The scent of spring burns in our nostrils. Feet hammer the ground. Drums beat our hearts. In the circle we dance. In the dance we sing. Our other sounds are blacked out. All other sounds are surrounding us. We hear the whistle of the forest in the crystal clear, misty air. Fire dances in our eyes. Our fire eyes burn through everything, echoing the molten sea in our veins. The Song of spring makes us deaf, and we hear better than ever. Naked bodies dance to the beat of the forest. I am Maxine the witch, and I fill myself. I drink from a cup never empty. The wolf is calling me home. I hear its call, and I heed its crystal clear voice. Voices of the circle dance respond, crying out in wild abandon, letting go of everything not life.
It's January. Branches are sprouting. The fields are turning green, here in the far, far north. We know the terrible and joyous song: The Earth is calling us home. The tribe dances to the rhythm of the noisy night.
The wolf meets me in the forest glen. My spirit meets me. I face it, I feel it, in every beat of my heart, every drop of blood flowing through my veins.
The Song thunders through the night, through the gray office spaces of current, half dead humanity.
We sing, and it is a song both silent and loud. Listen. Listen to the true voice of the Human Being.
THOSE NOT BUSY BEING BORN ARE BUSY DYING
THOSE NOT BUSY BEING BORN ARE BUSY DYING
THOSE NOT BUSY BEING BORN ARE BUSY DYING
THOSE NOT BUSY BEING BORN ARE BUSY DYING
THOSE NOT BUSY BEING BORN ARE BUSY DYING
Monday, January 08, 2007
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