A WORLD IN NEED OF SHAMANS

 

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Slow the clocks. Let the day

dawn slowly, mind struggling

to balance the fast world

coming at me.

Become the observer,

the mystic said, and I do.

I observe a world

that has lost its centre,

a world in need of shamans.

I grow slower, and more silent,

in response.

During the years
when my children were growing,
each spinning off into danger,
far from my protection,
I learned how to be a tree:
strong at my centre,
to support them,
flexible, with wavy arms,
so we could lean and bend
and sway with the times
together.

Old age is deep time.
The seasons have brought forth
whatever harvest
there is ever going
to be.

Time to reflect, to walk
in an old growth forest,
commune with the ancient ones,
breathe in connection,
breathe out peacefulness.

I am as tired and slow
as an old elephant,
just from remembering.

Slow the clocks. The sun
is kissing the golden shore,
inch by inch, as we ponder
the lingering going away
of the day.
We keep our voices hushed,
reverential,
our footsteps light.

Old age is deep time.