Becoming Animal

It seems I have forgotten
How to be An animal
So here I am
Aiming to re member
To Re call, re claim my nature.

I aim to remember the sensory wisdom
Deeply stored inside my cells.

I want to remember the wisdom of my body, the delight I experience
when my hands caress soft moss growing on the north side of trees,
like an ancient arrow pointing me towards a fuller, more true version of myself.

May I recall the intelligence of my bare feet
My bare feet touching the ground
when my mind wants to guide me towards old ideas I have developed
or even stranger
that have been meticulously crafted for me
by a system that has never witnessed that me.

I pray that the pleasure that the sunrise elicits in my eyes
and the song of birds whispers to my ears remind me
it’s time to wake up.

May I look to the seasons for guidance
for when it’s time to create
and when it’s time to rest.
When to process and when to be,
when to listen and when to speak,
when to dance, or cry, or leap.

The wisdom of my body, my animal body,
as a breathing, bleeding part of Her,
Of the trickling river, the majestic mountain and her the valley, the cloud
the one, beloved creator, my mother.

Let me recall that I am not alone,
never alone
but rather
that I am held in constant companionship
by the ancestors, by the ecology,
By the petals of my rosary,
my skin a cactus, my heart a red tailed hawk.

I wonder this earth, becoming naked again.
I have gathered and lost,
gained and released,
I was born to die after all
Born to be… wild, free,
And also scared, sad,
brave and viscerally open… to grace.
My Beloved Grace!

I am a young coyote in the pack,
I am
a solitary falcon in the sky,
a leaf, a fruit,
a shell high in the mountain
returning to the sea.

Wilting flowers used to scare me
until that day I looked in the mirror
and you showed me
my wilting skin as the decoration of the living,
each crease an adornment,
well earned through living,
through persisting,
through enjoying,
every laugh, every cry a badge of honor for
A girl scouting life.

I have been a puma
traversing the Andes,
my feet filled with the tenacity and agility
of the wild mountain lion’s paw
My feet as they were
before domestication.

High up in those mountains
I learned to trust the wind.
A wind I had come to associate with the threat of fire
was now carrying messages of bird song,
And up there
On a green hillside
I sang back, I understood.

Up there, on a green cliffside
the wind became my ally,
my friend, my lover,
caressing my decaying skin.

A rose once called my name,
invited me with her sweet scent
to love myself.
A Hummingbird asked me
to join for a nurturing drink of nectar
Pointing out their favorite Sage.

The moon
has brought me to my knees. Thank you.
and the sun
has resurrected me over and over again. Thank you,

And one day,
when there is no more resurrection to be had,
I pray that you know,
that I always, always
loved you back.

On Slow Time

Outside my home
lives a large rock,
a boulder whose size and beauty fills visitors with awe.
This rock tells tales of slow time.

I watch myself rushing to yoga
and then laughing
when I remember yoga measures time in millions of years.
The yogi’s era, a yuga,
is measured in multiples of millions of human years.
The Krita Yuga, for example,
was 1,728,000 human years,
or 4,800 divine years if you prefer.

Do trees observe us
like we might look upon the fruit fly
whose life span is 40 to 50 days max?
In German we call them Eintagsfliege
the “One Day Fly,”
highlighting its short visitation on earth.
And like we might prematurely end their existence
so may Nature return us to dust.

Outside my house lives a rock
who sings of old time.
The scratch of needle on vinyl,
metallic elemental spirits
who sing with the remains of ancient plants and animals
it sounds to me like rock on rock.
Old time. Slow time.

Bayo Akomolafe invites us with his essay titled
“The Times Are Urgent, Let Us Slow Down”
to examine our nervous disposition.
“I must do something”
is not the same as doing something,
says Josh Schrei.

In slow time
we may find those long lost hidden answers.
In listening deeply
to what rocks have to say
we may remember patience.
We might recall
that healing cannot be rushed.

Wise action
is so often preceded by spacious time
that moment in the shower
when you weren’t wondering what to do.
That conversation with a grandmother
who remembers stories of…
… once upon a time.
Or that day you forgot your phone
and remembered to look your barista in the eyes,
and you noticed the nuanced coloring
and everything that there lies.

As I look at the rock outside my house
I remember The Never Ending Story,
a story of never ending time,
a story of open ended time.
I remember a rock, an island,
who is actually an ancient being
as old as time itself,
who speaks slowly,
who speaks riddle.

The world is crumbling before her eyes,
yet she remembers to speak slowly,
to breathe between each thought.

She reminds us that
Nature will not be rushed.
Everyone in nature has their own version of time.
The tree, the fruit fly,
the rock outside my house.

Nature will not be rushed.
Deep breath.
Nature will not be rushed.
Deep breath.
Nature will not be rushed.
Deep sigh.

Spirit Shapes

In my little yard lives a sweet olive tree,

And in its lap, under the canopy, dwell some spirits, wild and free.

I asked my hands what they wanted to make,

After many years of not giving mud shape.

Out came four spirited creatures

Who became to my hands

Their long awaited teachers.

Sometimes at night I rejoice in the voice

Of the animate choir

conceived, composed and directed by Her.