The Promised Land

A poem – prayer – manifesto for individual and collective healing.

the earth turns, leaking oxygen
passes through light, through night again.
the earth swells and opens its guts, will sew itself together someday
opening, closing, living a million lives.
a million births and a million burials,
we learn to open and close. we break and we heal.

the earth turns. the heat of the atmosphere fills up the lost spaces in my body.
anger burns through hot skin, the lenses of my eyes ooze and warp.
i ache to cool, to slow down. lower the temperature, the center of gravity.
to find the deep blue depths of my own shifting glaciers.
breathe and pull the ice back together.
to feel the the clean, clear, water.

the forests that burn and fall are within us.
we have drilled into our own skin, scraping, excavating for purpose or meaning or survival.
we are fossils for a fuel-less future. we dig up ancient bodies,
but how we ache to be part of the earth forever, rest easy in our bones.
the human condition floats suspended in fear,
leaking onto the radio, my Facebook feed, fueling the gas stations
there is a choice to fill up…or forgive. forge ahead.

scientists say we can change our brains.
i will make my grey matter a divine sculpture.
this body is sacred architecture, a raw holy balance.
shit becomes a sunflower. flesh into mineral.

now to recognize what inside us is useful, wise, dynamically free
we are being called to see each see that our skeleton is the same.
now to continue, somehow.
this oft-dismissed emotional body must be be acknowledged, reckoned with.
this pain must be felt, as it passes through the oceans,
and spreads across the surface of the moon.
i wrestle for courage to feel without judgment the settling and the alchemy take place,
the breath, the soundlessness of a consciousness expanding.
growing pains shoot through these bones but this is the universe,
this is it, healing and organizing, gathering our brightest lights.

i rub the sleep from my eyes, i breathe the trees and lift up the rug,
dust and carcass and crumpled receipts, shredded documents, billions year old styrofoam.
i lick my wounds and start to sew myself together.
praying for peace. i will rearrange and transform my space until i am free.
dislodging the scar tissue that shields my lungs and heart,
shedding and growing new skin.
organs already organized, by this organic earth.

in search of the promised land, a paradise lost — i found myself.
a wounded and wild garden, a vision.
my body, like all bodies, is organized chaos, proof of life.
the heart of truth is an innate will to live.
the way plants push their way through concrete towards the sun,
we rediscover ancient intuition, community, we walk barefoot in re-cultivated soil.
we communicate without wifi.
we float in secret pools of fresh water and collectively exhale..

every moment is a new day, a new chance to decide what our world is.
every conversation a society. every breath a blueprint.

Rachel Becker

artist, designer, activist, occasional poet, aspiring astronaut, human being.

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