(With deep appreciation and indebtedness to Rumi, Hafiz, Julian and all the utterly besotted heretics, drunk on Divinity.)
In the deep dark places, in the sacred secret places, all things were knit together, their molecules joined, the rules of their lives set, and out into the cold and wild joy of existence they were born; and loved, and set free.
“who shut in the sea with doors
when it burst out from the womb?”
The hands of a Mother, gentle, guiding, letting go. I don’t know how she got lost, we knew her once, we carved crude figures, beautiful in their simplicity, trying to express what we felt deep in the heart of our souls, down in the dark. The Divine, the One who created and nurtured; hidden now, veiled behind respectable names like Father, King, and Lord. How easily we forget, the mess of creation, the blood and tears, the intimacy of vulnerable love.
Mary took more into herself than seed, she took into herself, willingly Ancient of Days; became again Holy Womb, full of everything that ever was, or is, or will be. Pregnant with a whole creation, Mother of All, while all unknowing Her children went on around Her. She put her hand on her growing belly and felt stars kick, and galaxies turn, and time expand and contract with giddy joy.
From her womb came Life, the brightness of a whole new creation: possible in pain, and blood, and tears. Creation has never been easy, safe, sanitary. Creation rips from the Body of the Holy new possibility, makes space that is Not so that another can Be. How has this thought become so revolutionary, so hard to grasp, so heretical?
How did the One who gave birth to everything become twisted into one who would destroy her creation out of pique, kill her own child out of anger how broken the world must become for us to believe our own worst moments might encapsulate Holy.
If you want redemption don’t look to the striking fist, the spear thrust through Beloved flesh look to life giving of itself to make newness. Look for birth and you will find your redemption, creation, salvation in the blood spilled all willing for a chance to start again soft and new and helpless. Nursed at a breast like cloud topped mountain, gleaming pouring forth life from Her very being.
But perhaps, just perhaps there is the key, the unbearable sweetness of being born of God, of having swum in Her creative waters, of having nursed in our infancy on her life giving milk how terrifying that each human foot falling to earth might bear still a little of that Divine light, that each of us might be milk siblings, weaned from that same sweet goodness, filled with it.
Might not we need to tread more softly, might we not be caught up at any moment in awe as we come around the corner in the grocery store and there between the spinach and the clearance bananas is the shining face of God’s daughter, of the son she bounced on her celestial knee.
And so it is easier, safer, to wrap up Divinity in Patriarchy, to strip Holy Love of her fierce and fiery nearness, to crown God(ess) a him and let him be King so he will not be Mother, Womb, the beginning of all things; and the end, closing our eyes with the same gentle hands that calmed our colicky cries.
Oh sweet brothers, passionate burning sisters, can’t you see how God came down and gave birth to us all over again, because once was not enough and She will do it again if she must because we are worth the blood, and the pain, and the tears. You are worth the blood, and the pain, and the tears; milk still shining on your beloved chin.