Hermes — in Teaching is Giving, Receiving

what thought has moved through — is given to divinely — this water of life, lived in a vessel

the shape held once in it — moved, compelled

by the swaying of a full cup that empties and is refilled

Awareness is also empty

the process is a series of actions that take one through The Door — across

the barrier of now; to then, behind you

forward, to what you look towards, and hope to journey forth to

what is the body but a porous thing, a collection of lines and curves that hold the spirit,

allow the ego to grow and take, that, the shape of the vessel

my ether comes to, expands to, inhabits a space, what is learned is lived,

etch it upon the bones that support the body, provide the frame

for the self to be structured

breath that fills lungs is time taken

to inhale

is to gather currency to hold, then give willingly

with open hands, exhaling a song

from a bird on a branch

that knows you are there below it but is unafraid

This poem came to me after teaching a creative writing class earlier this year. I’ve been contemplating what communication is for the better part of my adult life, and in the past couple of years have found solace in the company of Hermes, the great god of messages, barriers, and their crossing. And teaching has become a part of my devotional practice to the archetype of the communicator.

What better way to honor words, meaning, intention, and manifestation, than through writing and teaching it to others? Allowing them as individuals to understand the magick right they inherently have as human beings — as raw awareness witnessing existence happening to them — is freedom. Empowering the single self to tap into the cosmic collective consciousness, receive a message in thought, feel it through the heart, and actuate it through the body; making the ethereal into physical reality through action. Whoever can write down the words that appear in their minds have the ability to make those thoughts tangible.

With winged feet, I walk. And with the patience of a tortoise, I sit. I let the words come through me from the top of my crown, through the center of the vessel I inhabit, down through my roots, circling back up my spine, and out through my mouth. Breathing through, moving through — between barriers, this porous thing. Making sounds, vowels, and consonants into meaning. Let the message go through me. Let this body speak it out. Let these hands write it in ink, upon paper.