Our Mother, this planet, may be weary of the fissures we wrought upon her in our teenaged tantrum throwing. But she is not tilt-weary.
Our Mother may be churning by the externalizations of our psyches, our inner worlds now neck-deep in artificial light… the digital wasteland… dreams that are supposed to illuminate a silvering path, better seen in a woodland, in the dark.
She may be churning, but she holds the wooden spoon. And the truth of it is… we are unmoored in her cauldron. The holy Grail.
I do not foresee mayhem. Although mayhem there may be. I foresee an awakening … an organic bubbling of dreams, held in the womb openings of every person who dares to wax poetic, who will not walk bloodless, and with a bit of dirt under their fingernails.
I foresee sacred, intentional, slow, movement. Pilgrimage.
Seed protectors. Water protectors. Earth builders. Sequesters - roots of the plains. Tree lovers entwining their legs in a branched silence.
I do not see a king’s puritanical salvation… but a manger filled with matter… life… flesh and bones humility. Mary the inexhaustible fountain.
My spirit exalts.
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Alana Levandoski is a song and chant writer, recording artist and music producer, in the Christian tradition, who lives with her family on a regenerative farm on the Canadian prairies.