A Crack, Not a Door

A Crack, Not a Door

The threshold to the future’s a crack, not a door. Not constructed of propriety and routine, but torn through the crysallis that nurtured and now constrains.

There is a time to withdraw, curl up, gather leaves and bark about us and sink into the entrails of the earth, far from the wind and light that burns and abrades us.

Yet lie too long in the still and dark – deny the return of fullness to our flesh, the spark to our heart – and the fear that preserved will threaten decay.

Not until rudely unearthed do we discover our limbs and wings and pelts reborn, behold we can run and fly and withstand the cold. Predator becomes liberator – no longer sapping but calling forth strength.

There is no formula for this – no protocol for the deeper art of healing. Only the animal body and the elements; and the mysterious alchemy between, shrouded from the meddlesome logic of when and how much.

We are merely servants to what flesh dreams into being.

Let the wound be the crack, the threshold – warm and yielding – for rehabilitating the cold stone of greed and hubris we’ve toiled for too long. Slide through and remember we need and know nothing.

Let all those bodies burned on pyres resurrect as Falcon, Snake and Whale having rooted only deeper in hibernation. Allow their force to remake the shape of our bones, the flow of our waters.

Let these things teach us to embrace all beginnings as endings, to shed stale safety and inhale each moment that falls away as it lands.

Let desire and longing defer to infinite becoming, to wondering which face Life will unveil next.

And let this be enough.

Nancy