A Poem For Those Grieving And Healing Ancestral Wounds

This poem opens a sacred circle for those who are grieving, for those who are connecting with their ancestors and healing the deep wounds of loneliness.

This poem is set to the guiding rhythmic nature of a Yoga Nidra through words and music. There is explicit language used in the context of the poem - grief isn't always polite.

May you heal your grief, my friend.

LOVE.

Transcript

I've gotten comfortable with asking, Collecting syllables of intention and allowing. The raven black of eyes drawn closed, Inhale, Exhale, Inhale till movements lulled. Breath beckons east, Bellows fires in the south. Westward water flows through northern wisdom's mouth. Crystal caves dropped down and love in worlds unseen arise. Mother earth and father sky, The spark within me is divine. I journey into grief. I'm pale, Wear my skin like an overgrown winter coat. Markings mimicked in second-hand stories. Wrinkles, Emptied ink wells of reasons it was okay written across my face. Fingers, Silver stacked in obligation, Restraint. Guilt placed shame and promises made, Pull me toward the water. Even now, I pick up the dried leaves behind me. A forest floor, Pine needles and tangled root beds reaching down relentless to be fed. A canopy of shade and the moon refusing to be repressed pushes indigo across its back. A breeze, Warm breath at my left carries one voice box and a choir of not enough. And at my right, The distant effervescence of a river presenting itself with wild water rising to its precipice. And I continue on, Basin bottom of each track freed from my wide feet collecting in my wake. A bloodthick weight rushing in between each pluck of a heart's ache. A heave away and I see the place. So familiar, This fucking river where I said goodbye. It was a breath left lonely inside me, Just quiet enough a reminder to ask for help. And help came from behind, A soft shuffle of dirt, Lifted, Thrown, Padded down, A reverence rendered sigh that turned me around to see women in droves with empty clay pots and hands trenching between footprints and some scarra formed pasts. Men, Children, Babies stomping the bed of my new river, Raising the village to open the dam. And it went all the way back to my deepest ancestral mothering womb, Fertile and blessed, Full of gratitude, Giving even in rest that original tear that wept, Allowing the shedding of sorrow and of coats till my skin was my own size again. And the last to let go were the silver rings as they slipped off and sunk down to their final resting place. And then the tears were of laughter, Of song, And of dance. The boisterous whooping and welcoming back shook the moon from the night, Making space for the sun to take its place in the sky.

Reviews

I’ve listened to it 3 times & I hear something new each time 🥰

That was lovely. Thank you. I want to know more about it so I'll read the description. *First time ever I did a lucky pick cos I didn't have my glasses on lol
💚🤓🧚‍♂️