Etched In Stone
I am the Earth beneath my feet. I feel the thunder of my own footfall; the press and permanence of my own footprint. I rise, but not above the groaning of my own gravity. Though I rise, I also sink beneath the burden of my own uplift. I cannot rise wholly from the dust without savoring the salt of my earth; without being upheld by the heft I have left below. I am not here through the thrust of my own efforts. I now know: I need more than me to move my mountains.
I have risen some; risen enough to finally see the surface; to see that I am holy, but not wholly holy. What I bury beneath my rising elevations I cannot abandon for the sake of my enlightenment. I cannot fully fly without lifting it too. I cannot find my future without hearing the heaving heart of my history.
What has worn away reveals the harder relief of my recalcitrance. My bony prominences now have the harshness I once felt in my hate of my lowly limitations. My darker depths still harken to my fear of falling; Hate and fear, however deeply they are concealed, summon a dark host of hard consequences. They will rise to the surface at some time, to be seen; to be felt painfully under palm and foot; to echo back, as lofty cliffs to climb; as hollow pits to plumb. They are my pits, my porous prison walls. They pave my only path.
I am the earth beneath my feet. I have been born to rise. I have been bound to fall. I would be lost without the levity offered.
I have been asked nothing more than to bear both the beauty and the burden of my mighty being.