the way home

We are maybe not as firm or as steadfast as we thought we were. We are more porous. Leaky. Searching.

We are so full! Ever-wafting the breezes of the night watchmen. How old do you think I am? I am as old as the cypress trees. I smell it coming every time it rains.

We have to bring back our animal. Shake off the colonization. Take off that old pelt; frisk yourselves and each other of it. Know yourself as spirit animal. Reach deeply into your own core and come out throbbing.

There is no future. There is no past. Speak! for the infathomable and glowing now. Let it haunt you on your day breaks. Carry it with you as an old friend. Caress it as it beseeches you for its favorite food. Concede. Continue.

We are all pressed by our souls to do these things. What my animal wants may not be what yours has a tongue for. But they all love the open air. Let it out to breathe. Bark. Whisper. Feel the moon press upon your ancient forbidden crown. Feel your eternality grow in the space between breaths. Press the middle of your ribcage between your breasts. This is where magic happens. This is what we live for. Let this ripen and fruit and fall from your tree in a myriad of successions.

Be poor if you will, yet hone this. Do not forget though your oppressor calls you in to punch the clock. This land is your land. There is no time. Be like the root in the ground that no one sees or assumes is breathing. Breathe still. Know the vibrancy you carry may be buried in the ground and keep rowing anyway. Your root will find you. Watch as it beckons your strange animal. There is nothing to fear. You are your own best friend. Your animal, piqued, will always lead the way home.

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