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© liz davidson 2006-11 all rights reserved

The Speaking of the Stones

We come from the earth’s center
Formed thought the eons
And now,
Now, risen to the surface and exposed to light.
We are eternal….primordial….
Use to the deep dark places
Where knowing is felt.
There is no light to see by…
No books to read.
The body wisdom leads the way.
Trust in ones own intuition is heightened. 
The pace is slow… 
Formless… 
Patience is required. 
When we leave the dark places to rise to the surface
Another marriage will take place.
This one between
Spirit
And
Bodysoul.
The soul shows herself first
In the dark, eternal places
And
When she is honored
The body will bring it
To the light,
Honoring the way of the soul
Trusting its path
Its sense of direction.
The essence of the soul is sacred,
Holy
Let your soul lead you,
Let it lead you to the deepest places,
Down the longest roads
Up the tallest mountain,
Let it lead you to your wilderness.
Let it touch other souls
And be fed. 
Guard it with your life
For indeed,
It is your life

 

The Signing of the Contract

 
Some say we came to this world
With an ancient contract
Hidden in our memory
And pressed upon our upper lip
By our angels guiding hand.
Some say that we have already
Made choices, signed contracts
And then, forgotten
Why we chose this life.
They say we choose our families,
Our mother, our father, our sisters, our brothers,
And, they have agreed to inflict
The sacred wound. 
The sacred wound that will allow us
To become fully human,
Fully part of this world,
Rather than caught between.
The wound that is for our forgetting,
Now, for our remembering.
The wound that is for our healing
And so, for others.
The wound that will remind us
Again and again
Our true nature, our souls longing
To be transformed
By love.  

 

Introduction of the “Furies” who sing the stones

 
There was a time
Before this time
When the Furies were the force
That held the world together.
They roamed
In pursuit of those
Who dared to offend the primordial
Laws of kinship.
That is anyone
Who committed the sacrilege
Of spilling kindred blood.
They held the sacred energy
That knew we were all kin
All interconnected
Not only to each other but
To our physical world.
This knowing seems to be silent
Or forgotten, or mute,
Perhaps as we fell stones are
But in ancient times
Stones were known to be alive,
Holding soul
And spirit
And memory. 
Once
with a stone in my heart
I heard the stones sing.   

 

The Creation of the Vessel

 
Little one,
Little one, listen to me.
You of my heart
Listen to me.
I don’t know how to tell you
About the sadness,
The shame of being a woman
And why it should be so.
I don’t know how to make that different for you.
I don’t know how to tell you that deep
Inside you, your knowing is right,
When all around, we say that knowing
Is wrong. 
I don’t know how to protect you.
I want you to grow strong and brave,
Unafraid of living with a vulnerable heart.
I want you to be everything you can be,
And I want you never to diminish yourself
As I have done,
To be acceptable. 
Little one,
I offer my mistakes,
And my learning
For you to learn from.
Little one,
Listen to your voice, your knowing
And go forth.   

 

Dark Heart

 
I have not
brought forth life
in that time-honored way
No new life captured in my belly
And bloodily
And rudely
Expelled into the world
When my body
Had decided it was time. 
No.
For me
New life has come from
A different place,
My hands, my heart,
My belly too,
Raw, uncensored,
Often unconscious,
From dreams
And memories
Of the ancient ones
Who whisper in my ear
And draw beneath my eyes
And urge me
Again and again
To bring forth,
To make manifest
Another reality.  

 

Longing

 
Where are you?
Where are you,
You who I miss so much.
Where are you?
Where is that sound that was you?
Where is that certain energy that I knew was you
That I loved being surrounded by. 
Where are you?
Where are you? 
Sages tell me you are all around,
Sometimes that even feels true,
But; in this place,
Where are you?  

 

Longing 2.

 
It’s over for another year, this time…
This time
Of trying to recapture
Some vague
But powerful memory
Of a certain kind of love. 
Thank god it’s over. 
This time when our very human frailties,
Our stone hearts,
Our unbridled will
Keep staring us in the face
And keep reminding us,
As if we needed it
That,
We are not that,
That somehow we
Keep eluding it,
Or,
It eludes us. 
And most of the time we can rest in our forgetting
But,
At this time of year,
As light is born again,
We can do nothing but wish
It might not be so.  

 

Whispers

 
I wish I wanted nothing.
This wanting,
This desiring,
This desperation
Brings all sorts of problems.
I hear the whispers
Telling me I should be more,
More than I am,
That I should be different,
Different than I am.
I should have this,
Or that,
I need it,
And if I had
It,
Whatever that particular it is,
I would be fine.
And with the whispers
Comes the jealousy,
And with the jealousy
Comes the hate,
And it’s so easy to hate
Someone who has what I want.
And while I am hating you
I am hating myself even more
For having all those lousy, shameful feelings
Of not being that
Which I long to be
With all my willful heart.
And in that place
It’s easier to rage and hate
Than stay and rest
In the place where the
Whispers can find me
And the shadows surround me. 

 

Lost Innocence

 
It’s been a long time coming.
A very long time,
This realization
That I am that…
I always blamed you
Or you
And said
If only you would change
If only you were different
I would be fine
And under my breath
And beneath my words
Was
“It’s all your fault
poor helpless me”
And it felt that way
As if I were helpless
And I hated that.
It all changed one day
When I realized
the voice
was in me.
I was that
Terrorizing, harsh,
Judgmental voice.
I am the dark extinguishing my light.
And somehow
that made a sea change
in me.
For now,
Now I saw,
I felt
The power of that energy
And knew
There was a part of me that loved it.
And in that knowing
I lost my innocence.
This hard time
Was a death
And a birth
And looking back
I know
It was a state of grace.

 

The Ground of my Being

 
I stand in my nakedness
Bare before you.
Bare to the earth
the grass, the stars.
Bare.
Standing on stone my ground.
The heavens above
And the earth below.
I am a rod
connecting both.
My body written upon,
impressed upon.
My body my story,
My body my soul made visible.
My body, my vessel,
My container, my ground. 

 

The Vessel

 
I wait
Empty
This is the beginning.
What will fill me I accept with gratitude.
It is what I need.
The place to start from.
I can choose to ignore it,
Degrade it,
Throw it away as unworthy,
Or, I can let it move me,
Form a relationship with it,
Follow where it leads
Waiting
Watching
Vigilant for the next filling.
What are the connections?
Where am I going?
I don’t know.
I follow the emptying
And the filling of the vessel
And the space between the actions.
I am learning
I am the vessel.

 

 

Lost Moment

   
When the sun rose
breaking the new dawn
did you help sing the world into creation
or
did you, like me
stand beside
waiting for another to sing that first note
before joining in.
When you were standing there
alone, self-conscious,
while all around
starting from that central point,
that essence
and spiraling ever outward
rose
note by note
the new song
which
became the new day.
But
if you were like me
holding on to yourself,
frozen in your fear
of not being good
or right
or whatever
they sang the song with out you
and the sun rose
and the world was created again
while you and I were still asleep.   

 

Memory

 
It may be
that
the time has come
to remember
our original language.
Not the language
of our mind,
our intellect
but the language of our true knowing. 
In this truth
those things which we use
to keep separate,
our ego,
our defenses,
the stone to cover our heart,
stand beside
and we know
even if for a brief moment
what it is to walk in love.

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A Tiny A, B, C
The Lime Tree [2005]
The Road to The Singing
In the Cave of my
Navigational Maps [1992]
Secrets from the Soul [1991]
A Tiny Book of Crows
words / Secrets from the
words / The Singing of
blog
Channelling Betty [2009]
Why I Paint [2011]
Portrait of an Artist Eating
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