where the writers are
Mother Earth

Let’s think back to the times that on the surface of the earth were only the dimmer trails.  Hooves and pads and paws of animals were followed by feet of women gathering the fruits and greens for food and dreams. After what was perceived as emptiness was crossed and conquered, the trails became paths, then roads.  Still some walked or rode the earth knowing about bitterroot, willow bark and cedar. They knew the power of color and line as few remember in these days of shallow forms. The men knew about killing and thus had to clear their mind after taking a life to feed their own. The hunter, the warrior, out of touch, in need of purifying of the shape shifting blood that leaked through his soul, was kept far from the council halls of women. 

Mother was still mother of all.  Yet the soft structures had been strengthened and suddenly there was permanence in what had always been a dynamic circle.  Father Time installed himself and turned the circling multihued spirals of life into a chain of events.  The Mother of all, with this linearity on earth, became the mother of god, or the son of god.  Once the son had grown up, she was relegated to the background.  There invisible as the other women had become, she stayed true to the cycles of moon and the ebb and flow of mood and breaking water at birth.  She still was the seasonal change behind the demands and wrath of the He god.

The roads became streets and highways, turnpikes and drives, expressways and boulevards as huts had become abodes and dwellings, houses and residences, high-rises. Land had become cities and the cause of the cycle of life was forgotten in its rumor and light. A thank you to a plant, a prayer to a cloud had been orchestrated into the full well rehearsed choir songs in churches. Mystery and magic was replaced by power and glory. 

Only in a few sacred places in this world is she not forgotten. The Celtic dolmen island is mother earth when at spring- and autumn equinox the first sunlight hits the back of the cave.  One enters and emerges. Passing smooth walls, mankind is born and reborn. Women reconnect to their natural rhythm. There are other shrines where the She-god is basis for the Virgin Mary, or the Virgin De Guadalupe. Nobody remembers in words why they touch the base yet every body remembers that there lies the strength and secret of life.

The mother can afford to be indulgent as she knows, her children will always long for her, remember her and spill a drop of wine and break the bread while a crumb falls. The sun is setting, the earth is turning, following her course. For a while don’t turn on the lights, but dream on the breath of her that gives and supports life. Silence. Respect. Joy. Fertility in body and mind. Caring. Love.

The hunter calls the coyote. Coyote answers the call of the dying rabbit. I will her to live.  Coyote is the trickster and the writer. I found the bullet for the hunter’s heart and am holding it in my hand, next to my pen.