To Douglas

“Majestic” is a word I have heard and used often in life, but it is here, among the lush forests of British Columbia, where I learned itʼs true meaning. Magic lives in this place. For all the moments I have been covered with the energetic forces of Life, friend or foe, basking or drowning it the glow of reality, it is while lost in the solid presence of an ancient Douglas Fir, I can find Truth. It doesnʼt mind how ever I show up to its girth, giddy with new ideas, oxygenated by fresh forest air or weeping, lost again in the notion that I am small and unworthy. It does not change itʼs stance against me as I wrap my tiny arms around the bark and moss, facing the branches above like a child at prayer.

This pure moment resonates my soul with an earthy tether then latches me to the roots of my adoptive father tree. An ear now folded against the hugged trunk, I hear whispers of these woodland ghosts begging me to know My Self. Wake up, they ask somewhere between gentle and foreboding, just left of centre where silence will rest. Hold on, they invite as my knees want to buckle and drop to the ground with dreams of falling under the flora to the earths core and gone. Some days there are impressions in my heart that if I am still, long enough, breathing slowly only, needing nothing, comely, I might rise to the tip among the sweet scent of pine and fly home. These thoughts of ascension tickle my tummy, new energy recalibrating the flow of my own blood but instinct grinds my toes into the mud floor reminding me there is work to be done.

Tears creep down my face in resistance, please, I ask this sixty foot green God, please. Your daughter has grown old, her dreams worn and tattered her story untold. The jagged sails of Life have sold her out. This soldier did not reach the kingdom set for her as a child, the crown rusted on her dusty thrown, please. There is no reply. Douglas stays simply solid standing still until I break down in the Truth of my experience. The longing burned in my gut churns up to muted throat, sullied by the soot of discontentment and disbelief. Who am I to carry these grand dreams of speaking to the hearts of my people? I am just a tiny girl enduring this existence, resistance and heart break shredding my resolve. Please. Help your sister see the path, light the

way with these fragrant needles blessing the head of your angel left unsung, unadorned, unprepared. Why do these melodies move me nightly? Words jumbled too tightly, I can not read the signs. Knuckles begin to bleed from the unconscious battering they give to bark in the dark of its vision. Though I know it does not change anything, I am sorry for the mess Iʼve made of this wood.

Look up child. Do not get lost in the breezy temptation of false promises, the aroma of greatness unfulfilled means nothing! The oppressive populace would rather kill their Gods than give up the lush, luxurious lasciviousness offered from that which does not wish them to thrive. The darkness loves greed and rape, keep it up so you are too weak when the war begins. These perspectives hurt me as I know I can hardly see the choice to give up my own cravings: desire for comfort and protection from the battle ahead. Please. Because they murder your massagers, I scream to stars hidden by dead light. The wind unattached only murmmers, Yes.

I begin to babble quickly as if I might parley the terms of fate. There is a frantic shudder and I am once again splayed across the woody chest as the familiar awakening to My Self rears up through my being and I am afraid. I am alone in the daunt. I have no claim to a King who might ride beside me to the front. There is no escape. There is no promised prize. Just as this plant must reach for a sky it will never touch, so must I to the unknown. Both of us being what we are.

There is a matriarch waiting for me to arrive inside the power simmering in boiling oil. We can not yet touch the fragile idea crushed again and again by evil but we can try. Not because we can win but because that is what an awakened woman does; find the most nurturing touch in the chaos. Please. The heart of Her can withstand more battering than imagined around the Presidential war tribunal and still rise up to Love. From Kali to Venus the genius of Divinity will hold the juggernaut of Man, thorns punching and fucking and flailing in their denial of tender mothering they tear at her clothes for mercy as if the domination might salve the wounded calling of their own royalty. Our warriors are enslaved by the orgasm we sell them. The Masculine Divine buried and shackled, suffocated and distracted for profit, we train them from when they are just a little boy. T.V. abuses until we can

no longer hear the songs of tantric devotion and true love for each other.

My left cheek now bruised from the shaking of my weary head against forest floor. I have let go. Hit hard. Winded but as yet conscious. Thoughts of my Beloved, trembling under the sword of Mara, break my back. I see my mother forging through frostbiting winters as guilt splits her bones, she can not carry me alone. My fathers limbs torn from flesh under the Koenigsegg he dreamt of all his life and thought I find I can forgive them all I can not do so for myself.

Nausea threatens to sully fauna paths and I swallow hard. My head throbbing as news casts and marketing ads cut my heart in half. Please. I want to go home, is met with a dissonant note from invisible nectar fallen from its place in the sun pleading to me, Sing. Sing if only for us. Like the moment when Tibetan bells can no longer register in the ears of monks, your voice will carry even if you never know itʼs weight. Open your wounds to the light and shine. Open your light to the dark and heal. Open your healing to the people and there will be hope. Please.

Breath returns to lungs before I have realized the suffocation of my fear. Standing I am again greeted by Douglas like a steady Christmas morning baked fresh with the devotion of family and friends. Forest becomes tribe and I am struck with the knowing that my out breath is their in breath in this furry fairytale. Their exhale the fuel to feed my way, warming me as the sun sets, beckoning me onward. I instinctively bow my head not in deference but in gratitude for we are equals on this quest for Elysium. Gathering my thoughts and packing my lessons I turn to face Life again, walking through the twittering twilight glade towards those dazzling city limits,

I notice thereʼs a new song dancing in my head.

Mira Black

Feb 10th 2017 xo