maker's song

Night still, 

Warm glimmer of moon, 

Green leaf, 

Inked black in shadow. 

Her heart pounds, 

Quick breath drawn short, 

Held long. 

Night still, 

Warm glimmer of moon, 

Green leaf 

Trembles in dark shadow. 

His heart pounds, 

Veins beat cadence to 

The maker’s song. 

For a month now, he had been alone. It had been a tumultuous moon cycle of troubled feelings and anxious fears and surprising quiet and stirring inspiration. He had not entirely sorted out this business of being whole. He didn’t have a clear sense of what role another person could safely play in his life. He didn’t really know for sure where to stand in his own space, much less how to let another stand beside him. He had been addicted to the pursuit of intimacy for his whole life. Withdrawal had been cold and hard and wrenching, but felt clean and healthy.

As this first month drew to a close, he began to settle into the exploration of his own creativity. He began to have a more settled sense of his belonging and presence and place in the expanse of creation. Spring had not officially arrived, but the weather had turned already, and rebirth and joy were everywhere around him. He bought some fancy daffodils, and puttered in the yard. He began to turn his attention toward his art and his bees, and found a base of peace and power and contentment that was grounded and secure as it had not been before.

His own place in the expanse of creation—what a mystery this was. He was a maker—one who is not content to merely pass through this world, but must participate in its ongoing making and unmaking and remaking in order to be whole. He had known for most of his life that he was a maker, although he had not always had words or awareness of what that meant. Now it was at the precipice of his understanding, stretching, trying out unproven wings.

He had spent nearly two years in the throes of spiritual awakening, his head spinning at the pace at which insight and transformation had propelled him along. He had not known from day to day where his journey would take him, and he had entrusted himself precariously to his own emerging heart. His journey had uncovered monsters and terrors, and his heart had engaged each one, not taming them, but learning their place and their gifts. Now, it seemed that the journey would take a new turn—the maker was ready to stand up and get to work.

With this new sense of purpose and identity came a calm assurance about relationships and intimacy. He could scarcely understand the way that he had been bound and compelled by his need for intimate relationship all his life. It seemed so foreign and strange now. He still looked forward to the blossoming of a good and whole relationship, but it was no longer his grail-quest. It would take its course in due time.