MUSHROOM m i n d

By Steph Raymond All Rights Reserved ©

Other / Poetry

17/03/2017

17/03/2016

“I can’t believe you guys are moving in a few months.”

Alex was driving Gemma and Caleb to a

poetry reading

while Forest visited with his grandparents.

“I almost can’t either. But I’m so happy

to be able to raise Forest and this new baby

in a place that feels like we belong.

The mountains have been calling us for some time.

This was never the place for us.”

“I get that.”

Alex said,

“It’s weird we’re all going to be living in separate city’s

once you officially move and I go to University.”

“Wow, I never realized that.”

They drove into the main street and found parking a few blocks away

from the gallery that was hosting the story-telling event.

Back in the hospital,

Gemma wrote something that she used to help her speak normally again.

She spoke her poem

over and over

for hours into the

night –

until her annunciation was close to perfect.

She promised herself right then

that once she was released from the hospital,

she would finally share herself and her

s t o r i e s .

It was almost a year later,

she had a book deal that was underway and was finally attending

and participating in a local poetry-reading event.

“I’m excited.”

Alex said.

“Me too.” Caleb squeezed Gemma’s hand

as they walked together from the car to the gallery.

“I am too. But nervous.”

Caleb pulled her in close to whisper in her ear,

“Your story is important for a lot of people. Share your light.”

And kissed her on the cheek.

Walking down the final block

The tree kindred souls spoke about

mental health and healing.

“Did you read the link I sent you, by the way?”

Gemma asks her brother.

“Yes, so eye-opening.

What a Shaman sees in a

psychiatric ward, especially the difference

in bi-polar and schizophrenic

patients in western countries

and the rest of the world…

because of how self-deprecating

and fear based our society is,

people suffer more.

The fact that many symptoms of

Bipolar and psychosis

bear the exact sings of a

Kundalini awakening.

It’s crazy that instead of working with the experience,

we try to shut it down completely.”

“It’s insane. I know medication

is very necessary in certain cases of mental

health. And there’s most definitely no shame

in healing ourselves through medicine if we feel that is our path.

But there’s definitely a lot more to be

explored in people experiencing mental health issues

or psychotic symptoms.

Meditation has helped

my healing immensely.

I just think there is so much still to learn,

and how can we do that if we just

stifle our experiences and remain frightened of them?

A big step forward in that exploration will be

to end the negative stigma attached to mental health.

For everyone to be comfortable with opening up to

talk about their feelings and experiences without judgement.

And then to listen to these people with an open mind,

without making them feel sick.

This will be a good way to start raising awareness

and collective consciousness.

The physical reality is not the only reality.”

“Well,” Caleb says, opening the door to the gallery,

“Let’s start now.”

It was nearly starting time for the event, and so the main room was already filled with bodies.

Conversation was vibrant and it made everyone seem

c o l o r f u l

against the plain white walls and floor.

A young man stepped to the center of the wall that everyone was facing.

Slowly, speaking became hushed and everyone was

s i l e n t .

“Welcome everyone and thank you

So much for being a part of this event!

We’re looking to expand the art and culture

in our little city, and these gatherings are

a beautiful step in doing so. So for those here

for the first time, I’m Clint, I co-ordinated this event.

I will announce each story teller in the order which

everyone singed-up. There’s still a sheet at the door

to write your name if your suddenly feeling inspired

to share tonight. So without further ado, I welcome

Brittany Collins to the, well, not the stage, the wall I suppose.”

A small ring of laughter circulated the room.

The energy was energetic and

c o n t a g i o u s .

Gemma felt a rush hearing the

honest

stories and rhymes being shared.

A room full of people with only one person speaking at a time,

And somehow the connection between every body was

m a g n i f i e d

in the quiet.

When she heard her name come from Clint’s mouth,

her heart began to race.

It had been years since she even spoke in public,

let alone share her writing.

Everyone remained silent as she made her way to the white wall

and looked into the faces with stared back at her.

Without thinking, she began in a moment-

“Once upon a time,

we were young.

We were wild things belonging to nature.

We were curious creatures,

creatures of light,

dreamers and weavers,

do-ers, believers.

-

When we were young

we were told that the world was at our finger-tips,

instead of the truth, which is that

worlds lay within them.

That, in our blood, instead of cells

swim s t a r s

belonging to the many galaxies alive in our skin.

That,

like the Universe,

we are still

growing

creating

expanding and

flowing-

But we’re told to have more

rather than to be more-

Or at least be us

instead of making ourselves bleed more.

-

When we were young

we were inventors who believed in

w i s h e s,

shooting-stars and adventures.

We were not yet deprived of the light

that shows us who we really are to each other-

sister, brother

one bound to the other.

We were not yet polluted,

our minds not yet moulded,

we were not yet

transformed

or shamed

or scolded.

-

When we were young

we didn’t question our own beauty.

We saw it in ourselves

and in others.

Untouched my human cruelty,

our thoughts were

f r e e

to form and release with conviction and ease.

Our bodies were our own,

not touched and changed

to please.

From children to grown-ups

like sinners trying to own up to

the lies and the faults of ancestors passed

instead of forging our own stories

and choosing our own paths.

-

We are told

over and over

who to be,

who to love,

how to think,

as we grow older

we disconnect from one another-

eyes outward instead of inward,

chanting ‘we are free!’

