Lightflight
Secret Stories
The process of creation reveals itself to me in small moments of discomfort, when I am trying quietly to understand my voice. The idea of being a part of what the earth is rather than outside of it, is always the underlying theme really, where the actual energy stems from. I’m in dialogue, but its not always speech. It is more a silent exchange of knowing, that I am learning as I go. There is a deeper wisdom in the earth I think, that kind of longs to be seen.
So I try to trust in that despite the disconnect and hypnotism that seems to plague our society.
We stopped believing, I guess, in the contract we were in when we were born, that we were creatures of this planet, not simply on it. Being of this planet means we are in its grasp, moving in and out of its dreams, and adding our dreams too. To be in this state requires a kind of trust I am afraid to have but aspire to.
My rejection of any organized religion- the deeply entrenched version of faith a vast majority of humans have engaged with has perhaps left me jaded.
But my experiences stand firmly with me, the way I pretty much know I am surrounded by angels, but not the kind in stone, the ones in alabaster castles of rigid systems of government. Rather, angels of the wind and sea, without wings, under the ground, veins of gold in the ground.
It’s all a mystery but we all know in our own way, when these earthy passages come to us in the night, when symbols grow out of the ground, when we visit our own heartbeats and realize our trajectories have been woven before and after us.
So, this bird, just an image originally taken by an amazing artist in japan, Yupi Hokkaido spoke to me in my chest but not with a voice. I felt this bird in my ribcage and it just leapt out of the air. A flight through rainclouds and green, fields of thin strands of grass. In and out of dimensions barely perceived, a flight of light made manifest in feathers and bone.
This creature is just as much a windstorm, the aftermath of the hurricane.
In quiet communion I offer this bird to the holy conversation of being of the ground. I pray to no god or book of rules.
I pray to the wind and the seeds of the trees. They know more and offer more than most would expect. Praying means listening, but not to words.
To the unspoken pathways in the dark
to light flying in the wilderness.