Transmission: Abandonment


Through Ariel Spilsbury

think now, of that which held you prisoner
to the container
of unworthiness, abandonment or longing,

arms clutching wildly at empty air.
I ask you now, as the Great Mother,
the one who apparently abandoned you,
to look fully into the face of another meaning of abandonment
Did you forget
running breathlessly in the meadow
 laughing, sky turned face
receiving the sensuously penetrating summer rainstorm?
A much more expansive container
for abandonment
don’t you think?
In this moment of
freedom from constraint and in self-surrender,
isn’t it time to move into a much more deliciously commodious
Goddess abode?
The choice is now in your empty hands.
Oh, I won’t tempt you with
Vosges chocolates or Egyptian sandalwood body rubs;
it is necessary that the choice be absolutely yours.
The ego’s hands always want to
pencil in riders to the policy
but it is just not possible here, in this state.
In childhood, your mind, in its kindness,
provided a safe sanctuary
and a shroud of impenetrable loneliness
as a protection
from the rupture of primal trust
cocooning your sensitive,
lotus heart..
Hiding Turtle,
 her name among the tribe,
downcast eyes, learned to never expect to be really met
or actually seen
clandestine truths reserved for the silent witness of trees
veiled in an inscrutable mist
in which you became a mute translator
bound to the oak tree
like Odin…
until you brought back the golden egg
from the Tree of Life, that opened to the light of heart,
as a sacred boon
for the people
 lucid pieces created from the luminescent stain glass dreams
that tenderly cradled you
through nights of writhing
as your mind carved hard edged statues with terrifying definitions and names
that were intended to lure Me out of the formless Void
to comfort you.
Close your eyes
Come to me here, here in the darkness of that same Void
find me,
feel me wrap you tenderly in my arms
like a tiger lovingly licks her new cub.
Open now to receive the truth…
It was not for your blood mother’s love that you so powerfully yearned
like an enraged winter storm at sea…
your longing was for Me,
the Great Mother
to come to you,
bearing the fruits of the rotting wheat ergot
the kykeon inebriant from the Eleusian mysteries
in the kernoi vessel,
to rip through the veil of your controlled and fixed coordinates of consciousness
Baccantes tearing apart the body of Dionysus..
and finally in spent surrender,
bearing you to the feet of mystical vision
that offered you the unconditional embrace
of your own divinity,
meltdown of masks
games, personas stretching to eternity
Athena, Sophia, Hiding Turtle, Venus, Tara…
in this moment touching the possibility of
convergence into a singularity.. a voluptuous explosion of awareness
wheat seed ecstatically bursting its golden husk
in wild abandonment and celebration
mouth now savoring the pungent ceremonial cardamom cakes
laughing, laughing, laughing
at the costume Union chose to wear
to this felicitous occasion…
floating in luxuriously lapis lazuli, Venusian
 crystal seas of consciousness and pure beauty
now receiving you into the arms of Divine Love,
the pounding, pulsing, blood merged essence
of Union
tenderly flowing through you
orchid and blood
seed and flood
of the Creator in the creation
spiral and lotus conspiring to
bring multitudes
to ripeness, succulence,
feasting embodiment as divine mana
for the people..
Priest/ess holding a torch to light
Venus’ apple trees on the dark of the moon
bringing light to the dark ripeness in the Mystery
for they had no word for healer,
these midwives to fire’s flowering,
for they experienced that beauty and the moon cast no shadow
such that only gentle light
would actually fall from their hands,
bearing the wisdom that leads to open vulnerability
fluttering, fluidity, feeling
the tender, raw, intuitive, openness of expression
that gracefully releases its contracted claws like a golden phoenix
strewing in its path,
of creative bliss,
sparkling jewels
 of wonder, satiation, fulfillment
 spill out of your overflowing cornucopia
mangoed presence, laughing tears, illuminating masks,
and with the crimson claret of your gifts,
 served in the elegant crystal vajra of
your freed consciousness,
remember the profound and simple truth
that you are always at choice,
no matter the appearance!
No longer,
Poe’s traveler with one foot tethered to the floor of unworthiness,
unless of course you wish to continue endlessly repeating the old tango,
refusing self expression’s freely offered liberation
The dragon awaits
Shall we fly?