The Blessed Mother

The Blessed Mother

I am a capricorn from the interior mountains. My hooves are adapted to tread on firm ground. The land that nurtured me from birth is the Canadian shield, where water takes the shape of still, cold lakes and fast flowing rivers.

The sensuous salty sea doesn’t appear to be of my body’s vocabulary. I am attracted to her with the innocence and the eagerness of a child. I come to her with reverence and curiosity.

The sea promises to carry me into surprising healing journeys. She speaks the language of our Moon Mother. The soft cradle of her forms is the round belly of a pregnant woman. I hear her tremors already, slow-coming, sometimes sudden.

I come to her in the beautiful islands of Greece.

Of course, I am soon to lay on a sandy beach, under the hot September sun, left alone to marvel at her overwhelming presence.

Hypnotized by the beauty of her impressive soundscape, powerful and loud gifts,  fragile detailed noises. I enter dreamtime with the sound of her breaths.

Movement of the waves, stillness of the rays, flowing rhythm and humming of the heat. Fluid water. Fire immobile. I lay in the perfect balance of sun and moon.

Rustling and crashing and rumbling and pouring too. A rich impossibility to absorb.

Mighty sea, feared and venerated by the men who traveled on her back since the beginning of times… which words did she murmur to hide her mysteries? Who were her ancient goddesses whose many names we have forgotten?

Along with Clarissa Pinkola Estés, I call her Mother, Madre, María, la mar, la mer, la mère. Mysterious sea, would her blue and white robes be the ones worn by the Virgin Mary?

Holy Mother. In churches across Europe, I feel the urge to kneel in front of her open arms. The burnt witches prevent me to do so, and I cry.

I cry for all the misunderstandings, uses and abuses of her giving birth and keeping such purity, radiating unconditional love and feminine enduring compassion, the gift of the mother.

I cry for all the bearded men, dressed in black and covered in gold, fenced in behind the altar and given so much power, who dare to stand next to her and write her story. I know her from before. I have always known her.

Of course, I am soon to be totally submerged, on a quest to no understanding. I am in awe, in love, I melt, and dive. I surrender to her pregnant belly, enter her womb and even as she swallows me, she holds me wonderfully bobbing up and down, back and forth in her arms, a rocking that comes and goes and still, keeps me afloat. She dances and I float, follow her dance and pray.

Joyful, playful femininity.

Of course, I am soon to sit on the white and blue deck of the ferry to smell her moist mist, salt my lips and journey with her, again and again. My body slightly slides on the bench as I let it move to her rhythm.

Her splashes take the shape of Maria’s long robes, her giant open arms holding the boat. She becomes dolphins and whales, an enormous naked body, diving and coming out, protective energy hovering in the wind and the breaking waves.

She’s all around me. I feel safe in the unpredictable rocking of her waters.

Marie, her blue angelic wings foam in pleasure. Roll, ripple and dissolve. It’s a timeless back and forth, push and pull that takes us in, swelling up and down. Singing a silent lullaby, melodies of fluidity, weight and fullness, and oops! absence of gravity.

Am I on the sea, in the sea, or outside, looking at her?

Is it the call back?

When I stare at the waves, there is nothing else than a dazed eagerness for their changing forms. Dissolution in sound.

Dreamtime, again.

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