WE HAVE COME TO BE DANCED

This poem captures the essence of Kundalini Trance Dance in a way that takes my breath away....maybe yours too.



WE HAVE COME TO BE DANCED - By Jewel Mathieson

We have come to be danced,
Not the pretty dance, not the pretty pretty pick me, pick me dance.
But the claw our way back into the belly of the sacred sensual animal dance.
The unhinged, unplugged, cat is out of its box dance.
The holding the precious moment in the palms of our hands and feet dance.

We have come to be danced.
Not the jiffy booby, shake your booty for him dance.
But the wring the sadness from our skin dance.
Blow the chip off our shoulder dance.
The slap the apology from our posture dance.
We have come to be danced.
Not the monkey see, monkey do dance, one, two dance like you one two three dance like me dance.
But the grave robber, tomb stalker tearing scabs and scars open dance.
The rub the rhythm raw against our souls dance.

We have come to be danced.
Not the nice invisible, self conscious shuffle but the matted hair flying, voodoo mama sham shaking’ ancient bones dance.
They strip us from our casings, return our wings, sharpen our claws and tongues dance.
The shed dead cells and slip into the luminous kin of love dance.

We have come to be danced.
Not the hold our breath and wallow in the shallow end of the floor dance.
But the meeting of the trinity, the body, breath and beat dance.
The shout hallelujah from the top our our things dance.
The mother may I? Yes you may take 10 giant leaps dance.
The olly olly oxen free free free dance.
The everyone can come to our heaven dance.

We have come to be danced.
Where the kingdoms collide in the cathedral of flesh to burn back into the light to unravel to fly to pray to root in skin sanctuary.

We have come to be dance.
WE HAVE COME.

The Invitation

It doesn’t interest me what you do for a living.
I want to know what you ache for
and if you dare to dream of meeting your heart’s longing.

It doesn’t interest me how old you are.
I want to know if you will risk looking like a fool
for love
for your dream
for the adventure of being alive.

It doesn’t interest me what planets are squaring your moon...
I want to know if you have touched the centre of your own sorrow
if you have been opened by life’s betrayals
or have become shrivelled and closed
from fear of further pain.

I want to know if you can sit with pain
mine or your own
without moving to hide it
or fade it
or fix it.

I want to know if you can be with joy
mine or your own
if you can dance with wildness
and let the ecstasy fill you to the tips of your fingers and toes
without cautioning us
to be careful
to be realistic
to remember the limitations of being human.

It doesn’t interest me if the story you are telling me
is true.
I want to know if you can
disappoint another
to be true to yourself.
If you can bear the accusation of betrayal
and not betray your own soul.
If you can be faithless
and therefore trustworthy.

I want to know if you can see Beauty
even when it is not pretty
every day.
And if you can source your own life
from its presence.

I want to know if you can live with failure
yours and mine
and still stand at the edge of the lake
and shout to the silver of the full moon,
“Yes.”

It doesn’t interest me
to know where you live or how much money you have.
I want to know if you can get up
after the night of grief and despair
weary and bruised to the bone
and do what needs to be done
to feed the children.

It doesn’t interest me who you know
or how you came to be here.
I want to know if you will stand
in the centre of the fire
with me
and not shrink back.

It doesn’t interest me where or what or with whom
you have studied.
I want to know what sustains you
from the inside
when all else falls away.

I want to know if you can be alone
with yourself
and if you truly like the company you keep
in the empty moments.

Oriah Mountain Dreamer

Cancer and Wreck Beach - Vancouver 2001

Claudette had been having trouble with her right breast ever since sliding off the side of an aluminum boat when it was rocked by a wave. As a clam poacher turned licensed clam digger she’d seen twenty years of every kind of sea, weather and human scenario and considers herself one salty dog. When soreness developed into a cyst on her right breast she discussed home remedies with a few women friends. We’d all agreed that a fresh garlic compress might help draw the cyst. When I dropped by next morning to see how Claudette had faired I found her crying. She had put the crushed garlic directly against her skin overnight. First a cyst, now a burnt boobie and a bra that reeked of garlic.

