Swept up by memories, I found myself carried into the realms of the past today.
As I stepped across the new fallen snow I was young again, belly swollen with the first of the three lives I would carry. Pacing softly through the drifts, walking my way beyond pain, I moved with the new life struggling to be born.
Inhaling distance and time, I breathed in the frosty air until there was no sense of division. I was there. Giving life, giving birth, giving love, in the cold grey hours just before dawn. My body felt the pull of the full round moon, my spirit the pull of the heart.
The memories flew me into a red sunrise. I watched the new mother that was me, holding her small dark haired son. I remembered the faint sweet smell, the feel of the tiny frame, the beating of the little heart, rapid and fragile as a bird’s.
Rose and gold spread across the land. The moon set, the sun rose and the baby sent his first fierce cry out into the world. The sound reverberated across the years and fell softly into the snow at my feet. Looking down I saw my sons face in the curve of a footprint, the shape of a shadow.
Grown now and lost to the tides of life, I can no longer touch him, or see the light in his eyes. But no matter the time or distance I will always hear his heartbeat. Thrumming on the wind, whispering to my own heart.
Even the lonely vulture is a bird of power and grace in flight. Restorer of harmony and balance, he was held sacred by the shamans of old. A totem of the dance between life and death, male and female, light and dark, he bravely carried the sun to its proper place in the sky. Singeing his body, burning off every neck feather in the process.
I look up and see two great birds. One smoky dark, one with snowy head and tail. They circle, wings spread, playing on the wind. Bound by feather and bone, season and circumstance, they swoop and dive in almost perfect unison.
To restore our own connection and harmony perhaps we too must be willing to dare the fire, go beyond boundaries and conditioning, and carry the sun. Perhaps it is in the burning that we will finally awaken to the sacred, spread wide our wings and find balance.
The sun grows higher, shining bright across the snow. The shadows and memories fade. Another year has flown by. Soon the wild swans will be winging their way homeward.
Listening, I can hear the faint thrum,
of a heartbeat on the wind . . .