The Weaving
She came from a cave, bringing with her the scent of ancient earth, fresh spring water and stony flint, as it chafes against itself to make a spark. Here, in my kitchen, she seemed out of place yet familiar. Her familiarity bothered me. I knew her, though I had never met her before. I had conjured her, the cave, the crow, this story, from my bloody womb space. Of course, she was familiar. I’m telling you a story, but to me, the story is real, the truest truth I have ever heard. Now I sound mad.
I began my journey to spirit some 35 years ago when my grandfather bequeathed me some yoga philosophy books. I devoured them, although I understood little. Over the course of many years, my studies expanded into world religions, meditation, past life regression, herbs, sacred dance. I wanted to know how to live, and how to live well. The things of the world left me unsatisfied. I began to have powerful agency over my life, manifesting my desires with curious accuracy, and there were many transcendental experiences. Once, I sat outside, cross-legged meditating for hours under the dimming sky. The ageing late summer grass gave off its hay-like scent and blossom festered from earlier rains under the cherry-blossom tree not far from where I sat. As my mind emptied, the blood in my veins communed with the sap in the trees. The scents of drying, damp grass, the rotting blossom became my scents. I became the trees, the grass, the blossom, all that is, ever has and ever will be, in that enraptured moment.
Later, my marriage ended. The power with which I had manifested this husband, these children, this home, this entire life, left me. The experiences remained. Like the day I saw the shadow of an ash tree sweep across the side of a house, and began to weep with… what was it? Beauty? A sense of time passing? The impermanence of life? Regardless, it touched me deeply that tiny, innocent moment. I lost a husband. I lost children (some chose to live with him), I lost my sense of self, howling under the dark, downy duvet, day & night. My spirit I could not lose.
The woman from the cave showed herself to me after months in the dark. The dark is where mystics live, the unseen world. It’s where I am. Living in the bottom two thirds of the iceberg, in the depths of my own Atlantis. Seeing, and yet blind. So, we sat, Linca and I, in the kitchen of my house. She, me, and I, her, the tea on the table; sharp lemon balm, earthy mugwort and sweet lavender, rising from the steam. Placing our mugs down, we lean, our breath in accord, towards each other. Her red lips press against my paler ones. Smoke and flint, damp leaves, cedar wood and rose. Her scent draws me into her mouth and, right there, at the table in my kitchen, we fuse in a piquant interlacing of matter and spirit.
