You were born as a bud on Her tree. The Mother Tree that spans infinitely in all directions. Every light and soul is with you.
You are always connected and loved by the infinite.
Her roots fed by the fire of creation, her trunk swaddled by the steadfast earth, her branches kissed by the stars.
You flourish and are fed as part of the infinite.
She ebbs and flows. She inhales and exhales as the ocean tides. She drinks and creates and blossoms and rests as a firey creator who honors her limits. She does not chide the seasons for their power over her. She is the seasons.
You rise and fall, create and rest, as part of the infinite.
And as you grow, you bud, blossom, leaf and grow fruit. Your soul manifests, through continual death and creation, into this fruit. It is painful; you rail against this connection. This Mother. What was so wrong with being a bud? Or a blossom? Or a leaf? You rage at the Mother.
Yet you ripen and fall as part of the infinite.
The most painful moment. Most of you dies. You recede into the ground. Yet, you are still awake. Inside of you is life. So you wait. And you wait. And everything is cold. You are too naked, too tired, to rage.
And then it happens.
The Mother’s roots swaddle you once more. Her roots reach out as loving arms and feed you as when you were a bud. Every light and soul is with you. Your roots grow as hands to hold hers. You break the ground and feel the warmth kissing your forehead from the heavens. Yet it is painful.
Every branch and every root you grow is pain.
You grow as a volcano whose lava scorches and regrows the skin of the mountain. Your roots continue to reach infinite others, the Mother, and the fire of creation. Your branches are held by the heavens as a doting grandmother cupping your chin in her soft wrinkled hand.
It is only then you feel a deep shift.
Your blossoms and leaves bear fruit. The light of other souls comes into your light, under your vast canopy. To be fed by you and the infinite and blossom. You cradle them with your nourishment. You share the ebb and flow. The death and rebirth. The inhale and exhale. The seasons. Until they, too, fall.
Your creation is connected to theirs and to all. At last you understand.
Your gift from the Mother is love. Your gift to the world is love. You are always connected and loved.
