the woman was calling herself home, calling herself using her oldest name, not the one that her mother gave her, or her father, but the name that Life gave her, now almost forgotten, but still remembered by the dark recesses of her body, the pulsing centres of the mitochondria in each cell, fragments of memory that were planted with her long before she drew breath.
it was not a name that held the weight of her ancestors, but a name that was only ‘now, now, now’.
she called herself away from the boundaries of others and all their false-fitting lives.
she whistled and crooned and sang, and on some days, she wailed and keened, for she was learning that she was a keening body who had eaten stories that never really rooted themselves in her throat.
she waited at the water’s edge.
she waited at the kitchen table.
she waited whilst loading the washing machine.
she bent low when sharp-toothed, oily-skinned expectations were sent her way, expectations that would force her to abandon her search had she not sewn hidden pockets full of questions into her life.
she was owning her life, its shape, as it was now, as ungainly and unattractive as it might look to others, as close to the edge, knowing that her name could shape itself into any space, with enough patience.
and patience was something that was thrown into the womb with her.
she stood on the edge of a man-made life and waited for the small messengers to show themselves in the underbrush, the hedgerows, the words that climbed out of every page.
she told her eyes: ‘eyes, be opened!’ and her mouth: ‘mouth, be opened!’ and her ears: ‘ears, be opened!’ and her voice: ‘voice, be loosened!’.
and they were, and it was as if she had been heard and seen for the first time.
and it was her, seeing herself, what had not been there, what she had not been told, or rather, what she had been told to not listen to. and this made all the difference.
she waited and waited and waited, a crone, pregnant with everything that was always hers.
slowly she was being born into her own self, or also, unto her own self.
the terror and the peace of it all dwelling side-be-side, sharing cups of tea in her kitchen.
for a while everything had stopped. nothing found its way from her hands, nothing had been made, nothing was being stitched. nothing was being created, except for this birth, her birth.
and let me tell you this, a woman being birthed into her own hands is hungry work, all of her creative energy is needed for this process, and there is just enough energy for this, and for the living of breath to small breath, and for preparing a new home deep inside, and learning the language she was taken from.
people are always leaving one thing for another because they are hungry for answers.
all the soft-bodied mammals walking the skin of this earth are so much hungrier for answers than the four-footed mammals, and the frog, and the fish, and the whale, and the tree.
are they returning to the sound of their own name, though?
everything that has meaning only has that meaning because a living, breathing, soft, fallible body gave it thus and usually that body is shaped like a man.
the world is cocooned in questions and God’s fingerprints are everywhere, shrouded in mystery.
we know very few answers and only own a handful of certainties.
within a few years even these will shed their skin to the amazement of all who will watch what once was truth, shift into something else.
in finding her way home, the questions were as valuable as the answers.
peace tastes different to everyone.
© liezel graham 2025
liezel graham 
Liezel – a potently beautiful expression. It also reminds me of something I wrote on spring equinox I t hink of ’82…….
*SONG STORY *
We arrived at the “witch’s tree” at sundown, much later than we had
intended. There being a long treck through a thick forest to reach the
tree, we went instead to set up camp on higher ground, at the insistence of the practical dear souls who were with me. However, I had strong intent to spend this full moon night with the tree, and actually preferred to have some time with her alone, so I decided to make the treck alone through the woods. I waited till after my friends built a warm bonfire, and feasted, and did an animal dance under the moon, to warm my heart and my blood for the cold journey. My friends openned their bed rolls within the circle we had openned, expresing intent that the circle be stretched to encompass me on my trip. I set out falsely brave, rushing to avoid my terror, which soon caught up with me. The forest was untouched, primeval; beautiful and mysterious and potent by day, terrifying to my unexperienced and darkened eyes. There were webs and ferns and moss, all overgrown, little animals underfoot. Strange sounds. There was a path of sorts, if you knew how to follow it, but I didn’t… I kept panicking and rushing, falling and scraping my legs, once falling into the creek which was supposed to be running parallel to me, whose song was supposed to be my guide. I dropped my flashlight into the creek, and went fishing for it, getting myself all wet, in the frigidly cold night air, only to find the batteries had shorted out in the water. I had no spares, and my matches were also wet. I sat down and cried till I could hear my sisters drumming for me back at the camp. There was no light. The moon was full and the sky was clear, but the forest was THICK. I listened for the creek song, till I knew it, and then went back into the forest, for the way by the creek, or even in it (as I had inadvertantly attempted) was not safely passable. But she was guide. I found my way through the forest, listening for the waves beyond me (the tree stands upon a cliff 20 ft. above Lake Superior on the northshores of Minnesota), the drums behind me, and the creek by my side. I lost my way several times yet, and sat again in the flow of my tears till I could hear the creeksong from within me, and find her again…
As the waves sang more strongly I left the creek behind, and listened for
the tree, and gradually the moon became visible and showed me the way…
*This tree stands on this cliff of stone, as an unlighted candelabra… *
She is ancient, over 300 years old, and mysterious…
*She has no visible means of support, her roots are bare, open to the *
elements, wrapped around an old eroding stone…
She rocks on her perch, dancing in the wind, singing an ethereal hum – eerie from within the forest, beautiful at her side…
I went to her side and embraced her, dancing with her under the moon, and
*let my voice blend with hers. I felt strange metallic places in her skin; *
other visitors had embedded coins in her bark as some sort of twisted
homage. They hurt me. I cried with her, becoming one with her, dancing and singing and listening and learning, and crying and raging and resting with her and her friends, the wind, the stone, the waves, the moon, the stars, the forest, my sisters beyond… When the moon reached her fullest place above (and within) me, she seemed to rest a minute in the branches of this tree of my being, conceiving the memory of my first-given, God-given, eternal name within me… She then (the Moon) started to descend to the waves, and I enwrapped myself on an altar of stone beside my tree, listening and resting as a song began to form within me…
*The coming of the sun was foretold by a vibrant, palpable, shimmery, many-colored web touching and transforming everything. It started silvery and pastel, peaches and pinks and aquas, and grew more and more golden and bold, until at last the sun’s first rays appeared, as long fingers reaching up and entwining themselves in this rainbow veil, parting it as the sun’s face appeared… I rose out of my bundled wrappings as well, and greeted her, unveiled, with song: *
*UNVEILING….. *
*Full Moon Birthing *
*Ancient Mother, witch is divine, Your truth is mine…. *
*You have waited, dancing, 300 years The sun now appears…. *
*And so I dance in the sun as my work is begun…. *
*Singing Hallelujah to the sun…. Hallelujah, Hallelujah to the sun…. *
*Look at all the rainbows she has spun! Hallelujah to the sun…. *
*And so I dance in the sun as my work is begun…. *
*Singing Hallelujah to the moon…. Hallelujah, Hallelujah to the moon…. *
*She now dwells within my womb…. Hallelujah, Hallelujah to the moon! *
*{In years seven times three birthed shall she be, *
*Sun and Moon at one in earthy little me….} *
*And so I dance in the sun as my work is begun…. *
*Singing Hallelujh to the Earth…. Hallelujah, Hallelujah to the Earth…. *
*This is the dawn of her true worth! Hallelujah, Hallelujah to the Earth…. *
*This is the dawn of her re-birth…. And so I dance in the sun…….. *
*My song is now within me, its the Fyjuir in my soul, *
*I dance through the Earth now, for with Her I am whole; in Her, I am Home! *
*Sacred, as Herself, I am become. *
And so I dance in the sun as my work is begun…. Unveiled, unashamed, I am born!
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Sara, thank you for sharing this piece. I was especially moved by ‘…falsely brave…’ the phrase is redolent with meaning. x
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