What doesn’t get touched by ordinary hands is my seven leagues of seawater, my emerald bones, the glowing neon of my cave-dwelling fish, the phantoms of smoke trails and entrails and snail shells crushed underfoot by lumbering grownup shoes–the little pink-seamed princess delicacy of dimpled knees and angel kisses. The faery I ferreted away for a time safe to shine. You have coaxed out my twinkling–you have massaged my heart into rhythm again.
At the end of the day all of my exposed nooks are packed with earth. May all manner of flowers (even those designated “weeds” by anthropocentric gardeners) sprout from my pores and spread their petaled faces like organic satellite dishes, picking up the thrumming hums of cosmic information that zings through the ethers within and around us, Always. May I be receptive. May I be spacious enough to contain it. To contain you. To contain us.
Dear One, Beloved, Precious Child:
I am the Goddess. I know your concoction of thumbprints and lemon rinds, lullabys and saltbrines, as a woman knows her lover. Come into me. Let me enfold you. I know you. I have known you. Drop your stones and ashes at the foot of this mahogany night-sack and enter the sweating caves of the GoddessEarth. Let me surround you. Surrender to the star-freckled fleece of my embrace. I will hold you. Through all furious rockings and rockery, I will hold you.
Dear Writing, dear whispering, dear darling blissful skipping:
I love you! You, my girl, my faery muse, my juice, electricity, my jazzy fingers spineward–I am passion. I AM PASSION!! I am all fire reds and sexuality steaming! I am dancing on the sidewalk to your car stero playing Santana’s “Oye Como Va!” Oh Passion! Who would I be without you? What are valleys without mountains? Oh writing, my passion–my words bend around the curves of the strings of my dendrites and the twirl of pirouhetting images that play across my mindscape and the canvas gets plumped by the scents of the summertime and I just want to shout from my window the joy of this! To rain down little colorful streamers on the faces of my lilies and drizzle water over blistered, sunchapped faces and bring a resting to hearts that hurt. What is my passion? Passion is my passion! The texture of life that squishes between my toes and bleeds in my mouth and scratches at my elbows! Oh Captain, my Captain! Oh Passion, my Passion! The Passion of the Christ.
We are all the Christ.
All sacred beings. All too pretty for words.
And mother. I am. I am mother–all softness, all roundness, all curves and luxury. Fruit that is ripe, that is ripening–these constant reminders from my lover about the wonder and ah-mazingness of my being a mother, being a portal of life, being a nurturer, being a loverly lover–has brought this deep well of beingness to my awareness. This time of blazing my just-struck match into the dark room of my smallness has illuminated the expansiveness of my capacity–much grander than six-knuckles-deep, much broader than the space between tiptoed footsteps. This priestessing of beloved others, of my community, is dripping and spreading like olive oil over a thick skillet of water (cast iron), a massive and nutrient-rich container of this boiling, this bubbling-over, and the eventual slow simmering of my years and my poems and my sighs and moans of ecstasy. This is a gourmet feast in the making-something French, something creamy, something that slicks your lips like butter. Lobsters. Claire is midwife to this.
From maiden to mother, from solo phalanx to spread-eagled palm, from wilderland to village, from spark to hearth–there is a richness at work here. There is a magicking.