Sunday, April 23, 2017

the bear that carries the moon



Outside, the sky is slowly turning the colour of the old dreaming sea. I have come to love early mornings, for they hold stars too, and remembrances of the wild god's drumbeats that go deep beneath the soil, through the intimacies of the Mother, the roots and tunnels of the earth. I saw one houselight in the fading darkness - then realised it was my own houselight, reflecting off my neighbour's roof. It ought to serve as a lesson, but I already knew I could be my own light for myself in the world.

Frosty quiet mornings like this, I can sense the stretch of the old night, as if it is a great black bear that has been padding about the houses and streets, carrying the moon on its shoulders, and now is easing out the cold from its muscles, the stars from its pelt, and hunkering down to sleep. Now come the teeming people, the day tribe. They drive all over pawprints and over tiny pebbles thrown up by the sacred drumbeat and the pulse of the lush and heavy earth. They think they are evolved. But the night bear is older than their dreaming, and the drum, although it sings of them, is not just for them.

So another day begins.

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