the wise benevolent ancestors gently take my hands and kiss my throbbing forehead, subtle whispers from the world beyond this one.
as my palms lay on top of each other, they place in them seven seeds of corn… the rising sun, awaiting the spring, gently smiling, and directing me towards a piece of earth who bore harvest several seasons ago.
with tears in my eyes, old stories shed away as i look through the smoking mirror of long winter nights. with seeds in my hands, i wait, hopeful, faithful, that their moment to birth us back to life will come. with my pulsating heart, my breath, the aches in my gut, i remember that divine light always reemerges from the depths.
the seeds in my palms carry dreams, transmuted light into matter, celestial DNA embedded into each kernel’s memory. with my palms, now shaking, i remember who i am, a child of the corn, the sun, and the cosmos. as the days become warmer, my achy heart says a prayer for beauty, and the world responds with the ringing melodies of hummingbird chirps.
with my nails i crack the crust of the earth and place my seeds, one by one, in the east, the west, north, and south, and 3 in the center, setting prayers of gratitude for the above, below, and myself. and as the seasons continue to shift, i learn that with intention, prayer, and healing comes work, responsibility, and consistency.
as the seeds shed their shells, as seedlings begin to emerge, and as the sprouts turn into stalks, i too begin to heal, learn, grow, and transform. the cycles continue, we continue, and the seeds of our prayers, intentions, and love continue to move through the hands of generations to come.