I wanted to share a poem with you this week that echoes my own journey, and I imagine the one I share with many of you as well. Especially, the past few weeks, I’ve been coming back to it a lot as a sort of anthem. If you find Shiloh Sophia’s work as inspiring as I do, please check out her website.
Returning to one’s self
after a long voyage into the
desert is the work all beings
must do one day.
The day will come when
the absence of the missing bones
and the pieces of your heart
that you left on the highway to die
after too many mornings waking up
alone, in body or spirit or both,
will require you to return.
For this sacred work,
a map for returning will
be provided, so you can find
the missing persons reports.
This map is not in a language
you will understand. Are you surprised?
With each stop on the quest
there may be a sitting-down-hard
and even despair you thought
you had gone beyond.
Grief and wonder are the
companions you will find
because they are also the way
through the hard to see places.
Give in to them. You will be okay.
I wish I could say it
could be easier than this.
Hiding, cutting, dismembering
ourselves wasn’t so easy, was it?
We did it to survive, we thought,
and we wrapped up the bloodied
limbs and continued on,
almost soldier-like in our sacrifice
of ourselves. Never mind the blood-loss
of not being ourselves.
Never mind not even knowing what song
belongs to our mouth and
what movement our body
loves the most.
How did we go on this way?
All that is done now.
No more, we say,
and that is how we found ourselves here.
This excavation requires
if it didn’t
would have started long before now.
Yes I know you have already started.
I can see that in your tender eyes.
Don’t worry, yes it is scary at first.
The tools are intact for excavation
and user friendly,
you will find they fit your palm just so.
The stranger within you
knows how to use each one.
She was the one yelling at you before,
to listen listen listen inside the soul cave,
but now that you have listened to her,
she will be the one to help you see in the dark.
This is the one we call the Muse.
Visionary bones are made of stardust
and glow in the darkness.
You will find them. You have to.
I need you to.
We need you to find them.
I have gone a’ bone gathering
and I found this poem here in the wet earth
and brought it to you.
Dust off the mud and muck
and you find words dry enough
to light your spark.