Nectar is the sweetness that strengthens the bond at the intersections of desire, passion and sensuality.
It is the stoking of fire without the need for boxing in the experience of connection.
It is the catalyst of courage that binds the tethering to spirit through the act of surrendering.
Giving in to the delicious un-taming of the creature within her bones.
It is the juicy singing, intoxicating energy of and through the earth,
of and through this body,
of and through this soul,
a journey to the centre.
It moves and it crawls from her chest, slips down her arms and out her fingertips.
It moves beyond —searching, following, trusting.
Trusting that it will find itself there, and it does.
When she opens, she is found.
She is known.
When she claims the daylight, she is honoured.
She gracefully mimics the Finch dancing and swirling through the branches of perception,
swaying playfully as the drops of rain run down her face like gifts from leaves
Their pain a rolling wish for her freedom.
With the bear's tooth she tears with intention.
She is the watcher over
She is the nectars ripening.
She shreds the veil between animal and human.
She invites her in to feast and rest before launching her brutally into the wilderness to learn.
to know fear, to know love,
to gather, to create, to hunt.
To devour what what was always meant for her.
The frost of the winter creature melts as she leans into the firs of her mother.
The ancient fury of agony, leathered skin and scars slow and they soften.
The drumming matches the marching in her chest.
It matches the depth of her grief with the insatiable harmony of home in her centre,
Its sticky trails offer the ability to notice
Notice the ways that the swirls of the nectars garden reflect the swirls of the hills and rivers of this land.
How they echo the swirls of roots, down, out and through all that we know
at its centre it is rich- each sense perfectly attuned and satisfied - yet entirely irrelevant
at the centre she is supple and strange.
In her centre, she is delicately consumed by a hand that guides her down a slide beyond the belly of her madness
It is the stillness of its centre that allows the nectar to fill her lungs as the madness sings with great reception.
MAEVE CANNING
