In the darkness of presence and prayer

A tumbled notion of mountain glows red hot in the center, sage and sweet grass catching fire between heart and human. We sit in a circle under heavy blankets placed with love, placed with the intention of community and voices howling, singing, praying into the cedars.

Prayer. 

I never thought I would say that word in association with any action of mine but here I sit in the pitch black darkness save smoky tendrils illuminated by ancient spittle of volcano. Here I sit with water pouring forth; onto the fire and out of my body, out of my eyes, rivers of words flowing from my mouth and into the lagoon of steam in front of us. An ocean of intention ebbing and flowing between naked bodies and shedding hearts. Here I sit.

What is ceremony? 

This word that for so long made me cringe and swear, a numbing set of rules containing what cannot be contained. It has changed, transmuted into a basket woven to hold, not enclose; to offer, not force. It is a chance to sit with others and be vulnerable in safety, to speak truly and freely into a mold that dissolves when we kiss the threshold and emerge into the light.

The sage is ash, the stones have cooled. 

I submerge myself in the pond at the edge of the clearing. I am held and encompassed and free to float in the dark water, the lingering smoke of dreams drifting in the rain flecked air. 

We breathe, we release, we nourish. 

We are sweat and bones, we are fire and intention, we are still in this moment and a flash of starlight screaming through the universe. 

We are seen, heard, held in the basket of darkness, in the naked arms of community, in the charred memories of wood and stone. 

We are present.