Womb of EarthMother
Art by Norman E. Masters
Not easy being bounded and boundless at once easier by far to hang out in some middle place of blah for blah is the password into culture's club. The older we get, the more clearly we see our bonds -another girds our loins and leads us where we will not go- older we get, more clear our boundlessness what we thought was our edge, now is center what seemed other, now is our very self time past and time to come, fall away into now. Swaddling cloths bind us tight in them we find the comfort of mother-womb winding sheets bind us tight in them, comfort of another womb another birth into spaciousness of which we only have dreamed. None of this is time-constrained we are a flower, opening into spaciousness bud-bonds softened from within. What is this juice, which wells up from within and this, which visits from without: not two visits, but one only?