Women of the earth, of carpets, of blood, of yoga mats.
We are cloud gazers.
From the salt of it, the wooden dance floors,
Leg ascends and the gaze…star-ward.
Tickle of the grass thru the thin cotton sheet, the tatami mat or the picnic blanket, we lie on our backs feeling the immensity of her presence beneath and within, and behold…
In slow motion, the billows change to faces, into arrows, vision of dinasours or a horses head, and then disappear as a wisp. Spaciousness is what’s left, spaciousness is the domain within which the visions dance.
From our places, squatting on the hard, dry earth, our toes in the sand or mud squishing between our toes…
We ascend to day dreams, minds lost, drifting thoughts make space for no-thing-ness, pure being.
Author: Dove Weissman-Shtein
Editor: Ashleigh Hitchcock