The Story Of Her Evolution
Calling all the ones
Who know they have visions to live!
You, who have a sense of self
That what you do matters
to others and to this planet
You, who feel that if you can just
Do what you are here to do
It would be different for every one else
You who feel that your changes
Make changes for your sisters more possible
Trailblazers, Mountain Movers,
Wild-Women folk, Fringe Dwellers
Sisters of the Tribes that do not forget
But do not spend all our time remembering
We spend our time creating,
Moving from this moment forward
YES I know how many times we have fallen!
How many times our wisdom has been oppressed! Oh!
And how many times dreams where born
And we let other things die from neglect
Focus costs us almost everything sometimes.
You who feel like your life depends
on what you do,
And the lives of others too, depend on you.
Yes, I know, we carry too much.
And yet we continue
Dancing through the veils
And singing our children home.
Through darkness and light
The scent of our garden
Lemon, lavender, pineapple mint
and peppermint and sage
Rosehip and raspberry leaf, bay, sweet onion
and rosemary and lemon balm.
Our garden calls those
who need healing to our gates.
We prepare a table before them
Wisdom’s table laden with provisions
Pomegranates, almond cakes and
fresh spiced juices
Hot breads, smoked fish, apple butter,
lemon meringue pie
Bee Honey and sweet milk is mingled
And prayers for healing are said by
Bees wax candlelight.
Often we grow weary with giving,
Believing, even some days, is hard
We want the others, and ourselves to
JUST come forward now
and get the work in place.
So often we decide our own work
does not bear enough fruit –
quantifying results this way
is not good medicine for a medicine woman.
But just because we are brilliant
Does not mean we aren’t wrong
Mostly about ourselves,
our opinions, our past
It is our heart who does the work,
And she is oddly silent in
the space of self-criticism.
We get discouraged,
Because, after the feast
Those who are wounded so often return to
Those who do the wounding.
WHY! We cry into the night
Always the same answer:
It is not ours to know why
Remember this as you
have always remembered.
It isn’t the first or second time
or even the 6th time
That you have fed your broken hearted sister
It comes sometime after the seventh healing
When you are almost done
rubbing her wounds
Because now your hands and heart are tired But it is now that she will stand
and not return again.
To him. To her. To them.
To work that is not fit for her.
To drinking water that is poisoned.
And empty foods.
To letting her children watch
what she won’t watch herself.
To lies about herself someone else made up.
Watch her now as she sheds her final skins
on her your floor.
Smooth as gossamer silk, weightless.
She walks out lighter, gliding –
she does not look back
And she does not take the same route home.
Next month you won’t see her.
Nor the one after that.
You begin to wonder
as the others come and go.
Will she come today?
But after some time and times again
You will see her at the marketplace
with her daughters.
They are laughing. It is the Spring festival
and they have red poppies in their hair.
You cannot believe her body
once broken, bent and ashen
That once only faintly glowed
at your amber hearth
She is now dancing at the Spring festival.
She sees you as she twirls by.
You expect her to be surprised to see you, something…
But she gently and knowingly welcomes you with her eyes
No apologies or regrets or s
orry’s for not telling you
LOOK I am dancing because of the nights
you held me when I cried
LOOK, because of you my daughters
are no longer Apart from me…
how you have wanted to hear those words!
With your whole life you have yearned and worked for those words,
I did it! I didn’t go back…Finally I am free.
You helped me…
You thought the testimonies would keep you company in your old age
Thought that they would feed your soul, to help feed the others
Suddenly you can’t wait for the piper
and the timbrels to stop
so she will run up to you and tell you
all that has happened.
You are lost in this thought
when on her next twirl you find yourself
Covered in tiny white wild rose petals.
She is beaming as she passes.
Then you get it –
from her resolve:
‘don’t make me go back, this is enough.
It is finished.’
You realize, finally, that
you don’t need to hear the stories anymore.
Your gift has been returned to you –
and the moment of your
own foolishness comes and goes.
Repentance brings you inward.
Your faith surges again,
new with the fragrance of healing
from the dancers hand.
I almost missed my gift!
You exclaim out loud, laughing.
No one hears.
You had wanted it to look like
some idea you had.
Expectations run awry in this line of work.
Her evolution is your evolution.
An evolution beyond words that takes place
in the sacrament of light,
molecules listen to this change
deep in her body in your body
in the body of the earth
Down through the soul’s marrow
coursing like red living water
forging new pathways and
completing synaptic junctions
Renewing cells of longing and distress,
Now glowing like winter pomegranate seeds,
luminescent again – so transformation IS possible…
Of all your sleep-less nights praying after her
And all the women that compose
the great mama body that holds
The collective woman-soul.
All are touched through her healing
Right now you know this.
You have known it before
But even the hands seem to forget sometimes.
Some of us are here for this purpose specifically
To have orchards of fruits to give away
To harvest the fruits given us by Spirit.
Our times of emptiness come and go
And we are full again.
Always the fullness comes.
