Gaia sings to me and I see my soul grow wings of animal angels, wings of bats and birds and wise old owls. How are the wings to be made? Like those of the butterfly or the bee? Shall my wings have feathers or leathery skin to see the veins or skeins of colored threads that become the tapestry of a butterfly’s wings or the film of translucent gauze that is the bee’s lace wings, diaphanous and miraculous, almost existing in another world rather than this one. How will my wings move? Shall I feel the vibrational humming of the nectar bird so tiny as a thimble or the majestic slow waves of the hawk so high she is a speck against the smooth blue gown of Gaia’s breath or the ever-so gentle lifting of the flitting butterfly?
How shall I experience the wings I’ve grown and woven among the pattern of my own new life that echoes who I was as a small child among the weeds in a field far from the house and walking in the woods down a path to pick fresh black raspberries so delectable and sweet I can cry with the juices upon my tongue as I swing upon the vines that hang near the dried up creek bed and I am in heaven, walking the land, playing in the family of Gaia.
So many years as the caterpillar, alternating to cocoon but never making it to butterfly — a stage that eluded me for most of my life. Until I could surround myself in solitude and emerge as pink and green, all wings and down, inward seeing, for my wings are those of moth, not butterfly, and I am become the whisper in the night that used to haunt me, calling me to fly away. The voice is mine and has been here all along.
Goddess and Priestess, hermit and monastic soul upon the ledge within the cave where soul is full of wonder gazing into the heart of creatures great and small as I sleep in my nest, curled and humble into rest.
I am the kiss at the end of desire for we are whole in soul and self and sea, waves of pulsing breath, the shining stars are angels soaring far away and they drop a feather into the sea that becomes me. We are not earthbound, we are earth held by grace and know the ease of soaring and shining into a moment of joy and then gone again. Stones shimmer and in the moonlight all becomes the silver and blue wink of energy forming and dissolving just as the tears of a weeping tree become the golden treasure of nature’s inspiration holding the precious residue of past wings. Into the earth, I release my wings and climb down, feeling Her voice echo in the tears of amber and once there, I rub my palms together and create the moonlit wings of a pink night-moth, the lunar essence of vision in the dark of seeing without eyes and knowing without the limitation of light, and the reflected soul is iridescent in the joyous abyss of Gaia’s womb.