“I have no right to call myself one who knows. I was one who seeks, and I still am, but I no longer seek in the stars or in books; I’m beginning to hear the teachings of my blood pulsing within me. My story isn’t pleasant, it’s not sweet and harmonious like the invented stories; it tastes of folly and bewilderment, of madness and dream, like the life of all people who no longer want to lie to themselves.” ~ Herman Hesse, Demian
The road is mapped out for you matter of factly
twined and braided into your umbilical cord
and you are fed instructions with your cereal
but nobody tells you how those paths wind
and turn and twist
or that some may drop you into a pit…
Your blood will lead you, can speak to you
but first you need to learn its language
and fear its messages
just a little
for fiery blood carries all your pasts
as well as your present.
Can you bring that lodestone with you?
Can you cradle it,
bend without breaking under the weight?
Can you expand inside to absorb,
to imprint that compass rose across your lungs so that each breath is magnetized…
to gather the lessons
dropped like acorns across these bisecting roads?
To accept those as gifts
even when they hurt?
and add your own footnotes to this unwritten tale,
add your footprint to the trackless
and add the calling of your blood
to that strange compass.
Toss a coin into the crossroads
and leave it lying unchecked in all its shiny wishfulness
as a beckoning.