The huddled circle around the shimmering heart pulses
A voice winds around giving and grabbing the moment
Winding back into Tatehuari, the heart filled with creatures
The dance of flames modest to the creeping stories of burning wood
Ashen shadows bring forgiving snow to dark forms, and all is backwards.
The still charcoal swirls and the licking flames hold still
The unquestioned unity dissolves in ego and stomach battles,
Fierce back ache focus and eyes-closed meltdowns.
Curious eyes dart around, never able to catch the old ones'
Ever-changing movements, now sitting rubbing a back,
Whispering in a ear, now taunting, prodding,
Flying, ground down with legs crossed
Which is which, all wonder for some moment.
Men speak on and on and on, crying deep hurts,
Praising and thanking over and over, so each mention of a name,
Of a gratitude's purpose, will deeply water thirsty roots.
Now the old ones are here in one clear form,
Sitting gently in a bowl, washed off and stripped to radiance
Round ground burrowers, chattering quietly
The one that enters a hand stays round, grounded,
Yet becoming exactly that remedy needed
For that one, and how that one fits into the whole,
What is seen, and what the wisest counselor misses
That round grandma dives into the internal maze heavily
A chunk staying intact and yet dissipating to all the parts,
Stirring them up and pushing them around a little.
Pregnant with remedy, the questers sway and draw up straight
Lean over, dream off, find a task to focus on, find a happening
Find a feather, find a rattle, find the drum almost in knee's touch,
Find the tea cup in hand again, the gritty powder dry like desert dirt,
The big fruity grandpas ballooning between blanket and fire, again.
The drama over the ritual steps, this way, no that way,
come here, go there
Not knowing anything, saying much,
stuck in the heart, singing straight from there
The swaying motion goes round and round and round again,
punctuated by deep long sighs, long dry speeches,
and quartered by seasons of corn husk tobaccos
Endless, the slit of sky in the tipi's flap remains dark.
Out into the night for a pee, a smoke, a break,
Reveals this freedom of fresh air is only a tangent of the inevitable.
Back in, come in, there's where you go, to sit the endless prayer,
Sing the endless song, finally all arisen.
The heart wakes up, gets out of its way, forgets to complain – maybe.
Then the words can fall off lips, prayers not of necessary function.
Love revealed in the work of surrender, however simple.
The beauty of the blockage revealed in other words, just another point
To jump off from into the endless circling night
That will come to a point as the coals spread into rays
And a pillow sits in the east,
waiting for the divine woman to welcome its light
With a prayer for la agua vida.
That woman, then all the women,
maybe the tears, more thanks, more amazement.
More men, more stories, more thanks.
The cone of our lives enlightened,
the ashen shadows almost transparent within the pulsing colors
revealing constant movement in the stillness of tired eyes
And brightened souls feeling good, dazed,
bursting, loving, together.
La Gringa Peyotera by Jessica Tumposky is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-NonCommercial-NoDerivs 3.0 Unported License.
A voice winds around giving and grabbing the moment
Winding back into Tatehuari, the heart filled with creatures
The dance of flames modest to the creeping stories of burning wood
Ashen shadows bring forgiving snow to dark forms, and all is backwards.
The still charcoal swirls and the licking flames hold still
The unquestioned unity dissolves in ego and stomach battles,
Fierce back ache focus and eyes-closed meltdowns.
Curious eyes dart around, never able to catch the old ones'
Ever-changing movements, now sitting rubbing a back,
Whispering in a ear, now taunting, prodding,
Flying, ground down with legs crossed
Which is which, all wonder for some moment.
Men speak on and on and on, crying deep hurts,
Praising and thanking over and over, so each mention of a name,
Of a gratitude's purpose, will deeply water thirsty roots.
Now the old ones are here in one clear form,
Sitting gently in a bowl, washed off and stripped to radiance
Round ground burrowers, chattering quietly
The one that enters a hand stays round, grounded,
Yet becoming exactly that remedy needed
For that one, and how that one fits into the whole,
What is seen, and what the wisest counselor misses
That round grandma dives into the internal maze heavily
A chunk staying intact and yet dissipating to all the parts,
Stirring them up and pushing them around a little.
Pregnant with remedy, the questers sway and draw up straight
Lean over, dream off, find a task to focus on, find a happening
Find a feather, find a rattle, find the drum almost in knee's touch,
Find the tea cup in hand again, the gritty powder dry like desert dirt,
The big fruity grandpas ballooning between blanket and fire, again.
The drama over the ritual steps, this way, no that way,
come here, go there
Not knowing anything, saying much,
stuck in the heart, singing straight from there
The swaying motion goes round and round and round again,
punctuated by deep long sighs, long dry speeches,
and quartered by seasons of corn husk tobaccos
Endless, the slit of sky in the tipi's flap remains dark.
Out into the night for a pee, a smoke, a break,
Reveals this freedom of fresh air is only a tangent of the inevitable.
Back in, come in, there's where you go, to sit the endless prayer,
Sing the endless song, finally all arisen.
The heart wakes up, gets out of its way, forgets to complain – maybe.
Then the words can fall off lips, prayers not of necessary function.
Love revealed in the work of surrender, however simple.
The beauty of the blockage revealed in other words, just another point
To jump off from into the endless circling night
That will come to a point as the coals spread into rays
And a pillow sits in the east,
waiting for the divine woman to welcome its light
With a prayer for la agua vida.
That woman, then all the women,
maybe the tears, more thanks, more amazement.
More men, more stories, more thanks.
The cone of our lives enlightened,
the ashen shadows almost transparent within the pulsing colors
revealing constant movement in the stillness of tired eyes
And brightened souls feeling good, dazed,
bursting, loving, together.
La Gringa Peyotera by Jessica Tumposky is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-NonCommercial-NoDerivs 3.0 Unported License.
so beautiful and moving. jessica, you are a channel for beauty.
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