Called to takayna

As we journey in I start to see the wounding. We stop at the frontier. We sleep and gather on wounded land. I’m with a tribe of warriors.

I feel sad to my core. The forest calls me, swallows me up in its green. I walk gently and slowly with my heavy grief down to the bubbling creek.

 

The old tree fern watches over me as I cry. I offer it my sadness. I let my tears fall into the flowing water. I sing to mother Gaia and call to the ancient mothers for their wisdom and love. Here in the old country, held in peace and beauty, I struggle with my human belonging. Wanting to separate myself from the destruction. Separation is not my truth and so in connection, I accept this sadness. I am part of the wounding.

As the rain patters around me, then the sun shines again, in the flow of water running and birds singing, it all seeps away. I am empty. Being. Sharing the beauty of this home where the old fern tree lives with its beard rippling down off its trunk, leaning out over the water, its green fronds stretching wide above my head.

The forest calls me.

I wander up and over, through ferns, past old giants, to sit at the river wide and rocky. The sun pours its warmth over me. The wind sings through the forest around me. The water sparkles and flows, cold, crisp and clear.

I offer these words to the river, an attempt to express my gratitude that I may sit here in this sacred country. takayna is beauty and I am held in its embrace.

Shelley Cusiter


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