Share Our Wisdom

Share Our Wisdom

By Honey May Conroy

She tried to decipher crickets from croaks

as she wandered barefoot down the road.

The destination was unclear,

yet she was more sure than she had ever been

of the direction she was going.

A pull as strong as the very magnetism of the earth was calling her.

She was following a thread,

and her steps became less and less unsure as she walked.

She struck a rhythm in her footsteps

that matched the drums that called her.

The worry of:

“But what will I do when I get there?”

stripped away—

its eradication fueled by need.

The desperate need to see what is deeper.

She approaches—

and they come into view:

Women.

All of them from the same mother.

All of them from different millennia.

The presence isn’t sorrow.

It isn’t fear.

It isn’t vengeance.

It’s strong knowing.

The air is heavy at this pond,

this lake.

It’s misty.

A heavy fog holds the spaces

where cosmos meet dirt,

where heaven’s wonders meet hell’s realities,

where past and present defy time and space

to meet and create another—

another knower,

another messenger.

Chants and yells move her forward.

Her feet are no longer necessary.

She flies—without wings.

She closes her eyes

to find she no longer needs them to see.

Her lungs fill

without needing to breathe.

She rises above the mist.

Above the celestials.

The priestesses.

The women with feet rooted to the ground.

Invisible tethers stop her

from disappearing into the stars

from where she came.

Their chants stop—

become soft whispers of encouragement.

A burning,

humming vibration

begins in her feet

and rises, white hot,

until it escapes her throat.

She screams.

Screeches

at the top of her lungs.

The non-words that come out

are holy truth.

She—in tattered, burned, ruined garb—

tethered to the earth

above this body of water—

screams:

Truth.

Wisdom.

Answers to ancient questions.

It’s a call—

and then

nothing.

She waits.

Her call echoes

as far as east stretches

until it turns to west.

As deep

as the dark depths

of ocean trenches go.

Stillness.

And silence.

And—

waiting for the stampede.