Months later driving to Vancouver we’re laughing about the burnt boobie to fill the empty fearfilled space that otherwise looms. Doctors have lanced the cyst, done a biopsy, and a panel of eight doctors are evenly divided, yes its cancerous, not it’s not. Claudette has an appointment to see a specialist who wants to schedule cancer treatments, maybe more surgery. With every conversation she had with doctors her fears increased to the point that she could barely speak her second language of English, and didn’t understand much of what was being said to her.

I speak a crude Quebecoise which had improved as I’d come on board to help her through the maze. I’ve seen many women, under pressure from doctors, make fearful decisions that brought disastrous results. I was too close to Claudette to let that happen again if I could help it. As well, every fiber of my being was screaming that she didn’t have cancer, she had an inept medical system on her back. Claudette didn’t feel she had cancer either.For the weeks leading up to our trip to the city I repeated my belief that she didn’t have cancer ad nauseum…she kept asking and it made her feel better to hear someone else say it.

When we stepped into the brilliant May sunshine after her appointment we had to look at the hospice that she would have to stay at during the cancer treatment. Going from one gloomy building to another gloomy building on a gloomy mission on such a beauty day seemed sacrilegious. We raced to our hotel room after feeling like truants skipping school. When Claudette and I left the doctors office she had accepted the doctors word, she needed treatment. As we sat on our beds in the hotel room, I asked her again, do you feel you have cancer? Again she said no. I asked, why then would you let them torture you by making you come to the city much less undergoing treatment? Twenty minutes later we booked out of that room leaving the doctors belief system behind. Claudette would not be accepting treatment.

It was a joy to step back into the day. When we were asked if we’d care to join my thirty year old son Aaron for an afternoon at the local nude beach that joy carried the moment, we said yes. Claudette had just been released from what had felt like a death sentence, and Aaron is blind, he can’t see stretch marks and wrinkles, why not go to Wreck Beach.

I be honest. It wasn’t until the fellow selling beer for a toonie bent over beside me baring a scrumptious tanned bum that I stripped butt naked too. Claudette followed suit shortly after. Talk about rubber necking, in a few swift hours that first afternoon we saw flesh in every shape and color without apparel. We forgot, for the first time in months, about why we were in Vancouver.

We had two more days in the city before we were able to head home. Both days, as soon as our business was done, we hit the beach, without my son as escort and foil. We giggled and laughed, playing like neither of us had played in too long. I have to share about one fellow in particular who stood out of the crowd, intentionally so. He’d stepped onto a rock a few feet above the sand beach and stood as if surveying his kingdom quite near where we lay supposedly tanning. I spotted him first and nudged Claudette to look. This was no time for nicey social protocols, we stared. This mans penis was covered with piercings, so many that his penis was stretched by the weight of the gold rings. It was a wonder to behold and in the moment struck me as completely hilarious or I might have asked what happened when it got hard.

Companion of my Heart

This outpouring of love was written by a Sister in the Light and friend Amberwave and is a small part of a healing dialogue that has come up between us. It is an honour and a privilege to share this blessing from the journey.

Sisters
dear companions of my heart
feel the depth of my love for you.
I feel the depth of yours for me,
like clear waters you hold a mirror for me
laughing, smiling, teasing,
holding secrets together,
talking, whispering, taunting,
competing, crying, hurting
exchanging through loving glances
meandering through life
knowing
myself through you
trusting
my steps will gently hit the ground
because you walk there too
you walk ahead in illuminating spheres
another time next to mine
may your path always be sacred
and your heart always feel
my abiding love
the holy ground we shared
makes all things possible
between us
forgiveness
joy
peace
and many more walks together
A~HO.

A Dreamers Plunge

In midnight thickets
Dreamers plunge,

While the moon
Shines calmly on.
The town is sleeping
Bodies lie
Neat and empty
Side by side.

But every self
Sneaks out alone,
In darkness with
No images on,
And travels freely,
All alert,
Roads unlisted
On a map.

No man can find
Where he has been,
Or follow in flesh
Where the self tread,
Or keep the self in
Though doors are closed,
For the self moves through
Wood and stone.

No man can find
The post or sign
That led the self
Through such strange land.
The way is gone
The self returns
To slip its bony
Image on.

Seth
Channeled by Jane Roberts
Oct. 20, 1964