Root Mother

I do not see you as much as I feel you– know you, the way I know my bones hold me upright as I walk, or the pressure of bare feet on cool grass. You, Root Mother, draw my eyes downward to the earth, where the heart of life beats, the deep throb beneath all the distractions we call life. Root Mother, yes, that is the best name I can give you, although your true name sounds more like water over stone or the creak of growing corn. Some truths are hidden, tucked away in the holy darkness, far from my dissecting mind, yet I know they are there, safe in your hands. Who says I must understand something fully in order to celebrate it– even to be held by it? You call me back to the center of my own being, a space much lower than any lofty thoughts of my mind, where you wait with divine patience. I will never begin to know the truth of my own body until I rest in the rich darkness of yours, and for this grace I thank you. ~Stuart Higginbotham