a conversation with my ancestors two years ago
“The artist’s task is to save the soul of mankind; and anything less is a dithering while Rome burns. Because of the artists, who are self-selected...for being able to journey into the Other, if the artists cannot find the way, then the way cannot be found.” ― Terence McKenna
The mind goes: “Why like this? We worked so hard to get here, why right now? I want to go!”
The body says: “I am tired, I want to lie on the earth, I want to sip the rain and play.”
The soul chimes in: “We need to wander. Into the wondrous. Into the soil. Into the dreamspace.”
And I cry because I think I have done something wrong to feel so disjointed, to feel like my efforts have led to somewhere that is a closed sign, that says “not this way” and I only want a clear open road ahead of me.
Because then I’ll feel safe.
Then I’ll know I am not hunting or hunted.
Then it is simply a walk.
And spirits tap on my shoulders and shake their heads at me, exasperated by my humanness -
“This is the walk, my love, it is just not what you think it was going to be.”
“But why can’t it be what I think it will be?”
“Because your perception is limited, darling. You have the cosmos within you but you do not have the access to the wisdom it holds when you think alone.”
“That seems terribly unfair.”
“It feels that way, yes, I know.”
And they hold their arms open for me to fold into.
“I want to know what to do.”
“Yes.”
“Will you tell me?”
“We already do.”
“Then why do I feel this way?”
“Because you are trying not to feel that way.”
I shake my head, annoyed. Angry. Frustrated.
And then I drink cool water and offer smooth shea butter and honey to calm and soften the recesses of my soul. I spill words onto blank pages, tumbled fumblings of thoughts. I walk and look at the sky, willing myself to take in the beauty in the world that I know must still exist despite the weariness and the fear outside and within.
These acts feel like making a sandwich for a child.
“Eat this, dear. You’ll feel better when you’re fed.”
But the food I am looking for is not just physical.
“You have to make the path you walk,”
“I don’t want to.”
“Okay, don’t.”
“Shit. I actually do."
“Yes, we know.”
And so the conversation continues, winding and unwinding, spooling outwards and inwards and with each line a tiny shore-ing up occurs, a tiny tendril of roots sunk deep, a tiny light flickers on, a small measure of comfort.
If the artists cannot find the way, then the way cannot be found.
So we better create, rally, come together to imagine what else could be. We must be wayfarers, way-showers, way-makers.
When the ways are lost.
We craft into existence new ones.
That is the magic we wield.