Tonight it is the full moon
You see her lowering herself easily
Onto the landscape
like a woman entering her bath
She is sweet crème white
with a sleeping rabbit in honey yellow
You taste the air she makes
full moon molecule mist
You walk home, slowly, happy.
On your front porch
A basket of apples and a young woman
sit on your steps.
She waves. A wave of surrender almost,
but greeting too,
Introductions tell you that
she is the granddaughter
Of a woman you tended
when you were just yourself a girl.
You do not remember the woman,
but the light in her granddaughter your recognize completely
She tells you her mother is gone
and her grandmother too
And asks you if she can stay a while,
perhaps help you with supper.
Work in the garden,
she has harvested some herbs for teas before
Worked in the vineyard and
even made fresh ground corn bread.
Her body leans in toward your front door,
painted gold with a green-gold tree,
an icon of the black Madonna
and child in embrace
looks down at you, waiting, watching.
The door itself seems to lean towards her.
For a moment you question,
what will this mean for my mornings?
She could leave tomorrow – you reason,
after a good nights sleep
But you know it won’t happen –
if she comes in,
she won’t leave for some time.
All this while she stands and waits,
your own daughter now grown and gone
You open the door,
the smell of persimmon bread floats out.
She sighs with audible relief, so do you.
The scent of bread that says,
I am not to be eaten alone…
Her evolution is your evolution.
All your work. All the hours of work and wonder and mystery.
Come to rest in this moment.
Yes, you are one of these,
one of the tribe of seers
and medicine women.
and visionary ones.
And you are one who knows
that many more women
Are medicine women but
Don’t even know that it is possible
To save things from extinction
Endangered things like self-respect,
And the ability to know how to heal thyself
And how to take wares to market,
like teas and jams and salves and breads.
It is very hard to survive
the space of heaviness
That comes after knowing
But before understanding.
Before they even have a chance…
our young ones learn to much
about things they need not know
and too little about things they need to know.
Before even one more new moon, a
And they know the rhythm of the sea
in their own blood
They have absorbed the pain of others
And called it their own
Empathetically breathing in and not out,
Feeling grateful to feel
about what kind of power this is.
They don’t know what to do
with it from there.
This is the practice
all women need to practice.
Years of process don’t seem to teach us
How not to take on the pain of others,
this can makes you mad, sick and sad from time to time.
Because it isn’t that hard
but few know how to teach it.
And you know this is why
Many do not come to gather with on the full moon to pray anymore.
The healers are home making dinner
And often feel alone.
“I have to do it myself” – this is what you always say.
This is not true, has never been true.
The new ones are coming!
They are gathering and
singing songs all the time.
More and more, all faiths, all walks,
Gathering together in common
to sing praises
And talk about what is working,
and what is not
What is stuck and how to remove it
Witnessing to one another
the goodness of Creator
take up their walking sticks
And medicine baskets
And journey down the road and up the hill.
The more of us there are
The more of us will be well and whole.
Paradimensional healing happens
When there are a certain number of us practicing healing
You, and the young woman, and all the others
The dancing mother and her daughters
Testify to this.
But in the mean time we have to keep working and praying.
We cannot give up and give in.
Lives depend on our choices.
Let us never confuse worldly abundance and recognition with true success
We can see through those illusions –
ours is the Queendom of Heaven
And our providence comes from that place.
Our physical abundance
looks different than other folks
We don’t have three vehicles of transportation and houses for them
We have plants for salves and soups and root songs and green houses for them
We don’t always get recognized
for who we are by the urban folk
But angels dine at our table
So set the feast table
even if there are only apples to eat.
All women who do women’s work
which is all women.
This is your call, rise on!
Women like us hold up the world
We always have
And if women have told you
that women like me
Are no longer accepted in social circles
or church circles or society circles.
Then I am sorry but women like me
Are the ones who help other women give birth on their own
And if the world has said
there is not place for us
Then I am sorry but women us
And if you have told yourself
you are not one of these
Then I am sorry but you will have to
give that up.
With your breath
blow the old story into your open hand
And offer it up to the Morning Star for transformation.
Then let it go and don’t go pick it up,
Each one of us has her own medicine,
She just has to find it for herself,
Sometimes moving through her own fear
Of being discovered as an outcast
but some of us know
we have to keep on keeping on
And if in reading this
you are the dancing mother,
Or her daughters, or you are
the motherless one
Or the one who has been coming
to the table to eat
But now desires to set it for others –
This is your call, rise up.
And if you are both and all, like most of us are.
And you are weary of work.
Pray for the girl with the apples
to come and fill your baskets.
This is your call, to continue the teaching
by resting and gentleness.
We are all daughters of the cycle of life
Ever learning and unlearning mystery’s path.
It is in creating that we ourselves are created.
So wherever you are, whoever you are.
There is one practice to all paths
that always heals.
To create. Women are creators – let us create.
Let us dance, and sing, and paint,
and perform and
harvest and love and be loved
and prophecy of transformation
and of her evolution