There is only you, and you in this little inhale of a life.  What’s truer than my love my beloved, than these salty tears that fill my heart.  What is truer than this fire that burns me white ash and rain, that tenders my spirit?  What is truer than the devi that makes love to me, that whispers my name in unspoken tongue.

Who am I in this flesh and bone?  I am a body of grace licked clean, sweat and fear rising out of the nebula of my womb.

Oh my darling, shining, white haired child, that dances naked feet and twirling.  You are my ‘ I Am,” picking wild grown wonder out of thin air.  Rooted in the soil of my body, despite the holocaust.  You still peer out on a mystical land where lions roam, oh sweet and feral innocence.  All I am, I Am.

The red balloon takes air, small perfection and blue sky.

I am here, here I Am, my waiting so near.  Braille beneath my fingertips, encoded in my like the memory of Ireland and Mr. Devi and the man at the door of room 105.  The Spanish flute song that serenaded my thirst.  I feel you in me like the fluids of my body coursing.  A hum of you on my lips, your baby skin shining luminous in the half moon of my belly.  Arrow left you said while you slipped into the life that left with the sun.  Dubai…

What is left in this thin pulse and yearn?  My Self grows translucent and the stones are stacked, desert cairns… and the only way home.  My hair touches the ground.  I sing my chanting soul, cell by cell resurrecting Eve, my lady of Guadalupe, Danu, Kali Ma, Hera, Quan Yin, Magna Dea, and the holy of the holy… Salvation.

Wake up, wake up the light is shining.  I am listening my Beloved, I am bowing, fill me, fill me.

This was written in the process of yoga, movement, breath, surrender, cellular memory, tears, and joyful reunion.  Thank you Hawah for your gifts, presence, self inquiry and seva.  I am so grateful.

love,

Santidevi

http://www.everlutionary.net/

It is a cold morning with ice glazed roads and frosted ground.  I take the bends with caution. I unroll my window to inhale the silence of early morning, even the birds are slow to rise in this damp cold. Hills readying for spring, bear newborn lambs that suckle their mothers, heavy with wool, and ready for the sheer.  I close my eyes and listen, breathing in the earthiness of this place that has played host to our human transiency.  How gracious to allow us to feed ourselves, to bath, build our fires, perform our rituals, breed, and die.

It has always seemed so strange to me that anyone could ever believe themselves to own the land, for the land is its own sovereign, we are but guests, guardians of the kingdom.  I walk slowly up the steepness of a hill that humbles, leaving fresh tracks in the newly laid snow.  The stones of the circle are wise old beings watching the tide of the world in its endless ebb and flow.

Bonane Stone Circle

I feel like a young girl in their presence, inexperienced and newly born.  I am aware of becoming still.  The sound of melting ice, of water trickling through reeds and broken limbs, blackened leaves and soil. There is no music like that of nature undisturbed. Further up lies the fairy ring, truly steeped in mythical lore, it’s true purposes shrouded in mystery to this day. Surrounded by a dry moat, green abounds, in its center lies a hawthorn tree, or boundary bush.  The hawthorn was sacred to Brigid and was used for protection as well as to enhance fertility, heal the sick and bless the newly wed.  I am aware of the holiness of the site and sit in quiet.  I bow to the goddess who has so faithfully fostered me in her mysteries throughout my lifetime.  She is my Beloved, the one I am betrothed to. This pilgrimage is an act of honoring my bond, of showing my gratitude and devotion to her.

Afterwards I go into the small village of Bonane where a famed french chocolatier is preparing for the easter holiday in a kitchen that is clothed in stainless.  The shop has neat little rows of petite chocolates and truffles, a true Parisian experience!  A nine year old little boy visiting on holiday, and a relation of the owner makes me a beautiful white origami butterfly.  He spontaneously and patiently shows me how to flatten the paper, making each fold with focus and intent.  It is one of those moments of communion, where time becomes fluid.  When complete, he demonstrates how to make it fly, then gifts it to me.  There is nothing more precious to me than the anything made from the hands of a child.  The chocolates are wrapped in cellophane nakedness, tied neatly with a yellow bow.  Road trip delicacy.

I am on my way to Kinsale, a small shipping port not far from Cork.  I say goodbye to Kenmare and the beautiful Brook Lane Hotel, but not before stopping once more for fish and chips at Wharton’s.

Best Fish & Chips on the planet!

This simple, take-away shop, is hands down the best, made to order fish and chips anywhere!  The clouds make a hasty retreat as the midday sun claims ownership of the day.  I take one last look at this picturesque little oasis and bid a fond farewell…

My lady clad in blue and white,

the mother of the

holy bright.

I find you in a circle of stone,

a silent place,

you call your own.

In the water that flows on high,

in woods, and valleys,

in starlit skies.

I lie upon your earthly swell,

in the beat of your heart,

I will dwell.

I bow to you my beloved one,

bearer of the moon,

and lover of the sun.

My womb, full of your grace,

the seeds of your love,

the souls embrace.

santidevi

Day 21

The immortal Self has claimed me… I Am home. I need look no further for my belonging. I am an embryo in the womb of creation. Fed by spirit. The imbilius is connected to the very source of my being. I am incubating.

I am half way through my 40 day fast.  One day moves into the next in a nearly timeless motion. I am aware of it passing only by the light that leaves the day and the dark that becomes the night. The instinctual part of myself wanes like a tired moon.  Its predominance becomes extinct. The small in me is made to dust. Only what is intrinsic remains, Silence. All has been stilled. Even my mind has surrendered to the fire. My body sheds itself, snake like. I shake it loose. I am in awe at the intelligence and divinity of my human form that perpetually recreates itself.

My beloved Lucy nourishes me through her devotional practice at the gathering of the Dances for Universal Peace.  People from all spiritual and religious traditions joined together to dance and sing, in honor of the sacred Oneness of creation.  I am placed in the center of the circle with the musicians. I sit wrapped in my initiation shawl, I close my eyes in meditation. Their words are sung in aramaic, hebrew, sanskrit, and a host of other languages. Ancient and enduring, they speak of God. Their bodies move in unison, their voices harmonize, their hearts and souls unite.  I feel the presence of the Divine, the love of the Goddess, and I weep spontaneously.  The goodness, compassion and beauty of humanity is overwhelming. I bow in reverence to those who have come to share their faith, to be a reservoir of spiritual nourishment. I drink it in.

It is night now and the air is cold.  I prepare my water with salt from the dead sea, and the oils of rosemary, eucalyptus, cypress, and juniper. The smell of the earth. I will put my head under the water and pray to the Bathroom Guru God.  I will pray on behalf of the suffering, I will pray for peace, I will pray for you.

santidevi