This Is the Moment (April 4th, 2020)
This is the moment we've been waiting for.
Isolated in the cocoon, the caterpillar of humanity
going to sleep and dissolving into primordial goo,
where tiny lights begin to flash their signal to each other,
The imaginal cells that hold the code of the butterfly,
reaching out to connect, to build the delicate branching
nervous system, the artistic, exotically painted wings.
Wings that are as strong as they are beautiful, carrying
the golden Monarch thousands of miles to meet
in their millions in the forests of Mexico.
inching along on the leaves of our daily lives
until now –
most of us barely making a living, most of us
thinking mostly of ourselves, as is the nature
of the caterpillar, have done what we were
meant to do all along: give up, shut out the world,
wrap ourselves in a blanket and give in
to our fantasies that have haunted us
since childhood: flying through fields
of wildflowers, painting the blue sky
with our golden wings, creating our own wind.
And who cares anymore if others say,
You're just dreaming, if they scoff,
You're as useless as slackers pretending
they're shamans hanging out in the forest,
taking ayahuasca and talking to the spirits of the trees.
This is the moment we need to listen to the spirits of the trees.
This is the moment to embrace the magic we have ignored.
This is the moment, this very day.
With global meditations set to go off like fireworks
of light at intervals throughout the day and night,
the grand crescendo of all those imaginal cells connecting
like violins into a chord that catches you by surprise
finding tears falling from your eyes
the moment the conductor hits the downbeat with her baton,
and the air is flooded with frequencies
perfectly aligned, a force that washes over every cell
in every breathing being, just like a blast of sun's warmth
after a killing, freezing night
is felt by all, from amoebas to elephants,
and turns ice into free-flowing streams,
even the ice in our hearts.
This is the moment when I open my inbox
and find poems of solace,
that feel like a friend has said, Here, try on these wings,
I think they're your size,
and just like lacing up our skates at the edge of a pond,
we meet to go gliding, joy under the towering firs.
My whatsapp is humming like bees in an orchard
of blooming cherry trees, invitations to meditations,
local and global, with sound, in silence,
with images of archangels, and planets, and people
dying alone, needing comfort, sending the companionship
of spirit to the departing spirit, discovering how we can be
together while our bodies are kept apart,
using the wings we always had within us,
still sticky from unwrapping.
This is the moment when the web is overflowing
with the treasures that have been saved
in sacred caves of knowledge,
now brought out to be shared,
brought out because this moment has arrived.
The ancient native wisdom that resounds
like a drum from the center of Mother Earth
into our hearts. And the homemade cellphone
videos of children's dress-up make-believe
adventures in the living room of a small apartment
they are not allowed to leave,
the proof that imagination is also,
as Emily Dickinson said about hope,
the thing with feathers.
This is the moment when I simply close
my eyes to connect to the global meditation
on this magical date of 4-4-4, and there before me
is a network of lines of the finest golden thread,
a perfect web, exquisite, and impossibly strong,
like a spider's strand, and it circles the earth,
and supplies the golden essence anyone needs,
like electroplating, that experiment we've all seen
with a key and a small piece of gold in a liquid,
and with a bit of electric charge, the atoms
of gold swim over to cling to the key. We are
making the atoms of gold available like the golden powder
on our wings, to be used for anything that needs to be healed
or mended, like the Japanese tradition of healing a broken cup
with a golden seam, to honor the wisdom
that arose from that sorrow.
To see ourselves as more beautiful
for where we have broken,
and what we have learned as we healed.