Whilst unknowingly being

shackled and bound,

unable to flee

or even just

be.

So please tell me, how my dreams have turned to dust

and my love to rust?

How has my soul turned so cold?

How did I come to hate my body as I grew old?

And how can I go back to the way I once was,

without spilling stars

like blood

from hating this self and everything she does.

-

Stop.

B r e a t h e .

-

Un-cage and undo me,

all that has been done.

Unravel and reveal myself

brighter than the sun.

Wake my sleeping bones

and set my soul on fire.

Feel my heart beat slow and fast

with steadfast desire

for all this earth-side life has to teach

and to tell

to my aching spirit

that knows me so well.

So I call on you to take my hand,

and his

and hers,

carry who you can!

Build your castles up

and leave no song unsung.

Live the life you always imagined-

when you were young.”

When she finished, Gemma became acutely aware that her

body was shaking as the people in front of her began to cheer and

clap as they did for everyone.

Gemma felt a

r u s h

she hadn’t felt in a long time,

confirming that this was her calling.

She had a story to share,

a way to

c o n n e c t

and fulfill her longing to help

heal hearts.

You,

My fire,

have always been my

i n s p i r a t i o n .

You,

My fire

Are the suns’ golden

b e a m s .

18/01/2013

He was an

O r a c u l a r and c a t h a r t i c

experience

that had come to her in the night.

One that held an

i m m o r t a l r a d i a n c e .

Her small, rather dispirited heart was quite lit up by joy and

ecstasy

as he piled onto her.

Passion’s raw self stirred an absence of pain so that only

i n e r a d i c a b l e f i r e

and m a g i c

remained between them.

They tasted the whole of the ethereal experience as it lay open to them-

the way the mountains which called to them did-

b o u n d l e s s ,

delicate,

wild.

The grand intimacy of it all...

the deliberate wandering,

the loss of breath...

the slow ritual of embraces was like a savage storm

and they were left trembling with delight when it was over.

She lifted her eyes, looking at up at him with such frank admiration,

i n t o x i c a t e d and c o n s u m e d by him.

He met her eyes steadily,

a sort of madness on both of them...

There they laid softly together in the quiet of the early morning

m o o n l i g h t :

motionless-

completely enthralled by their own passion.

They were unaware that they were bound by their own fervour,

breathing the very air of better things ahead.

Caleb finally turned over to search the floor for something,

came back up and lit a cigarette.

They watched each other carefully but did not speak until Caleb was

about half way through his smoke.

“You are a strange anomaly.”

He said to her.

“I am not,”

she sunk herself further into him and sighed,

“I am like other girls, and I want what they do.”

He blows the smoke from his cigarette slowly,

and even in the dark she could see that he was amused.

“Oh yea? What’s that?”

“You.”

He laughed and it rang

t h r o u g h h e r ,

making her feel passionately and poetically curious for him.

It was September when she first saw him...

a pretty mystery who appeared out of the blue.

He had trackless, vague ways

and she felt herself turn crimson at the mere sight of him.

She would spend magic hours gazing with interest

into his infinitely

m y s t i c m i n d ,

studying the way beauty flowered within him like emerging stars.

How she loved

h o v e r i n g

inquiringly into his mind of ancient beauty –

from which man was made and was always undoing

by denying the gentle laws of nature.

She felt the charm and sorrow in his soul-

that it was made from

s t a r d u s t ,

fragrance,

and

fire.

She felt an unusual thrill of excitement

when she thought of him on those many sleepless nights-

a fire which quite made up for her quiet little life.

But fear hovered there in struggle with flames and curiosity;

a certain melancholy brooding over all.

He was

d y n a m i c

while she was

c a p r i c i o u s

and the crash of such natures was wilder than

heaven and hell colliding.

She could feel herself want something true for the first time in her life,

and such wanting seemed doomed to her.

“I have a feeling about you

and I don’t know what to do about it.”

He looked at her quietly before putting out his cigarette.

He was about to say something but she continued,

“I think this might be it.

The grand romance.”

He seemed puzzled.

“Don’t all grand romances end tragically?”

“Exactly.”

He shook his head,

" how can we be doomed, if it feels like this,”

He cupped the back of her head,

tangling his fingers through her hair,

lips only a breath apart,

“When I touch you.”

He kissed her sweetly and thoroughly and all she could do was

taste him and his words with untranslatable emotion.

“You’ll see.”

She said in a low whisper,

“You are going to get sick of me.”

He smiled now, looking at her with

wonder and sadness.

She loved that he could be sorrowful and loving at once.

“Impossible.”

He brought his face close enough to hers so that their noses were touching,

“the things that happen to us may be tragic

but it is important to grasp the presence

of something raw and beautiful enough

with the power to cast out darkness.”

He kissed her again and again, and Gemma marvelled at this seemingly

d r e a m – l i k e w o r l d

she was in when he touched her.

The length and breadth of love

had taken away any need for thoughts of fear,

even if only for a moment.

Where they went would not matter in the end.

The wild ways of lovers

were as many as there were

s t a r s

in the sky

and she could feel that wherever they drifted to,

would lead them to

beauty,

to p e a c e ,

into grief and adventure

and e t h e r e a l l a u g h t e r .

You.

Are you lonely?

Are you

s e e k i n g ?

shhhhh.

look to the

s t a r s

and be

q u i e t.

ahhhh,

there you are-

s t a r s e e d.

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