed a pattern where I disallow myself the very things I say I want from my relationships. Seeing on paper all the reoccurring things which I do ‘allow’ all subconsciously was eye opening. So, for this journey, I went into it asking for help with these specific problems in aid of allowing the relationships I want in my life.

Also a thing to note from a previous mediation done years ago I am aware my lesson in this lifetime is ‘Allowance’ as opposed to ‘Disallowance’. That conclusion was also found from a similar exercise.

Upon entering the big dream I found the cave where I would meet my spirit guide. In journeying imagination is a stepping stone into the spirit world, the best way to jump, so to speak. You begin with detailed imagining of a cave in the ground you must visualize and enter. You must completely immerse yourself in five sensory details  in the imagining. Then, when the spirit guides shows, allow its form to take whatever is closest to an animal you can bring to mind. Sometimes the spirit guide takes on an elemental form. The best way to interpret the spirits form, I’ve found, is through animal. For me, always these journeys are healing and accurate to the need.


It is not another’s job to heal you; just as it is not another’s job to not hurt you. Both responsibilities belong to you. Even your psychiatrist cannot heal all the hurts which lie in you. In fact I guarantee they cannot heal you at all. They can only show you the path towards wellness, it is all any doctor can do . Weather it is a spiritual journey or a physical one, it is always in your power to heal. All you must do to begin is ask.

Enjoy the Journey

Trees talk to the stars.

As a kid, the November months were the best for me.

I loved the fall in temperature, the cut of freshness in the air, the leaves abandonment of the trees which made the outdoors smell of a sort of earthen nature calling to the Native American in me. It’s a wet feeling in the air, or a dry feeling, or a cold feeling. You must know what I mean. It’s November and it was my favorite time of year.

My mother dated Clarence for a while. He was a cowboy of sorts. Not the actual kind, like from Texas, but he did have a few horses, and a farm kinda thing, oh and a pig. It was in Virginia so I don’t really count it. And he had acres of land. Most of it was forest. Not like, Little Red Riding Hood forest or The Forbidden Forest kind of forest, but I counted it as forest. Instead, it had a lightness to it, a feeling of being alone, yet so filled with life unearthly. It was a sweet forest, a small forest, a hollow of trees winding roots together beneath the earth and foliage and fenced in boundaries. I ran around in it, at the age of 13 and it was my freedom. Otherwise I’d be stuck reading inside a room dark with wood paneling and listening to Country music blasting all the time.

I was only there in November, my mother only dated him as long as it took for her to be adored. When he got fed up with her temper tantrums and histronics (he wasn’t the sort to coddle), she labeled him the bad guy and moved us back in with Nana, who then blamed it on him being black, which wasn’t said aloud for fear of being politically incorrect but was rather like the prejudice was implied. Then again my mother had horrible taste and every man she dated was labeled wrong for something, so that was just how it was, and I really didn’t appreciate the racist additional, so I just ignored it. Which was my default for most everything anyway.

But I was happy there. I remember that. And Clarence was my favorite of my mom’s boyfriends. And I loved he didn’t coddle her. At the age of 13 even I was tired of her childishness at times. That he just huffed a disgusted laugh when she was raging in a childish way about disrespect, when he didn’t even in my opinion, and when she feigned a faint, he stepped over her dramatic splay, made me applaud on the inside. If she had just seen how good he was for her, perhaps my life would have been a lot different. I really liked him for a dad. He would have made a good one.

It was October I remember, just the first blush of it, and I learned to ride a horse, a stallion, even almost falling off I learned. And I learned to make a treehouse by myself. Clarence, I think tickled to have a stand in daughter, allowed me complete freedom. And I remember getting just the base built before I gave up and would just take my homework to that platform and stare up the trees and imagine more freedom than that.

I remember it felt, when I did that, like the trees were falling into the stars.

The nights when I went out, the sky was so bright above the sporadic canopy. I did mention the forest wasn’t really a forest, and so the trees did not obscure the sky at all. Instead it sorta highlighted it, like the trees were reaching out arms to the night lights above, and they were almost in a warped stretch, one you couldn’t with your eyes, but feel with a sense that wasn’t taste or touch or smell but something of all of those. And I could feel the forest felt like .. it was about to take off, into the sky, to be among the stars, except it never did. And it never would. And that was even better because the stars were in quiet communion through the expanse of time to the trees in my little sweet forest and I was mere witness.

One day, after I canceled on a friend of mine who wanted to come over but was a boy and I concluded might be interested romantically and I wasn’t cause he was a boy so I made up an excuse, one day I was out there and instead of sitting on that platform I walked the whole expanse of the forest between the fences that caged it, and finding a tree that felt right I put my back to it and looked up.

And along my spine, like fire surging I felt it. It was like there was a lightening rod, like the tree were a conduit, a shout, a string, that lead from the ground below up to the stars above, and translated the sounds of the earth to them, a tree translator. It was full of so much energy and wisdom and fire I was captured, more than a witness to a beautiful sight, but witness to prayer. From the earth through the trees to the stars.

Native Americans believe the trees sing to the stars and the stars sang back. They believe the trees are so old they remember us being made of starlight. I have Cherokee, Blackfoot, and Sioux ancestors. I am not a part of a tribe, or can I claim actual lineage, but the native american music (the drums, the piping, the chanting) has always elicited a feeling in my belly, of instinctive recognition, their stories a familiarity.

I remember my step sister and I would read a book of Native American myths as kids, and giggle over the explicitness in stories about trickster coyotes  having sex with women with vagina teeth and marvel at the creation tales which were so opposed to Christian origin we grew up being told was the only truth. We were not allowed to read it but we did anyway. I remember that being my favorite book, so dog eared it was, not because the stories were so randomly awkward, but because the feeling of the book in my hand held the feeling of November.

The sound of the words strung together were in English, yet still tasted like some Native American tongue, and was much like the feeling I heard when I watched the trees stretch up arms to the sky. I may not know much of myself yet, in this present state of ignorance, but I know there is genetic imprint of nature in my veins, and call it starlight, or more recent Native American genes, but I know more in my body than I do in my head sometimes. And I feel more on my skin than I see with my eyes.

And I dare you to stand with your back against a tree. Feel the energy along your spine. Let the tree channel you back to heaven; from earthen soil you were made in this body to the starlight from whence your soul came.

I dare you to listen to the trees talk to the stars. And I dare you to lie and say you don’t hear it.