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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.
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