Wisdom

In Our Bones

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We locked up our wisdom into our bones
And swallowed the keys
They sank in our rivers of blood
And we forgot the maps
Because we had to forget the mysteries
To keep them safe.
We wove our hair into brooms
And swept over our paths
And then burned the earth with our rage
We didn’t teach our children
It was the only way to protect them,
we thought
But in them we planted seeds, seeds and keys
And told them stories and riddles and songs
With no roots, just tangled threads
That would take years to unwind
Just enough time
For the rains to fall again
And put out the fires
For the dams to break
For the rivers to flood
For the paths to be walked again
For the soil to breathe
And as the old bones crumble
Deep beneath the rubble
We find we’ve always had the keys
Our stories and our maps
Our paths are revealed to some
And the seeds grow again
The threads are unspun
And woven again

Attributions:

Moonlight

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Douse the lights, douse even the candle
Speak to her gently; she’s been shunned
so long, she runs away.
Suggest, don’t expect
Invite
Wait

Let being fill up the space
of doing
So that what you’re doing
is being.

Let the message emerge
from the sea of understanding
like a mermaid singing her seduction,
Think fishes, flying through dark waters,
Think night, moonlit seas, and
no moonlight at all.

Think water. Think depths, dampness.
Think subtle. Think subtler.
Think feelings.

Your wis-dame, your wisdom,
is an archivist. She knows what happened.
Just ask.

She isn’t afraid, she’s been here before.
Another kind of clarity, silvery, not stark, emerges.
Your wis-dame is your oldest ally,
your mother-wit.

Without her you are less than half yourself
with her you are whole and ready.
Like a dolphin she is beside you
when you are goalless
and seeking only to satisfy your higher yearning.

Be attracted, addicted to life
and life’s deeper demands.
Love, don’t curse, the blind alleys
the red lights and lost luggage.

Without guessing there’s no game.
Not “no pain no gain”
but “no love no gain”

You mother-wit
your wise dame

The sage speaks in patterns and pictures,
a scatter tongue. Catch as you can
her butterfly dust

But if you treasure her treasure
be loyal,
For eons she has been wooed in the dark
and spurned in the sun.
If she was with you then
She’s with you now.

Ask
Ask
and then, of course,
listen.

~Marilyn Ferguson

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