Rootstock Journey

There are blankets of snow, tornadoes of wind clothed in ice crystals, and drifts covering the lakes, mountains, and trees. Their bare limbs reach toward the heavens, bowing and supplicating. I enter the country of the North.

I am greeted by Moose, the shapeshifter, who disappears into the cold mist of the ether only to reappear on the horizon, where the gray mist meets the soft expanses of snowy earth. He stands silently by a massive tree, its boughs so wide they seem to embrace the entire planet—with me at its center. I am welcomed and transported into the warmth of Fire.

We are in a circle. There is light and shadow, prayers and incantations, intentions and affirmations. Brilliant pops of citrus, spice, and herb-scented warm tea enliven the senses and nourish bones, body, and breath. We have all arrived in a sacred space. We share, and then we sleep.

We awake and receive nourishment from the earth, in all its bountiful color and glory: greens and seeds, grains and nuts, cacao, honey, and maple syrup. Moose shapeshifts again, guiding us to another sacred space—this time vast and filled with air, crowned by a window to the cosmos at its apex. Here, we settle, cocooned yet spacious, wide open to Everything. From the white-gray brilliance, Moose tenderly delivers me into the warm, still being of Bear, sleeping in the shadow of Winter. Bear, still slumbering, embraces me, and I gestate within her womb.

I am on a magic carpet ride with my mother. We move through difficult circumstances, yet we are okay. We observe, we witness—but we are just passing through. We hold these memories with fondness and love. We did not always know this. I sit with my father. A man of few words, an introvert, yet his intentions were always for the greater good—for better or for worse. I am young, too young to fully understand his intelligence. He adored my mother and did his best with others. After his death, he told me: You broke the mold with the women in our family ancestry.

I am content for a long while, or so it seems, and then there is a churning. Perhaps the East is anxious to arrive. I emerge from the deep memory-holding place into soft light and possibility. There is also Story. I am energized by the air, the scents of wind and damp earth, the trill of birds, buds arising growth, a glimmer, and anticipation of everything. And then, the other side of the story emerges. The more recent memories—the ones that bring anger, judgment, guilt, and shame. What do I let go of? What do I hold within my own agency? What do I integrate?

The good news: I don’t have to do it all at once. The bad news: I want it all right now! And now, within this story, Air has picked up forcefully—slamming, pounding with a vengeance, howling against the walls, breathing its way inside. It moves through the space like a chaotic symphony, each gust shifting the music inside. And suddenly, I am dancing with Coyote. It is intense, divisive, I don’t like it. It is Armageddon. How do I escape? How will I be saved? I pass through.

I sit up, gaze about, and ask: Is it ever going to get dark? I seem to have skipped South, heading West. I look up to the apex of our space and see the moon. I am in love with the moon. She is my miracle, my mystery. She is the giver of my shadow and my light. I receive her with inexplicable reverence, through the crown of my head.

I feel my feet. I draw energy upward from the Earth’s core—hot and passionate. It moves through the soles of my feet, through the hollowness of my legs, to my root, pelvis, solar plexus—where a radiant, bright light pulses with blood energy. It rises to my heart, where it connects with the cooling white light of the Moon. They merge at the very center of my Being.

And for the Time-Being, I am Home.