On Ecstasy

On Ecstasy:

When I was a wee one, I could suspend time, expand presence, share energy fields with flowers, bees, long blades of grass, the fast flow of the river behind our house. I would melt into the ecstasy of life, of pure being, into The third thing between Goddess and God.

Then the toxic indoctrination imposed its walls, hard benches, and stories that erased me as a full being and redrew me as the reason for the fall of Men; a sin for which I would never stop paying, even when my body, my innocence became an overdrawn bank account to which I had no credit, easily subject to thievery. The Black Book told me, the men in the holy houses told me, the teachers told me, so it must be so. God became a Black Book. And Goddess was handed a mop, a bucket, and a long list of the mess she would never stop clearing.

Because she had been too enticing, I would pay in blood for how we distract men with our sensuous bodies.

This was my first taste of Gaslighting. And because I was a child, a girl, of course I had no credibility.

I tried, for a time, to swallow all the poison that consumed me. Eventually I gagged, my throat closed, I became anaphylactic to even those ideas.

I found myself, unexpectedly, at a Haitian voudon ceremony, the only non-Haitian body there. Through the night of ceremony, dancing, toning, praying, I peeled the skin off of layers and layers of who I was not to reveal the deep ecstasy of my spirit.

I found myself, after necking so much fungi medicine that the scaffolding of known reality crumbled for a time, and I could see the cogs and wheels of the machine behind the curtain. The assembly line was pushing out many versions of Black Books and one package of fantasy and forgetfulness after the next to feed the emaciated souls of those who have forgotten wildness.

I found myself, unexpectedly, stranded, walking 20 kilometers in the cold night in the Yukon Northlands, under a saturated sky of Aurora Borealis. I did not know that the Sky Goddess in ecstasy makes the sound of fire until I met her in the quiet of the middle of nowhere, now here.

I found myself dying slowly in pain, surrounded by those with apparent knowledge and no good answers for me. Sitting on Buffalo hide in the presence of a man offering much better questions, the mythology of my ecstasy awakened.

I found myself walking the ceremonial circles of my ancestral homelands, hearing the songs and prayers of those who came before, calling into the marrow of my bones a resurrection of the ecstasy of a thousand generations.

I found myself alone in the jungle, in the concentrated ecstasy of meeting every one of my known, and unknown enemies. She taught me to be a stealth hunter of my own death such that I intimately recognize the scent of my last breath.

And what has come alive for me in my journey is this reality: every spirit is dancing together, alive, becoming concentrated through our perceived meaning and story, and dying the moment we think the story is God. The story reminds us of ecstasy, mythology is the cartography of Spirit.

And Spirit will not starve for ecstasy, it will hunt for it in every version of jungle, in every wasteland, in every temple.

It is comical to Spirit how we continue to describe God as a lord, a ruler, and not a Lover of Goddess, together conceiving in the Ecstasy of Us.