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The Daughter

There is a magic in the secret middle of things, a little bird singing on the smallest desert branches of my soul. Inner mountains echo her wild, joyful birdsong faithfully. It thrills the wind, pierces the dead leaves.

Outside of my body--as if there were any difference--the wind and the shouts and the sirens rise in a grand swirl to the presence of the spirit in this temple. The world is an alphabet spelling his name-- a grand quaking in this body, world, and soul. My mind and body are the pen that writes his name.

Long ago, in the twilight region of primal dreams, the angel towered as a shadow. Terrible figure, he paralyzed me again and again. He lifted me up from behind, monstrous slow. The ordinary world could not save me.

The angel is the legion of nightmares: fear of falling, fear of burial, fear of rape, fear of destruction of all that is known. For below the Abyss, the word of final union, damned beyond damned, cannot be voiced or heard. But the inability to hear that word is a false mercy. For its utterance is bliss.

The tongue of this angel is a woman, no longer human. She wears a flaming-red skirt and she knows how to speak the Mystery.

 Eric N. Peterson is a Toltec priest and member of The Tequihua Foundation, a Riverside, Southern CA nonprofit whose mission is to continue the ancient consciousness-transforming arts of the Toltecs.

www.tequihuafoundation.org