Ritual retreat

Exhaustion overtook me late this morning.

Seeking to enter into the comforting cave of sleep I abandoned the crisp, clean, cloudless blue sky and sought out the soft pillowed couch by the fire place in the sheltered darkened interiority of my house.

Oh, how protected I felt as my animal body curled up and nuzzled itself into the soft, cornered base where bottom cushions meet side cushions. For delicious minutes I slumbered.

Was it for ten minutes? Or, an hour? Maybe three days? In a lucid dream state I felt a burning on my face; a sharp burning calling me back into consciousness.

“No”, I said, “let me stay unconscious; let me remain unawake.”

But the pull was too great, the heat on my skin too intense, for above where I slept a single skylight was letting the noonday sun through to hit me full on the face. Try as I might to turn away, there was no choice in the matter as the sun’s intensity bore down with its calling.

In a small way I was re-enacting what the animal/Christian/ pagan peoples of the world do every spring equinox, every Easter.

I was the hibernating bear who, at that moment when the equinoctial sun pierces the mouth of the cave to announce “it is time to wake up and come back into the world”, lumbers out into the open spring green of newness with her two, newly born cubs.

I was Christ in his cave being woken up.

I was experiencing what for hundreds of thousands of years has been part of the great cyclic turning of this world: where daily, monthly, seasonally or yearly — from gestation to birth, from seeming death to rebirth — the sun earth and moon do their dance through darkness and light.

I was the mushroom being pulled out of the dark, humic “soul” of the earth. I was born into spirit yet again, yellow with sun.

The question remains, though, “Why, on such a beautiful day did I seek sleep?”.

The answer is in the photo below.

After my last blog entry of two weeks ago, I set about preparing for the arrival and hosting of, not only David Abram, visiting American author of “Spell of the Sensuous”, but also ten young adults committed to environmental and social activism. Along with tremendous help from friend and co-conspirator Desi Fitzgibbons, Windgrove became home and refuge over the long four day Easter weekend for these passionate, earth loving folk.

Hosting these friends of the earth was Desi’s and my way of honouring and offering gratitude to their diverse efforts to guide our western behaviour in its relationship to the “more than human world” towards the path of reverence, reciprocity and respect.

All were nourished by the exchange of personal stories, by the light of laughter, by the wetness of tears, by the fullness of bellies, by dancing and sitting still.

The dining room table, with its constant appearance of food and drink, was constantly noisy with thirteen chairs being pushed towards and away from it.

The living room, the tribe’s main center for communal conversation, drumming, dancing and the sharing of intense personal stories of earth and self — of intense personal stories “between” earth and self — also constantly vibrated.

Will any of us ever forget the delightful magic of David’s hands as he astonished our sense of reality with a simple deck of cards? Or the magic of waking on Easter morning to a small box of Belgium chocolates placed before each sleeping person in the dark pre-dawn? Or, the sauna just after to cleanse the spirit and body to begin Easter Sunday fresh and whole? Followed by massive stacks of pancakes, Maple syrup, orange juice, fruit topping and more stories?

Or, the many walks where we swam through the landscape as fish do in the water experiencing air, not as “space” between two objects, but as a “low viscosity medium” joining us all together; inhabiting within us as it does out of us?

Where Eros came dressed as gravity pulling everyone — every human skinned, every furred, feathered, finned, stony, barked person — together in a passionate, sensuous embrace.

Will the Peace Fire and the surrounding land, air and water ever forget the young wild animal called Rebecca, Robbi, Rachael, Trish, Paul, Peck, Brenna, Heidi, Zanni, Clair? Or the wild, youthful and quirky elders, Peter, David and Desi?

What a celebration. What a renewal of spirit and body to continue with the great Work. The work to restore, to reweave, to resacrilize and to remember our embodied connection to the whole of this Earth.

Seemingly on horses, everyone set off from Windgrove bursting with renewed desire to protect the only home any of us will ever inhabit. And the same for me….

but first, a wee nap on the couch by the fireplace next to the rocking chair. Honey in the heart to All.