In every intact culture, there have always been the ones who live at the perimeter of the village or the tribe. Or, maybe they make their place even further out into the wilds. They make their place at the edge, to sit and look out into the space between the worlds, and listen beyond what is known.
We have been called by many names, but they are never of our own making. Any name that can hint at what we are, aren’t for us to give ourselves. They are names that can only be earned by simply doing the work that is written in our cells.
The shaman calls to a soul. The curandera sings her prayer. The healer lays their hands. The witch gathers their herbs. The prophet receives and delivers. The oracle speaks. The mystic praises the Holy.
We live at the edge, because though we are human, we don’t fit into the conventions of the time or place or culture we are born into. Our path is devotion to the Sacred, to be both student and teacher-as-instrument, forever. We hold vigil upon the bridge between the realms of spirit, ancestry, and soul, and the tears, sweat, hopes and failures of humanity. In this way, we serve our community by tending what exists beyond language. There is always a way that we are separate, but we are never alone. We walk with legions.
The ancestors watch over us. The saints bless our path.
Nature itself whispers through our bones. Angels protect us.
Our work is for all of us, and for all time. We work to make every task, great and small, every stillness, every action, in praise to the beating heart of life itself. We give ourselves to that which has no beginning and no end, to the current that moves in every seed and stone.
I have 1000 faces and 1000 names.
I am the woman burned at the stake. I am the mother whose last breath escapes as her life splits open to birth another. I am the one who walked here before words were written. I am the cry of the owl in flight. I am the cat’s wink. I am the belly of the serpent sliding cool upon sunbaked ground.
I am made of this earth and I will return to Her, but don’t be confused, for I am not of this world. I have known it for always. For a long time, I longed to have been born into a different age.
There used to be a place for us, when we lived in tribes and clans and villages. The mystics and seers and curanderas and shamans were simply known as the ones who courted the mystery.
There are names that we cannot give ourselves. They can only be given in acknowledgment of our service. If we rely too much on our own understanding, or become drunk with power or poisoned by greed, we don’t keep our position well, or for very long.
It’s a hard time to be a mystic. We are no longer simply held by the land and sky and the water and the plants and animals and one another, our days marked by pauses and deep rest; dreaming. No, this time is full of glittering, empty promises and a churning that never stops. There is always something more to find out, more to see, more to hear, more to consider, through countless glowing windows that numb our eyes into trance.
Oh our eyes, these portals through which our very soul shines. Our vision can trace the wind, catch the lightening-quick lilt of a bird’s wings in flight. There is so much majesty here, upon our planeta terra. Nowadays, painfully few stop to simply behold, and wonder - and there, so much is lost.
The temple of the Sacred is attended by few. Multitudes flock to the idol of Consumption, a beast that is never satisfied. In a world where commodity and commerce reign supreme, price tags have no place to hang on the simple and infinite courtship of existence. News flash: the wisdom of the universe isn’t going to be captured in Tiktoks and reels. This life is not content.
There is a remedy. It’s already here. Her name is Grief.
She lies waiting, in all the corners and crevices where we try to bury something alive.
The human heart cannot grow in only one direction. Everyone chases happiness, but most come up empty-handed, missing the one ingredient essential to find bliss. A heart that truely expands, does so in all dimensions. Rising into levity and joy is only possible by equidistant descent into the depths of sorrow.
Trees can only grow as tall and fruitful as their roots are deep and wide. We are only as strong as our blood and bones are vital. There is no one-way street here. What we love, we will one day lose. What we lose hurts so thoroughly, because we loved. Our hearts must break to let more light in.
Generations of untended grief rest uneasy in our flesh. Our collective sorrow is a lake so vast it could drown us all. It IS drowning us, for all our damned watersheds. That gnawing ache that catches your breath in your throat? That knots your belly? It is the parched riverbeds begging to flow with your tears.
For all that is precious, all that could be lost, all that WILL be lost, all that has already been lost; for all that hurts, for all the unspoken longing of your spirit: let yourself cry, dear ones.
Welcome your tears. Do whatever it takes to free their current.
Let it shake your bones, for all of your ancestors who couldn’t, and for everyone who doesn’t know how to yet. Let your bones shake for the earth Herself.
Cry as if your life depends on it, because it does.
Your tears will fall and feed the earth in the way that only your grief can.
I stand at the edge of the world, and now, it is also the end of time.
I see a glimmer that flashes towards a brighter future ahead. It is a flame that can only be fed by humanity realizing, and embracing, the immensity of beauty and death.
I see a future plunging into an abyss far darker than the shadow already looming over us. We are fast hurdling towards it.
There is a little hut by the river that I’ve plastered with red mud and shining mica. Come drink at the mouth of my spring, where the light dances on the clear water. It is the same movement that dances inside us. Come sit, let’s listen to the stillness and sounds of the forest together.
Here, I have made us a fire. Come, circle around for a story, for a song, for ritual; to seek your healing. I carry my work and the earth carries me and this moment carries both of us. What emerges, points the way. I may or may not help you in the way you were expecting, but the medicine we make here will be in devotion to the YOU that spans the vastness of all heaven and earth. Pay me in goats and chickens and seeds and clay pots, pay me with your brilliant artistry. Go home, tend your altar, bless your water. Light your candles, ring your bells, and call out to the Holy. And above else, in all things, FEEL YOUR HEART.
Remember, we are children of this earth, children of the sun and moon and stars. The truth is that we are not separate, never were, and never will be.
We are all woven of the same fabric.
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I shapeshift across the years and across the land. I inhabit many places, but the only real home I have is the devotion that burns unwavering in my chest.
I see a grain of the mystic embedded in every heart, and pray that these jewel seeds awaken to unfurl into shoots that crack us open from the core to penetrate the frontiers of mind and being.
And I relish in the embrace of my companions, all of us for whom that seed flourishes into every blossom ever seen in this world and in dream.
This piece is what sparked my vision to creating the Matriz, a place where I simply reach out between the world, into the mystery, and write what arrives. Thank you for being here with me.
May we know the truth of who we are, and find solace among one another. May we use our time and attention and life as instruments to tend what is broken, and nourish our belonging.