2:30 in the desert – tucked in between the witching hour and the dawn, while the fairies are still making magic and leaving stardust on the wind, we awoke. And so did the sliver of the moon, red and weary, but rising to conduct her motherly duty. Crossing the Milky Way, she was tired for us, as we danced our morning rituals in the warm desert breezes, sagebrush scraping our knees.
The wise people talk about the sacredness of the early morning hours, as a time when god draws closer, or the veil becomes thinner, or perhaps we are simply delirious and can no longer distinguish the voices in our own minds, and the echo sounds like god. But this morning I felt it, surrounded by the desert dwellers and the sacredness of pre-dawn prayer in a language I don't speak, from mouths of strangers on the same path. In line to receive the same download.
We practiced. Chanted. Napped. God whispered tangled messages into my sleeping ears – something about someone in San Francisco needing my help. Whale songs. Mysteries of the universe from a future time, yet to hatch. Seedlings and solutions, and somehow it all mixed and melted into the deepest sleep I've had, snuggled in on concrete with 2000 magic makers in turbans.
Singing the same song.
Hoping the god we pray to is real – hoping she hears us over the mele in our own minds, the sandstorm down south, the thunder, the fire that crackles and gives birth to ash and smoke. Whose essence is the same truth that we once were, before we forgot that we are perfect.