Phantom limbs

I prefer being a landscape or a large body of water. My bones are rocks and old stumps, my flesh ripples of greenery, popping with colour and bending deep into valleys. I can sense the vastness but am not caught in the sum of parts, lancing into cavernous hideaways and breathing deep into the bellies of hollows. There is no thinking, just sensation and simple knowing, where the squirrel climbs and how the wind glides over heaps of soil. The lake swirls within me and I within the lake, water is blood and every living being a cell brimming in the soupy context.

We are one, interdependent relations collecting into gills and being pushed out. We pool our stories and examine the details, all the pieces that make our body complex and harmonized. A community and yet singularly functioning as a concept, a being bulging with experience, consciousness that wells up and drips into my dreams. I can feel myself pressed into the edges, into the sharp protrusions, wound around the dead parts, into the phantom limbs of toppled trees.

I march underground, carrying my elemental spirit into the heart, to the roots. I can’t help but slurp up nutrients, turning it around and soaking up rotten rolls of earth, furling outward into gentle hands of insect plans, marks of rejuvenation on my cheeks. This place grows in me, loosens my grip on reality and paints a fragrant picture, one that collides with deep seeded ideas of who I am and what I am capable of.

Lighting up my insides, dreams carry back kernels of awareness. Anchoring the memories behind eyes, curling the current of the lake into the network of neurons, whispering down the tubular highways, to the source of my sense. This dream yoga thins the veil, crippling my identity and then setting me free. I prefer being a landscape or a large body of water. And so I am. It’s always part of me, no separation, I carry the expansion eternally.