A dream of silence

In the iridescence of a dream, the rain tells the impala without words it is time to release her young. In this dream, the spindling tree speaks to his neighbour in both joy and distress - passing signals of flourishing and waning whispers of warning. And it is the beings with two legs, the mortal humans, who stretch themselves tirelessly over space and time, who become quieter now, more restrained, that they may speak... also in silence. In the deep of a mottled forest, a soul calls, and the mother hears. Though she cannot leave her faraway place. The peaceful babe in her arms, and the dappled light and rays of love where she stands - they warn her not to follow... for the voice is distant, strained, and from a realm with entangled vines and entangled bodies. It is a place with delicate seashells, the feather of a hawk, and soft dandelions... but the gossamer trincets are lost here in the shadows. And the silent voice floats untethered, away...

The silent note that beckons runs wild with laughing wolves across mottled, broken bridges; the trees are giant there; towering and prehistoric and grand... but many of them are crying. The hollow voice in its dreamy openness asks to be seen by the world; by the sky, to be felt by the world and the sky - and the sky answers with no wish, but for the voice to feel itself.

In the dappled light, far away and hearing the silent calls, she with the babe's breath in the nape of her neck, must grow her roots, not her horizons. With the discernment life has taught, we must bury our deepest truths in the Earth, and let them be nurtured and strengthened and held by the sandy belly of this soil, and by moist, mossy hands of the wisened land. That way, we release the need to follow, to stumble across the rocky paths to get to where we were never chosen, to run towards what calls... but is itself running. For we will find ourselves lost with the delicate feathers of the dead owl, and the fragile pink seashells, and the smoky dandelions. Again, again, again in the dream the trinkets do speak to us...

And still, still, just like the tears that roll from our cheeks are connected to the river and the sea; we, broken and silent - are connected to the far away notes darting in and out of the light. To be safe, to be safe, to be safe and grow tall - this is the chosen way. The impala does not run to the cloud that opens her, and the tree does not follow the wind that sings to her. Some strength requires us to 'not'. To 'not' run, or chase, or follow our questions. But to accept, to stay, to root, and grow tall in the unknown. That we may rise, loved by the ones who chose us, held by the soils that grew us, nourished by the sky that sees us.