What comes first, the seed or the fruit?
I’ve been working through some inner knots, slowly beginning to untangle some underground systems that have gotten so wrapped and twisted in one another, that they are interfering with my sense of direction.
As I breathe through the awareness, make space for the rough insights, and contemplate how to re-weave certain threads, I tend to the slow process of composting the inner conversations that have gotten me all pretzeled.
“It’s ok to release,” I tell the parts of me that want to hang on for dear life to the comfort of the familiar diminishing voice. I exhale. Softly carving a new pathway of thoughts. The roads want to lead me back to what feels less threatening - to the blocks my system knows so well. Patience. Renewal doesn’t happen in a day. Old patterns are persistent. Slow breath. I’m here with all the parts.
An interesting process can unfold when we become more conscious of the deep inner workings of unhelpful patterns and blocks. We start to tune into the origin story of that block. Sometimes we can pin the exact moment that formed a particular story that pulls on certain strings. And sometimes the origin is a collection of events with recurring themes. Sometimes those origin stories belong to someone else’s issues - I’m talking deep unconscious childhood stuff. And sometimes it’s a whole host of things picked up along the way.
We put all kinds of barriers up for self defense. They’re important. They’ve helped us at some point. We can be grateful for their services, but if they’re no longer helpful, they need to be broken down. You know this already - you don’t need me to tell you that.
We may be able to gain insight into the origin of some of our blocks and patterns. What story do they tell? The story is told and retold. Sometimes we’re aware of it. Sometimes the telling happens way way way deep inside. The story becomes familiar. The more it is told the more it generates certain results that end up confirming the belief that we have in the story itself.
So what comes first; the story, or the story? Life is complex. Don’t rush to answer.
We do the work. The work needs to shift. Different people need different tools. And different moments in life require different approaches.
Things we thought we’ve dealt with show up again. Inner conversations we’ve transformed years ago, sprout like weeds when we try to grow something new in the soil of our lives. We can’t really get rid of our stuff. They are part of us. We need to integrate and reintegrate. And we need to keep doing the work.
I know it’s tiring to think about having to do the work all the time. We’re all exhausted. We’re all being squeezed by this historical moment. You’re not alone in this. This is collective. Part of the work is to rest. Part of the work is softening. Part of the work is dancing, crying, singing, lying on the ground and breathing. Part of the work is asking ourselves; What do I need most right now? And how does it align with the needs of the world?
What I find fascinating about all of this is the cyclicality of it.
The whole process is a goddess. And we need to build a temple for her.
There are a few trees that I see from the kitchen window. There’s a pine tree - I’m not sure which type. There’s a sycamore tree, that just got all filled up with its Spring greenery - oh, it’s so lush and sumptuous! I love Sycamores! And there’s a ficus tree too. There are so many types of Ficus trees in the world. Ficus is the scientific name for all fig trees. This one is the one we see all over LA.
When I think of fig trees, I think about where I’m from. The land of milk and honey and blood. The land of olives and war. A land so holy, it’s hell to live on. I think of figs and I can’t not think about the Israeli-Palestinian conflict. And I think; wow! You really can trace this one back to ancient times. And that question; what came first, the fig, or the tree? I think about Arabs and Jews and the land, and our connection to the late Summer fruit of this tree we all love like an ancestor, and all love to sit under. And I dream of a day we can sit under it together. Can I hold onto this vision without faith?
If I think in cyclicality, in goddess ways, in sacred song, I can feel the grief rising in me, and I can sing the vision in my heart. Faith un-needed.
I’m dreaming about the Egyptian Ficus Sycomorous (why not have a Sycamore and a Ficus in one?), which was sacred to goddess Isis. Isis is an ancient Egyptian goddess of resurrection. Goddess of magic. Goddess of love and fertility. Goddess of the sea. Queen of the heavens. The lushness of the land.
Isis is a goddess who has made her way into many other cultures, and took the form of many other goddesses. Her wings spread wide, traversing time, place, and identity. She is a Great Mother goddess. Ever becoming. Ever invented, re-named, and regenerated. Dissolving. And rising again. Becoming who she is - a goddess of death and rebirth. A goddess of relationships. Interconnected. Weaving together the tapestry of existence. Breathing life into the world. And guiding souls through the underworld.
The things we release spiral back into view, and we seek to learn from them again, to work on the pieces that need to become compost again.
Like Isis herself, who loses her beloved, we also lose loved ones in this life. Our hearts break. We also lose qualities, intentions, and things we worked hard for. Things we cherish do get lost along the way. We grieve. They become part of the earth. They also become longings, aches, desires for return, visions for resurrection. And they need a sanctuary.
This morning, while I was making lunches and breakfasts for everyone, I saw a huge raven doing something between the branches of the ficus tree. I couldn’t tell what it was at first. Then I saw it was holding a branch in its beak, and it was tugging and pulling. Then, still holding on, it flew off. Off to build a nest somewhere probably. Off to build a temple.
It’s mating season after all. Nests are being prepared for mother birds to lay their eggs.
What comes first, the raven or the egg?
I’m watching the swirling stories, the love, the longings, the laments. Origin stories and circumstances and openings. Trees and the seeds and nest making.
The roots of my desires and those of my blocks are tangled under the soil. And as I let them twist and turn around one another, while also doing some untangling where more breath is needed, I realize that seeds of possibilities are already sprouting from the spaces between them, from the complex, intricate relationships between things.
Isis flies over the landscape of my imagination, spinning and swirling, reminding me that she is a goddess of relationships. Significant because she is ever intertwined with her siblings and her child, with the land and the sea. And continuously expanding her reach beyond time and place. Becoming more identities, more of who she is.
Prompts:
Where (in yourself, in the world, or in your imagination) do you need to go in order to become more of who you are?
What do you need to break down and reintegrate in order to rise into who you want to become?
Who do you want to become right now?
What do you need to move around and reinvigorate?
Who do you want to build a temple with?
What are you building a temple for?
Now go make some art! Making art is sacred! It’s a temple! Cooking counts. Go! Write a Haiku or a story or a song. Paint, sculpt, dance, play. Plant a garden.
Let’s build a temple together - share what you make in the comments.
If this is in any way evocative or interesting, please share this Muse Medicine with a loved one.
If you need a sacred space to hold something you’re working through at the moment, and you want to tend to the inspiration that resides within the difficulty, join me on a five session journey From Stillness to Spark - with breathwork, movement, meditation, contemplation, reflection, and prompts - to support your relationship with your Muse.
I’m sending you so much love,
Hagar