Your animal familiar coils in the spore. Does she have eyes? Are they rainbows? Does she spiral up your vagus nerve, green and glistening? Foraging for mushrooms and grubs at the base of your spine, has she sniffed out the musk of your fearless yearning? Only you can name this wish-granting animal of power. Don't call her "Kundalini" or the "Holy Spirit." Those are second-hand goddesses, afterimages of someone else's ecstasy. Does she prowl at the threshold of wilderness, between creation and the un-created? This is how you know she is near: you lose your dread of madness. Friend, all I can tell you is, before you rise upward, you must fall into the loam of your ancestor's body, the darkness that your roots love to kiss. Only here will you touch the stars and fondle the sweet light that has not been born.
Art by Susan Sedon-Boulet
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