By guest blogger Emily K. Grieves
How can I tell you how it is here? I twist my thoughts
in hunt for words to say I glide on roasting asphalt,
feeling each flex of muscle on the bottom of my feet as I
step off onto powder fine soil. Bits of dried grass twirl up
in a sudden gust of wind. Sun cooks stones that have
turned their molecules to that hot light forever.
Maybe those stones were covered for centuries
by the natural push of weeds to blanket man’s creations
until scraped at by archaeologists, the skin
of the city flayed so stone can cook in sun again. I can
touch the stone and feel it as alive as I am, as alive
as an agreement of atoms to hang suspended
next to each other and make matter. I dream backward
a few thousand years to hear the grind of pestle
on raw mineral, the rasp of brush on wet plaster, smooth
stone burnishing red oxide into high shine, the chink
of obsidian splintering into blades, the pat of hands
pressing mud into deep lava tunnels formed
even millennia before the dream.
I could stoop in the soil and turn over a rock to find a clay
face, fine eroded features looking back at me. I could sift
the dirt in my fingers and come up with thousands
of shards, chunks of pot and plate and cup in infinite earthen
hues. I tell people always, the city is a living being,
and I fabricate its life from dreams left out under
stripped skin pinned back by posts and stakes.
I see the city’s bones as stones and faded frescoes, its nerves
as electrified filaments in an invisible web – when I
touch those fibers, I am a magnet and my hair rises
to the charge. Tourists see cement and rocks, and the vendors
frantically wave their woven blankets, polymer statuettes
of warriors, and trinkets that are almost silver, almost original,
almost free. Free and original is what I become, sticking
my finger into the socket of all these old stones. You might
not believe me, but behind what you think you can see, there is
an unfolding of worlds, tipping with the soft clip
of dominoes. If you step through a doorway that ends
in a wall of bricks, I might not be able to go in after you.
I always breathe deep before climbing steps
because steps lead to temples and temples breathe
right back at you. Out of the corner of my eye, I notice
that the others copy me, or maybe they, too, feel
the temple’s breath and they are brave. These people
summon everything, driving themselves down
into the shittiest of childhoods and blazing back out
with truckloads of suffering to feed to the drooling
maw, the hot breath dragging after them. They toss it all
into those big jaws the world opens for us when we’re ready,
like a jagged toothy head, hungry and yellow-eyed,
and we wonder how in the hell we missed seeing it before.
They are brave and they sing the snake handler’s song that just
piped into their head like a gift from an old god.
They’ve forgotten his name, but they mumble big thanks,
tumbling out of the basket of their tender hearts.
I breathe before I take a step, and we climb up
onto the backs of pyramids, riding them like they
are living beings, which is what I always tell
the people to remind myself to be careful
and have a little trust. My life is on the backs of gods
up there, whipping my hair into tangled strands
and pricking my skin into sunburned redness.
Pyramids, much talked about, leave no room for words.
Yes, four triangular sides rise to a point. Units of measure
made from the Earth’s diameter meet alignment
with the Pleiades, Venus and Orion’s Belt, and so,
being divine, we scrape our decaying cells of flesh up
its side to touch the nucleus of its divinity for a minute.
You know? The part of us that recognizes that it is divine
recognizes our own divinity. For a minute. I weep and open
my eyes and see the crisp outline of the valley, hills,
buildings, tourists, everything illuminated by the clearest
white light. Clean clear light. I breathe and immediately
try to hold onto the clarity, and as I ache my way down
the pyramid with a sore hip, I mumble big thanks
from the basket of my tender breathing heart.
Perhaps you have an experience in your life that you find difficult to explain or describe in words. When words fail you, can you find a new way to use words? Can you write a poem or perhaps leave the realm of words entirely and use a different medium to convey your feelings and express your experience?
Emily K. Grieves is an artist and healer dedicated to helping people find connections to the sacred in their lives. She explores symbolism, mythology, and ritual in her artwork, drawing inspiration from the celebrations and mysteries of Life. She has also dedicated herself to the healing arts as a practitioner of shamanism and hands-on healing energy work for over 10 years. She lives with her family in Teotihuacan, Mexico, where she has painted murals in the Dreaming House, and where she helps lead groups into the transformative energies of the pyramids. To learn more, visit www.livingwithpyramids.blogspot.com and www.thedreaminghousemx.com.
Image #1: In the Belly of the Serpent, Soft Pastel on Amate Paper, Emily Grieves, 2011
Image #2: Pyramid of the Sun as seen from Temple of the Women, Teotihuacan, 2011
UPCOMING WORKSHOP
Emily has a new journey to Teotihuacan coming up: The Great Life – A Macrobiotic Creative Journey to Teotihuacan, July 22-27, 2011 For more info and registration, visit www.spiritrecovery.com
Join Emily Grieves, Iva Peele, and Phiya Kushi on a special macrobiotic creative journey into the heart of Teotihuacan. As “The Place where Human Becomes God,” this ancient ceremonial city in central Mexico was designed to help us awaken to our connection to the sacred and to our highest creative capacity as artists and architects of our own dreams, and dreamers of our own art and lives. The original spiritual masters of Teotihuacan believed that we become reflections of the Divine when we engage in a creative act. We create harmony in the world when we make sacred art, when our “artist’s heart” is at one with God. On this journey we will explore creation and the idea of eating and cooking in a way that supports the creation of our biggest dreams, from the essential concept of how we view our food and how it impacts every facet of life to the macrobiotic principles that support our art and creation, our “Great Life.” We invite you to walk the path of ancient masters as we move consciously into the embrace of Teotihuacan, eating, cooking, healing, writing, painting, dancing, singing, and dreaming our way into deeper communion with Life itself. Let us return to our essence as creators of the great art of our lives. To join us, please contact Carrie at carrie@spiritrecovery.com or 615.943.2093 and for more information, contact Emily at sacredartjourneys@hotmail.com
Yes, there are so many things that cannot be described with words!!! Thank you for trying so poetically though! Your art work is beautiful as you are!! I lvoe you!