Imagine Darkness.
Utter, tangible, swaddling
Darkness.
Perhaps there was an Otherplace
before (I believe); perhaps not.
Perhaps that darkness is salted with memories that out-bubbled
Cerridwen’s Cauldron, outswam the currents of Lethe.
Perhaps that darkness is salted with memories that out-bubbled
Cerridwen’s Cauldron, outswam the currents of Lethe.
But even so at best those images
lost their light
and swim now in a Darkness that rushes on ears not yet formed
but listening, always listening. And out of that Darkness,
the first sound of a lifetime, a sound not heard but felt…
and swim now in a Darkness that rushes on ears not yet formed
but listening, always listening. And out of that Darkness,
the first sound of a lifetime, a sound not heard but felt…
Thum-thump. Thum-thump.
Thum-thump.
It’s a cadence that you’ll match
your deepest rhythms to,
the master metronome for the symphony that is to be a Life.
the master metronome for the symphony that is to be a Life.
Sacred Texts have told us much
about the Father, about hands that shaped clay and into it breathed life, about
a bearded mouth that smiled for It Was Good.
And blessed be the fathers, for their gritty hands have hewn out homes
from solid rock and chiseled language on Eternity. But slowly, surely, as trembling and
determined as a foal’s first steps, we’re remembering the Sacred Space that circles
Holy Mother, Mater Sancta For when we
look for clay, we find it not in books but in the Earth, and not so deep that
our spades raise blisters on hands that seek the stuff of life. And while the sperm may offer sparks, the stem-cell
clay that forms our Form is fashioned by maternal hands.
Blessed be the mothers, for they
are the Shapers of the Future.
Imagine Darkness.
Warm, inviting darkness—not the
darkness of oblivion, for that is cold and empty as Terror. Imagine the darkness of becoming, the
darkness that fills a kettle before the water spills in to brim it. The darkness of a cave where bears and
groundhogs sleep. The darkness of the Womb.
And in that darkness drums a drum,
thum-thumping a rhythm of comfort and love, making promises whispered and
sung. In the darkness hums a Voice. A voice that explains, from the earliest
inklings of Knowing, in the sturdiest depths of Foundation, that you are not
alone. Before the world is round, or
gravity found, before hot is ouch or milk is yum, there is “You are not alone.”
And that is Everything.
Blessed be the mothers, for they
are the Hummers of the Sacred Truth.
Blessed be the mothers, for they
are the Voices in the Darkness of Becoming.
Blessed be the mothers
Darren Reiley, 2004.
