Morning Has Broken

She sang as she spun. Her wheel clicking with each round, her foot pumping gently on its pedal. Fractals of light flashed from her glowing yarn. Well, I guess you could call it yarn. Her deft fingers flowing with the spin as she allowed the strands to move through her fingers and whirl together into an even stronger two strand twist. 

Once the spindle was full, she set it aside and began again. Soon there would be enough to complete the weaving. The basket beside her was filled with skeins of multicolored, glittering yarn. Well, not exactly yarn. And not exactly glittering. It sort of vibrated. The basket itself emitted a soft glow, accompanied by a quiet yet audible ringing.

The air was filled with a light energy of almost-sound. Her voice rose and carried a longing reminiscent of an irish dirge. A hummingbird appeared at the open window. It hovered in suspended animation for enough of a moment for her to see him. With a flash, he darted into the room, making off with a sparking strand that had fallen to the floor.

The second he left, a dark cloud moved over the small cabin.

The old woman chuckled. She was humming now. The wooden shack trembled with the sound of thunder. Cracks of extreme light lit the room after the rumbling eased. “Sing your heart into all dark matter” she whispered in her melodic, yet crackled voice.

Reaching for her cane, the woman leaned forward, set her spinning aside and stood. The click and thump of her slow gait moved her across the floor and over to the loom. She eased herself into the chair sitting in front of the already half finished blanket. It shimmered slightly. The colors, ethereal.

Her wrinkled brown hands looked as though they were encased in a thin layer of rice paper. Long fingernails carefully lifted the edges of the weave, causing electric sparks to fly. Inspecting the image on her work, a smile spread broadly.

“It will be your turn soon, Eve.” “Yes, Mother,” I replied. The view from my corner allowed me to see the full image splayed across the wooden loom. Explosions of crisp blue sky seemed embedded at the top, and as the image progressed to the center of the loom, the half finished picture depicted mountain tops, forests and water falling almost right out of the weave and onto the floor. Or so it seemed.

Mother began to sing as she moved the tapestry needle through the warp and weft of the emerging image. I added my voice to hers. “And the great sky walker is a spiritual talker, why walk when you can fly?” 

Hours passed as we sang, and the storm ushered itself off to another location. The little cottage, radiant with an emergent light. I looked out the window, realizing that the time had almost arrived. I could see stars blinking against a black night. The kettle whistled and I poured tea for us. With my cup in hand, I moved to the window. Looking down, I could see through the clouds below to the barren landscape. A full moon illuminated the view.

I could hear Mother’s voice inside me. “Sing your heart into cosmic spaces, line your world with love’s embraces, keep us safe in times of strangeness, when hearts lose to the mind’s own matrix and our humans forget their places, why walk when you can fly?”

Suddenly the air was filled with tinkling, like the shatter of a crystal glass. Electricity crackled into the room. I immediately lunged for the tapestry that was now finished and draped over the window sill. 

A rhythmic heartbeat-like thumping. The drumming, the drumming. The heart drum was sounding. Baba boom, baba boom, baba boom. Reverberation through the air. The sound, everywhere. On my skin, in my mouth. Coursing through my blood. Baba boom. Baba boom.

Grandmother had picked up her drum. The time had arrived. My moment started moving from now, to now.

Great mother threw open the door, and I used both hands to heave the glowing blanket into the air outside. I leapt out the door behind and above it. I could see it unfurling below me, an illuminated billowing scene of sky, mountains, forests, rivers and creatures all depicted by colorful, effervescent light. I spread my wings and soared over the landscape as the blanket of creation wafted to the ground and splayed itself onto a newly emergent world. 

I swooped along the horizon just above the shimmering movement of divine manifestation. I could hear the stars singing. I could feel the vibrations of new hearts beating for the first time. Trees, grasses, and bursting blooming stalks of impossible shades of green pushed their way through soil and into the spark and crackle of the electrified air. 

Diving like an arrow shot out of the sun, a tiny hummingbird streaked down toward a body of water, a little sparking electric strand held firmly in its beak. The moment it hit the rippling surface, an intensity of color exploded into the newness of this place.  

The calls and snorts of creatures began creating another kind of movement. Rich. Deep. Alive. Wild. Waves of living sound rising. Lifetimes and generations emerging from zero point. Time sitting on creek banks like old frogs, wondering. I hovered above it all, dumb-struck with audacious wonder. 

Finally, voices. I could see below a circle of small brown people holding hands. They were moving rhythmically. Singing, stomping. And the drumming was there, too. Laughing, smiling little bodies radiating with love. Earth people were forming and rising from the wet clay, animated by the electric light and the blood in their veins that formed from the waters of livingness and fresh colors.

Birds of all shapes and sizes lifted their new wings, and rose into the glow and radiance of the first sunrise. Rays golden, glowing, streaming out from the hot central iris of life.

Morning has broken…