The soil of Belonging pt.2

Long life, honey in the heart
White roads paved with the eyebrows of the moon, which is sea foam
Yellow roads, all colour roads, which are paved with abundance
From the tail of the morning star, which is a deer
No evil
Thirteen thank yous

Mayan prayer, Martin Prechtel

At the root of suffering lies our longing for the Divine.

We walk the roads of all colours, our hearts in our hands, unearthing the secrets of our belonging.

It is said, in Bhuddism, that desire is the basis for all suffering. Desire takes us from the sweet waters of harmony and serenity, throwing us into wild storms of vast oceans. It takes us like a hungry lover, our minds becoming vines strangling our running breath, a swarm in the delicate moment of upheaval. We look into it’s eyes and see the wild fires that burn all things to the ground. Yet, there is something… perhaps a jewel, or a humble seed awaiting there in the rich soil of desire. This seed is precious, a delicate flower riding the deer’s bountiful dance.

All things hold a rhythm. A certain growth pattern which, through processes, such as initiation, transform from raw material to refined pearl. It is the act of tempering, of expansion and de-pression, of grief and praise. which brings forth change; a maturity begins to form. The tree holds itself now, can find it’s water through the personal relationships it has created. It’s fruits begin to grow and bounty is offered to the songbird. Such, I belive is also the rhythm of Desire. It begins as a child, unable to express itself fully for lack of language. It becomes a rule breaker, shit causer, pushing boundaries, breaking chains, leaving home with pride and hunger. Then life truely reveals itself, in all facets. It breaks us, tricks us into coyote’s lair, always tending to us. But life is not always gentle, she is vicious, teaches through thunder and pain, torments us with luscious velvet kisses that crawl our wretched hides. Then if we are paying attention, Desire changes, a softening must happen, a continuous desiccation which brings forth the ideal state for germination. Desire shapes itself into Yearning.

The air is heavy now… It’s a musty raining day and things are calmer but there is no land in sight and the Sea whispers. We are lost sailors with hopes. We are tired yet, stronger, more agile, keenly listening and by now begin to read the currents of our yearning. Yearning brings Fire into Water. Grief becomes our old friend, we fall into her arms, often. Life has tempered us and with it comes remembrance and perhaps a deeper sort of understanding. We experience our past once again through different eyes tracking the subtle currents, exposing themselves timidly to a lover’s gaze. A map begins to trace itself upon the sensual contours of our lives. We have lost much, find Grief in the pain we have caused others and ourselves. We may have lost loved ones and tumble our stones into the night.

“Grief becomes our old friend, we fall into her arms, often’

The waters of Grief are crucial. Without them, our lands would stay dry, crackling clay forming fissures shaping a puzzle never fully put together. Grief comes in as a soothing balm, sometimes with a whole lot of spice but always giving, feeding and nourishing. Grown tired and strong from temperance, we find ourselves anew in the royal bed of Grief. We explore new words that drip from our quivering lips and our hearts seem to sing more - or perhaps we are listening now. This time brings us deeper into softening and love takes hold. Unable to hold it back it pours out into the valleys and rolling hills, wild horses untaimed. Our yearning is freed from the past, from shame, from regret. It grows tall, with humble pride, transformed into Longing.

I believe that Longing is the final stage of growth, Desire’s elderhood. It is also the begining, the truth we have come here with. The bundle we carried in our woven basket as we descended into these realms. But Longing is not a simple matter. A longing left without grounds becomes reckless and tormenting. It rips at our skin and calls the old bearded sea god to release all four winds. Our sails explode, our mast breaks and if not careful we may become lost at sea, landing upon many estranged shores. But… We have watered our dear seedling, gone on the wild hunt and brought back food. Our longing offers a sacred contract; Commitment. In modern days, commitment is a world best kept locked up in a old rusty tin box. Commitment means, chains and stolen freedom. But this is not the old ways. Commitment is the compost, the aged horse manure that brings richness to our grief watered soils. A strange and mysterious black gold of sorts, commitment is the ambrosia to our longing. It’s roots grow strong, reaching deep into the ancient clay soils forming alliances with even older myceliums. Commitment brings longing into be-longing. Sundenly the winds calm and fall into a perfect rhythm. Our eyes see the currents dancing on the surface of the waters and our hearts rejoice. It sings now, each day and pours itself into all of life. Commitment gives our longing boundaries, a container becoming an ever-flowing river of emerald waters. The key here is to soften enough, listen intently and remember the voices of our ancestors. Our heart speaks in their tongue and it is our hearts who will offer us our divine commitment - aligned with our truest essence, our buddha nature.

We must be clear. Life is not always feasts and easy sailings. It takes work, continuously. One does not commit once - no commitment, true commitment happens in every moment, every day. This is sovereignty, this is kinghood and queenhood. A life well lived is a life of sacrifice, of giving all that you have and of listening. A life well lived, is feasting on the dripping honeycomb given and accepting grief and praise’s invitation to frolic. When we act in accordance to the rhythms of our lives we allow ourselves to eat the ripened fruits, we are part of the dance and this wild swirl will go to dark places and it will go set nestled in the crescent moon. But, we Belong now. The birds, the trees, the howling wolves are our kin and we see ourselves anew through their eyes. We are safe now… not away from danger but continuously finding resilience within our wide web of relations. Tempering becomes a welcomed, intentional ritual.

Our bed is undone now, we’ve lost the royal frame, forsakened the plush mattress and rejoice in making love with Grief and Praise, wildly howling, on the moist grounds. Furs are scattered. There is honey in the heart. The hive has found home.

Now, suffering has shifted. We are not in constant battle trying to run away or kill the immortal hydra of our desire. We’ve watched, bathed ourselves in volcanic pools and sung to the stars. We’ve accepted ourselves, tasted our nectar and savoured. We walk softly, kissing the ground. Our Desire, has become something deeper, heavier, with more scars, gnarly. It is our wand casting spells of beauty and bounty. Longing is our royal garment and becomes the foundation for our Traditions. It is continuously united, over and over, embraced by our Beloved, spreading it’s seeds upon the lands.

So good friends, if you struggle there in the wildwoods. If you’ve looked under every rock thinking you knew what you were looking for all along. If you’ve pushed yourself away becoming a barely audible echo of your mighty glory. Good friend, forget the road you thought was yours or perhaps the road that’s been told is yours. Forget looking under the rocks for something other than the beauty that lays underneath, begging for your Love. Crack open the shell, slowly sculpting it. Let your Grief dance with the melodies of your sorrows. Howl, be angry, be saddened and be joyous. You are alive and life, all of Life loves you. It is the Beloved there, on the horizon, watching with tenderness and love.

Good friend, may the flutters of your song shiver into the ecstasy of being heard. May you stumble into the wild tides of Grief and Praise. May you taste of your sweet honey and give it freely to us all. And above all else, be kind.