Faith of the Ancient Earth




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My faith is a faith of roots and rocks and deep places.

The male gods are vain; they ask for "faith in"; they ask us to trust their power and benevolence, they ask for a belief in the unseen, a loyalty to a banner, a creed, a name, a skyward promise.

But the Ancient Grandmother does not ask, she gives. Hers is a "faith from"; it enters through feet pressed into heavy earth, through the base of the spine, and through the visceral pull of gravity and the solidity of the living body. She does not require my promises, or my belief. She is. She is my bone, she is my blood. She is older than time and deeper than death.

The neglected flower in an abandoned garden draws faith from its grandmother, tasting her bones with its roots and bursting unexpectedly into hope as winter falls into spring. And living its faith, it surrenders itself to her arms again as autumn cold tumbles down from the north.

She is quiet and strong, the Old One. Her heartbeat is silent but steady, turning within turning, as night follows day and season follows season. She is the great drum whose sound is felt, not heard, and whose beat measures out the melody of our lives. When we find the rhythm, we are healed, and she welcomes us home. Upon her hard back we stand, and all our loving, fearful, desirous, painful, dazzling lives are like spinning ripples on her skin.

We are born into her faith. Even when we learn not to see her, she remains. She sustains us. I will not forget again. I will remember in praise. I will remember in reverence. I will remember in gratitude.

The Imaginarium is a regular feature of Starweaver's Gems from Earth and Sky

Copyright © 2001-2008 Tom Waters