Behold The Signature of All Things

barreling through the day, sky mad

There are some seasons of life that creep in. The light changes. Leaves fall. The wind grows teeth. Other seasons are out of time. Out of context. You wake up one February day and everything is ablaze with joy, and you can hardly breathe for months and months after, overflowing with something radical and profound alive and glowing in your belly.

These seasons do not happen to everyone. They might commonly be understood to be miracles. They tumble you out of your darkly burnished carcass—so long spent in the dim wallows at the bottom of your great ravine of terror. You shed one skin and then another and then you are molting wildly, uncontrollably, perpetually. The taffeta of your misery and grief cascading around you like shucked burial gowns, crumpled petals of ash. Masks become skin becomes sinus becomes substrata you never even understood you were shielded and shrouded in. You split at the seams. Begin to roar like a great beach bonfire.

Everything is easy. You wake up laughing. The peace that enfolds you feels vast, endless. It hums with crackling release and a wisdom you didn’t even know you’d been accruing for decades. You feel free for the first time in your life. You are awake. And She was the one who woke you up.

This happened to me. It’s why I went silent here. After years of lamenting how language was breaking, the words finally broke altogether. Shattered into light and movement and a joy and delight in positively everything that went on and on for months. I had no way to be anything other than what I was in each moment. No desire or capacity to record what was happening. I walked and moved with high intent, understanding intuitively that my body—so long ill, depressed, unconditioned—needed a slow, gradual unfolding into this new energy. This pumping, glassine becoming consumed me entirely. But I walked. I moved. Stories I’d been storing in my wings, in my ankles, in my immune system rolled up out of me and I became sicker than I’d ever been for many of these months. Strange illness after strange illness resounded through my physical form. The burning in me grew stronger.

How to write about this? I have sat consternated for months, allowed the distraction of being born—fully awake, into The Eternal Now—to dominate each day. Let the words lay broken around me. They glitter so magnificently there, sparkling dunes in drifts. I close my hand around sandy dust and smile and wait. And here.

Here!

It is time now when the powder begins to compress again. The wind has picked up inside my rib cage. All these fragments have become so hot that they stick to one another and form radiant beads, trip into others and run to liquid. Something else is changing here. The heat... the heat builds. I am cauldron, crucible, fertile soil. All these sleeping seeds splitting their sutures. I dredge up so much from the depths that I feel terror that I am regressing. I regress. Slither. Purge long forgotten seas of horror from this body. Quiver under the violent attention that grips me. Moldering cloaks and dusty shoes and fear and fury and all that shrieking darkness, generations of it, rising like a tsunami, and the edges of the ravine crumble. The terremoto shakes me, my earth trembling, blooming into the sea.

Yes, the compost heap is the seat at the table I have set for myself. This may be the greatest gift I’ve given myself.

Something dreadful, feral, now sits behind my eyes, grinning ferociously. The blade has been forged and hammered and heated and honed and I feel so sharp that I might be able to carve words again out of dust, out of light, out of sand, out of movement. I can hardly explain to you what I’ve become. I’ve become The Instrument. Her Instrument. And likely not the only one. I imagine there are dozens, perhaps hundreds of us now, being woken up across the globe.

This is the Beginning. All the Metaphors have been Composted. The Sun is high. The Jaguar walks in my Body. Something New is Rising and Rejoicing. Let’s call it Hope. Let’s call it the Lost Voice of the Living Woman. I am closing every loop. La Segadora rises, Her scythe shines. I have no fear. No Fear. This is the Nuevo Historia De Planeta, and I write The End. There is no greater privilege. Witness to the rolling over and over in this the narrow grave of humanity and our forever love affair with Death. Death always was but a spoke in The Wheel. We forgot the nature of The Wheel and now we are being pulled under to our destruction. We are at last being tugged into the consequences of our destruction. We ride this breakdown with our lives and hearts held in bared teeth. I know you can feel it, too.

The Goddess of Change has removed the pin in the butterfly. Blown the carcass backwards in time into the chrysalis. Wetted the wings, melted the metals, corroded all our motherboards. Do you feel the waft of the air under your still damp wings? The pain is unbelievable and yet it vibrates with something that akin to a memory of joy. The forgotten Magic is reawakened in these new forms, in these new cells. I promise you I am not manic nor a newly budded out cult leader. I died slowly over many years, and then all at once. And when Hope was smashed, the pulp of me clung to the vibration of Her in the dark.

And She resurrected me. I am not special. I could be anyone. I am anyone. Just like you. Everyone and Anyone. For years I told myself I was the chameleon. Flick flicking through all the colors, all these guises. Only to be reborn as All the Things. The Blade. The Vessel. The Seed. The Witness. The Light. The Darkness. The Rage. The Love. The Joy. The View From-The-Top-Of-The-Mountain and the View From-The-Bottom-Of-The-Ravine, at the same time out of the same set of eyes. Can you imagine? I’m not sure I could have myself, without countless Thread-Weavers holding the Light higher, challenging me to look. To really Look. To Witness. To Step Forward. Inviting me to molt into something unexpected. Something that crackles with power, something summoning Kali with every exhale and Ma’at with every inhale.

Maybe I will be able to kindle something in you. Maybe these words, these sprouts, these flames, these dry twigs will become the loam of your body. The long-forgotten song in your cells. These new leaves are both leathery and stiff, tender and tremulous. These delicate notes composed of archaic flavors, scents. The sand is singing and the birds in your heart sloshing up against the bulwarks installed over generations. Didn’t I tell you all the metaphors are broken?

Out of this primordial olio, we will spin sugar into breath. Concoct vibrations that have never been tasted before. Fashion tools for the coming storm from sunbeams and spittle. There will be an ocean of grief to learn to sail, but there will also be dancing. We are going to learn to surf this unripe antilogy.

Can you feel the power rising? That is yours too. Ours. The Next is pressing upwards now, dowsing for the visions She will dream into you tonight. The Now unfolds, embracing the hands and wrists holding these machetes, these wands, these brushes, sparking and sprouting with as-yet unnamed fruit.

I hold the light for you now. After all, we were always here to light each other on fire. In these last few years before the Goddess of Change swings her sword, you must awaken. The is The Why. Learning how to traverse the Now is how to get to where we need to go.

Can you hear the distant bell of retribution and consequence clanking in the distance? You are needed. Wake up Now. There is much more to come.