It's a long story,
but to put it in a nutshell, my son is half Balinese and went there to reclaim his
birthright. I had lived there for eight years when he was born, integrating and
becoming a deep, intrinsic part of the culture. To this day, I stay linked, but
when he left, I felt my lifeline to that island fade a little. I grieved his
departure. I understood that it was time for him to leave, just like I knew
when it was time for him to journey there as a young man. It was his rite of
passage and in many ways, it was also mine.
Although my own
blood is not Balinese, my afterbirth is buried there next to the family temple
along with all generations past. I am considered blood to them, through a
marriage that dismantled, and forevermore, through my son whose blood is mixed
with an ancient, three thousand year old culture that calls me home every day. I
wrote this the day he left Bali. Me, on the other side of the world, but my
spirit was there witnessing this ritual.
The Thrum of his Prayer
by Leslie Caplan
The
restless angst of spirit calls you
to sit still
As you
pace the room up and down the walls
your
ancestors weep for your departure
And as
you leave,
the
pulse of my lifeline fades
just a
little
Like a
voice muffled behind closed doors.
You
return from one place to another
Wings
stretch across sky
where
rolling hills turn volcanic
and dry
crisp terrain turn wet with rain
As
roots slither beneath
the
surface of Earth,
the
thrum of your prayer
join
your hands together
Swirls
of incense smoke billow
from
the offering you make.
You
lean into the whispers
and
with holy water, adhere dried grains of rice
to your
third eye
As you
inhale the wisdom born to you,
you
kneel at the altar that first placed
the
soles of your feet to the ground
You are
closer now
to the
land, to the flower petals that symbolize
a
thousand of your lifetimes
Long
fingers reach inside layers of smoke
to
adorn your hair with flowers.
You bow
to the light already inside you.
I bear
witness, the glint of obsidian in your eyes
They
come from me,
yet
deeper still,
they
are from the same earth
that
buried your placenta
deep
inside the chamber
of a
three thousand year old Banyan tree
This
rite of passage is complete.
You
leave there a man
as the
child in you remembers
the
many languages of your tongue
Wet
with flavor
Wet
with spiced earth
Wet
with knowing that when you leave,
you are
never gone.
Embodying
the strength of the warrior,
you can
move freely now
between
the hemispheres of your belonging.
Leslie Caplan is a passionate writer and has been published internationally. She is a professional Writing Coach and editor who encourages and evokes the strongest, deepest expression of the writer's voice and heart. She also facilitates writing workshops where writing is used as a tool for revealing and healing. She lives in the small town of Ashland, Oregon and you can connect with her on her website here.
~If you are interested in seeing your poetry appear in this blog, or submitting a poem by a woman that has inspired you, please click here for submission guidelines. I greatly look forward to hearing from you!~
Beautiful write, very smooth, very motivational as well!
ReplyDeleteThank you Anca xo
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