~ from cats, dogs and nature to the flowering of body, mind and spirit ~

Wednesday, December 22, 2010

Riding the Stream

I swim in the wisdom of transformation and compassion, flowing easily, following the stream as it meanders gently as winding brook dotted with rock and frond, and then as it rushes powerfully through the canyon carved out ages ago by the same waters renewed again and again. The steep red walls rise up sharply, their cracks and angles showing the passage of time that might otherwise be missed entirely.

Yet I see through Her eyes and know the rise and fall, the changes that never end as form becomes manifest and falls away like the rock slides once the rains and snows erode and shift the underlying roots exposing to the light that which She shows and shares as needful of reflection.

I ride the stream, I am carried by the river, I float in the oceans of her tears of joy and sadness that mingle and are inseparable.

I feel the silky smooth caress of the softening serene stream as we drift along, helping a leaf across the channel who is giving a ride to a fuzzy caterpillar who will transform and spread its wings and fly back across the stream to carry a message to those left behind or those who are waiting eagerly for their own leaf or stick upon which to ride across the stream while others upon seeing the messenger, step into the stream trusting that they will be able to get across without becoming carried away as would those who out of desperation or boldness step into the rushing river, mighty and forceful, matching their determination, yet also supporting them as they struggle to stay afloat, some only seeing the opposite shore and so they fight the river as I once did and do before becoming the flow of Her in moments here and there, and I do what I can encouraging and grabbing three limbs along the way to offer up as something to grasp knowing that when She and I find ourselves apart I trust that She will offer me a branch to hold until I learn once more, until I remember Self, to swim across while flowing with the current.

She whispers in a voice I hear within the waves that the shore is always going to be there because it is also underneath my feet when I stretch my toes down and touch the bottom of the river strewn with rocks and sand and mud. I can feel it beneath me, always with me in a different form, so why not enjoy the journey and all who I meet along the way for we are truly all one whether we seem that way or not.

And the ocean waits, She waits, her seaweed fingers floating, touching, waving, beckoning...

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