My journey in the Holy land of ancients has been full of deep wisdom and mysteries. Suffering has been present every day in the form of pain, blood, sweat, tears, fever, heartache and exhaustion. Often, during the same day, even the hour, I’ve gone from howling out at my bladder for stabbing me with shame over my opening sexuality and then dipped into the sweet soothing pool of unconditional, inexplicable love. My body has been my temple, and I’ve had to yield all songs, prayers, gifts and delicacies to it, for it to carry me through the desert and the dead sea.
This path I am on is more than full of miracles. It is also full of curse, depending on which side of the coin you look at it. This is a path of courage and I’ve chosen it and there is no going home. I am so tired of that question.
Only my fellow nomads understand what the journey really is. And that there is a calling deep down in the soul, that we must surrender to when there is no other life left for us. This is not a backpackers year off, or something we do before settling down, this is Life. Every night slept outside in the wild is the only true feeling of Home – coerced with freedom. The paradoxes begin to whirl on top of each other: I experience the greatest sadness in the arms of my lover, I am so excited to fall asleep and the most prayerful moments get me most turned on. In love I am most able to let go.
This is the path that Rumi writes about, and the one all those outcasts, pilgrims, prophets and pirates took. It is becoming increasingly difficult to fill out paperwork (I have no phone number, no residence, emergency contact? I’d rather die on the continent I end up in..) The greatest revelation of this year for me is that I do not have to journey alone. That it is not just random moments of communion with fellow pilgrims, but they are increasingly around, and we might even journey together, if Gods allow it.
Two weeks ago, I sat in the garden of Getsemane, where the famous Jesus of Nazareth was arrested, and quoted saying: “My father, let thine will, not mine be done.” And it struck me that this man who had already given his life to God, had realized his own inner Godliness and knew death to be a passage to Ascension, would still have this weak moment of calling out to a greater source of knowing. And I thought of my own weakness, and who would I call to in a moment of crisis, who do I still believe is out there listening but myself, the universe in all its forms? That surrender to the unknown is a constant act of grace. It seems never ending. Even prophets cry and scream in their death beds.
I’m not even dying. Today I have lost my voice and my throat bleeds from the inside as if I cut it myself. My low fever has allowed me to write and my angelic host has kindly opened the space for me to indulge in home-alone time. It is a luxury for us wayfarers. I’ve killed two mosquitos in the last 15 minutes and tonight I go through another kind of rebirth by entering the external womb to access the inner. Temples, ceremonies, rituals…just sacred moments! Eyes that recognize each other, bodies who feel the same rhythm, sounds that express the inner sensation.. everything…just..happens..
And now, I’d like to treat you to the first part of my Magdalene poem:
Magdalene Mysteries Pt 1
When he left
on his holy fucking assignment to heavens
And left his beautiful body here
for us to pick it up
wash, carry & wrap into linen
and just leave it there
I went totally hysteric
and no one came to ask me how I feel about it
Now that he is off on some sacred assignment
and I stayed to anchor his dream down to earth
for what its worth
He could’ve asked
if I just needed to be held one more time
He could’ve raised
one more cup of wine to honor
that would keep bleeding for him
another unborn, resurrected mystery
Where was he
when they deemed me unworthy to be a saint
and all they recalled was this body
given to sin – by profession
I was destined to stay on this soil
as a broken woman
who sold herself for the highest of prices
and gave her whole existence
to the Beloved
Divine Masculine incarnate
My only fortune was to love him
in flesh, within all senses
I felt his smell, his touch,
saw the unveiled contours of his skin
and love him for all his being,
that would never catch a disciples eye
would be my little secrets
and I’d love each until it became part of his divinity
like the words he spoke to me
not heard by any mortal ears
recited only by lovers of the deepest mystic marriage
where you promise yourselves to each other
though the heavens would divide you
and then he just left.