Back at the Beginning of Creation

I wish I could conjure a way to lay this restless yearning back inside my bones, where it was once quiet.  If I could do that, then the mountains might stop whispering to me through the cracks between every other thought, and maybe I’d be able to think straight again.  To focus on the task at hand.  The task of running from the mountains because it is not yet my turn to go.  I feel the world calling to me, demanding I follow my insides, which have already left without me, but all I can hear is my own voice begging me to stay, saying, “I can’t.”  I am not a tree, but my choices seem just as limited.  I am too busy balancing my own weight among my roots, that a step, even in the right direction, seems ill timed.  “Now is not the time for taking steps,” I tell myself.  And still, the necessity for change is not lost on me.  The very essence of life is change, in all its glory and destruction.  Without it, there is no life.  Only still frames and stunted imagery.

I have been so many, and walked so differently, and I crave my next embodiment of spirit.  Seldom has it felt this out of reach or this far away, back at the beginning of creation.  The subtle rumblings, so faint, are confused with my own pulse at times.  But still, I feel the life force bubble slightly, and then simmer, like starting a car that won’t quite turn over.  At what point do you decide to stop turning the key, and surrender to the fact that the car is simply not ready?  And how do you fix the car when your inherent knowledge is so lost inside you that you can only sense that at one point, you might have known someone who was once a mechanic.  So that’s where I am.  Staring at the mountains from the front seat of my broken-down, royal blue 67′ Mustang, nursing my amnesia, and wrenching within from this overwhelming sense that I am not where I am supposed to be.

There is a place beyond the mountains where I am already living in peace amongst the river and the dragonflies.  I wake at dawn to pull the fish for breakfast and let the sunrise fill in all my creases with Bay and Sequoia.  I am there.  Why just this morning, the soil finally worked its way through my veins, into my tired heart and began sealing the holes with blood soaked clay.  The more I become the earth, the less I feel lost in this world.  With wood in my bones and clay in my heart, I can be at home anywhere.  Never lost or homeless.  Always belonging.  Always where I should be.  Only changing in form from the rock to the river, and back again.

On the journey from here to there, I wonder why it is I always end up back on the road, waiting to remember my name.  Existing on two planes, I ache for what is missing, and for what has already been obtained.  Humanity, with its deceptive density, comforts my spirit into lostness while the separation of spirit from bone leaves me in a comfortable stupor.  Could I not see myself sowing the earth by the river, I would accept only this blurry place by the road as my home.  But I know better.  For each time I wake to find myself back at the beginning of creation, I have just a hair more clay in my blood.  Just a touch more sun in my flesh, reminding me that I am already there among the trees.  Each time building upon the last.  Until my veins only contain the river, and my body becomes the mountain itself.  Only then will I recall that I was never really lost at all.  Only just human for awhile.

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