The Grandmothers have much been with me, as of late. They whisper in my ear, day and night. They take me into the sacred territory of dreams, for ceremonies of initiation, and healing. They come from many cultures, many times, many places and lifetimes. The Grandmothers have returned, and they have work to be done. They share in their wisdom, with an embrace, that finds the deepest longings from within.
Healing the Stories of the Speaking Land
Sing me sacred melodies,
on which I am fed.
Enter the womb,
where women have bled.
Give me a sip, from the cauldron of fate,
Slip me the password, to enter the gate.
Move me closer, with hips circling round,
Invoke blessings from deep in the ground.
Calling forth blessings to remind me of who I am, and why I have come. The Grandmothers stand behind me, supporting me with their love, and whispering in my ears…You can do it. Everything will be alright. They guide me along forgotten pathways, that are no longer visible, and guide me to help open ancient pathways once again, because most have forgotten the way, or how to see.
The Grandmothers teach me to feel from the nape of the neck, protect the strength of my heart, listen to my gut, and to see with my womb. They teach me to hold beauty in a way, that neither time, person, nor secret power play, can take it away. They ask me to help heal the land, and remind me of how I know these things. I know how to heal the stories held in the land, and the body, because I know how to listen.
Stories held in water,
move in circles,
Rain drops, dew drops,
Add to this recipe called “Life”.
A water symphony,
a dripping remedy,
resonates with each breath.
Water stories, now given to Earth,
Now soaking it in.
Now where to begin?
Buried deep underground,
Held in the presence of stones, until they are found.
Tree rooted stories also, gripping the darkness below,
and growing ever toward the sun, the moon and the stars.
Archival rings of wisdom, take us back,
circling through our past, while playing silent witness.
The breeze through trees,
whispers how love is made,
As I lay resting beneath her shade,
a dream appears, taking me inside another world.
I dream of a memory, when I was a tree,
and I listen to songs played inside my rings.
Like an ancient record album, I am a record keeper.
I hold inside, languages of light,
which feed me, and keep me, through the night,
where I travel in dreams, to distant stars.
This Tree rooted deep in Earth, is a Star traveler.
call in the direction
A place of initiation and vision,
where painted stories of earth are hidden,
I come tripping back to my destiny.
from a place of far memory.
paint pictures across my mind,
bird wings build ships of time travel,
creating shapes of meaning,
across the sky.
Valley Reed © 2018