SPIRIT of the WELL
by Roslyne Sophia Breillat
The world has forgotten Her, forgotten who She is…
She is a circle, an orb spiralling through space. She is the earth, the stars, the sky. She is strong, she is soft, she is wild. She is unity. She is wholeness. She brings together, she contains, she draws in. She nurtures and she gives. She forgives. She is the receptacle of stillness within the flow of her rhythmic cycles.
Everything of her is curved and round ~ her breasts, her yoni, her belly, her womb. Her rounded thighs enfold her lovers and her rounded nipples give life to her babies. Her temples are round, her fruits and flowers are round, her eggs and seeds are round. She holds the vastness of the universe and the consciousness of the earth within her being.
Her traditional wells are an offering, a call, a circular invitation for her sisters to gather, sing, laugh, wash, tell stories, drink of her pure dancing waters. She is the rotundity and the depth of the well. She is the clarity and the sustenance of the well. She is the well of wisdom.
And yet, she no longer knows who she is for the world has veiled her with layers of forgetfulness, layers of bitumen, concrete, tar and steel. The waters of her ancient wells are stagnant and polluted, barren, empty, dry. They no longer sparkle crystal clear in the sunlight. They no longer sustain generations of families with their essential nourishment and their power to heal.
Her communal village well is now a laundromat, throbbing with electronic music instead of echoing with birdsong. Her household taps flow freely with chemical cocktails instead of life giving elixir. Her dancing breezes are filled with the alien scent of toxic washing powders instead of the welcoming fragrance of glorious flowers. The spirit of her communal washing place has become stifled, has become a place without soul. Her village well is now thousands of washing machines piled upon each other in high rise buildings. They reach to the sky instead of from the earth.
The cool encircling stones of her well have become straight rows of plastic tiles. She hangs her family’s washing in isolation, with plastic clothes pegs from plastic baskets. And this washing flutters in a breeze bearing pollutant seeds of ignorance. And she wonders why she can’t sleep at night. And she wonders why she no longer sings. And she wonders why her heart aches for the power of her wisdom and the depth of her well.
Nobody listens to her stories any more. Who will listen now? Her children have long since gone.They chase an intellectual dream of virtual reality within an electronic wilderness. They no longer play around her well, eager for her sustenance. They no longer know innocence and simplicity. Her traditional communal well is a place of bonding, of sisterhood, of true sharing, of coming together. She is the abyss of this fathomless well. She is its profundity. She is the refreshment of its purifying drink and she is the power of its renewal. She is the cascade of the underground springs that fill her well from the ground.
She is the dance of the raindrops that fill her well from the heavens. And she is the earth that supports her well. She is the rich earth that pours forth her nurturing waters. And she cries for her sisters carrying buckets of polluted water across parched land to their dying babies. And the winds blow clouds of chemical dust across deserts that were once her verdant forests. And she longs for the words of the wise ones, for the nourishment of their stories, for the joy of her children’s songs.
She dreams of gathering around the warming glow of the hearth, around the cooling shade of the well. She yearns to sing songs of praise and gratitude with her kin. When she lowers her bucket into the vast darkness of her inner well she too often finds it empty, stripped of the fulfilment of simple beingness, barefoot upon the earth and free to be who she is. And she looks outside for what lies within. She seeks afar for what is so near and dear. She chases the world’s illusions for she does not know who she is. She does not know her own truth, her own reality.
She is the encircling stones of the well and the circle of sisters gathering around its fullness. She is the mother suckling her child and the elder imparting her wisdom. She is the song of the heart and the heart of the song. The stones of the well tell her ancient stories, cradling the fire of her passion within their coolness, the truth of her words within their moisture. They contain the spiralling circle of her knowing, the pure glory of her belonging to the earth.
She is the well of plenty and all that pours forth from its depth. She is the well of abundant offerings. Hers are not the parched stones of abandonment. Hers are the powerful stones of support, of sustenance, of enfoldment, of rebirth.
She is the powerful song of the earth. She is the powerful song of love.
© ~ Roslyne Sophia Breillat
(Not to be reproduced without author’s permission)
www.wildheartwisdom.com - Roslyne Sophia Breillat -
Within the womb of every woman glows the consciousness of Mother Earth. Wildheartwisdom is a web site for nurturing the truth of this powerful feminine spirit and offers support for the female psyche’s many cyclic transformations. Wildheartwisdom focuses upon the deeper joy and purpose of menstruation, lovemaking, pregnancy, childbirth, mothering, relationships, menopause and beyond. Find spiritual guidance for healing from eating disorders, sexual abuse, miscarriage and abortion. There are currently three galleries featuring Sophia’s art and a selection of her article excerpts. As wildheartwisdom evolves more art and articles will be added as well as an extensive resource section. Sophia’s beautiful art and illustrations are for sale and she is currently seeking a publisher for her two books.
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