the practice of dying
and the redemption of the Sacred
The wind has left her fingerprints all throughout my home, like a butterfly wing duster through sand and dried herbs. There she is, swirling, between jars of curry powder and star anise, delicately settling in the cracks between books on pyramids and motherhood; on the counter, behind the wood stove, on top of my buffalo hide drum.
When she comes, she reserves herself for none. She breathes herself in through the many cracks in our door and flies through all space carrying dust, seeds and dog hair. She enters everywhere, spreads herself on all surfaces, leaves none untouched by her invisible power.
She shakes the walls of our home. We tie everything down. We put everything away. We close the dome and seal the windows. We hunker down. We get quiet and wait.
Like this, one day, I practiced dying.
Home from my hallowed sanctuary on Coburn Lane where I pull weeds in the garden and in bliss for hours every Wednesday, I laid down on our outdoor futon, facing the valley and setting sun, and allowed myself to die.
Totally and unequivocally letting everything, everything, everything. Go.
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When I opened my eyes, the world was pure miracle.
My daughter, the sunset, the valley. The wind.
Each level of dying left me more and more relaxed. Surrendered. Off the hook, so to speak. Each moment became golden, like complete awe. And my daughter! What a pure and holy, absolute miraculous occurance in the universe, in my life. Playful, curious, in tears, in beauty. Sharing her perfectly innocent presence with me in my life, through means so very far beyond my understanding.
And the light! Everywhere, the way the light was landing on juniper tips and fraying ends of blankets hanging on clothes lines. The seeding grass. The sloping land.
I closed my eyes, died again, deeper and deeper.
Nothing going on.
Complete surrender.
No one here.
Just wind and light and the laughter of this miraculous child. Whose child is she?
How did all of this come to be?
I have no idea, and I am in awe. Complete and total awe. I breath. I don’t know anything. I am not anything. There is bliss and a kind of gratitude so deep, soul deep, just so immense that tears start running down my cheeks and I close my eyes again into that darkness, into that release, and I feel it would be okay to die. Very much okay.
The sun sets and I pull the blankets in closer around my body.
I feel the wind playing with my wild, uncombed hair. I am just, an open window, with wild, uncombed hair. I am just a window. I am just, I am.
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Thank you for reading this edition of Wild Leaf which has been sitting on my kitchen table for weeks now. I love you.
"I am just an open window, with wild, uncombed hair." So, so beautiful, Leah.