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This is a poem that has seen many iterations over some years, and conveys the heart of my work in a way that only poetry can. Following the wisdom in it has me posting this week’s piece later than usual, and remembering again why I keep writing, keep sharing even if my timeline must be flexible. I hope it is a timely reminder for you.
~ Lexicon This body. This body of knowledge. This body of wisdom. Self-bright prism, made of everything we have ever loved. Mystery encoded in flesh and bone. Bound like bread into the great Baker’s oven, stewed in the alchemist’s brew, made of me, made of you, going back to the first mother. Every cell holding the key to its own freedom, unlocked by the body’s own wisdom: the song of my grandmothers’ grandmothers’ people, lost to mind in hulls of ships and cracks of whips; the magic of our sacred blood, lost in spun cotton and cheap tranquilizers; the knowingness of our intrinsic interconnectedness lost to missionary’s book and soldier’s blade and profiteer’s bank; all remembered, always known in the bodies we finally call home. I call this body home. I ask in the language beyond words for the truth beyond wounds. The rewoven stories and unwinding muscles all offer the same benediction: we have always been holy, whole-y, holey, wholly holy. Always been home. We need only listen to our bodies of wisdom.
