Hug

 

There is a hug so ancient and round, empty and deep, it needs no name: the hug that absolved the moon and stars before creation, the hug that received the offering of your body before you were conceived, whispering your soul out of darkness before the Word of light, clasping your form when mountains were still inside the wind, when wind was the breathless sky, when the golden sun had not yet beamed from your gaze, and your heart had not yet cast its reflection into the world. When you needed no name... Have you forgotten the gentle uncreated embrace of your own Being? Why do you resist the caress that was given before your flesh was rounded into honeyed cells? Do you prefer outrageous war against your breath? To blame yourself for ten thousand imaginary sins, and compare your face unfavorably to every other pair of eyes? Why not taste the flame of pollen burning on the wick of your stamen, consumed, inebriated with its own fragrance? Come rest in the furrow between your nipples, where birth and death spring out of loam in one rainbow. Taste the clear root-nectar of your Self. Miracles only happen now. Drown in the hug. Fall into the dark sweet well of never having ever needed to be forgiven. The free are bound by nothing but the span of their wonder.

Art by Jane Ray