I was born a harp for the One Mind
Never have I wanted more – or less
From Iowa’s womb was I birthed
In rich black earth was I planted
to grow tall and strong
Soundbox, pillar, and harmonic cuve
carved, shaped and smoothed
by delicate and loving fingers
But my tuning pegs
were hammered at a forge
in a fire so hot
on an anvil so hard
they could have been weapons
My songs swirl sinuously
flutter like leaves in the breeze
and bite like blades
Eight fingers have I
and two thumbs
two perfect ears
a mouth for singing
feet for tapping
a gift for timing
eyes that see what
the world does not reveal
I am but a bud on a branch
of a tree that has more rings
than any human can count
and branches reaching in
every direction
known and unknown
It’s roots reach down and touch
the World before the Word
I am made of stuff
from the birth of stars
from stone and metal
from wood and wyrd
from thought and intention
from light and vibration
from a womb ever-birthing
from Cerridwyn’s cauldron
Nine cycles slept I
in Arianrhod’s Tower
Nine cycles more imprisoned
by dull masters
My feet on the road
fleet as shadows
Nine years yet before
my womb birthed a new Bard
Nine more years, and nine again
I was hammered and honed
at still another forge
until my feet
fleet as shadows
found the road I now travel
with the best companions
I could have imagined
I became myself then
and belonged to myself
complete, sovereign
Not of mother, nor of father
was i birthed this time
but of determination and will
Whole at last, though orphaned
I accepted the mantle left to me
Another birth, after a death
Darkest night, not even the moon
comforted me then
But as the sky paled
I returned to myself, and watched
as what I no longer needed
washed away, seeking the depths
where only the Mother waits
Now with imperfect grace I stand
at the mouth of a Cave of Wonders
I look into inky blackness and see
my uncertain future
I see what has been done to the Mother
and my heart screams for vengeance
My tuning pegs, that could have been
weapons, could still be
Inside me, generations of ancient Bards
fists raised in the air
implore me to use the power
that has been entrusted to me
I feel my strings vibrating
sympathetically
as words spill forth unbidden
as music becomes magic
My will rises like a sword
in harmony with my fire
This is why I was born
This is the way of all star stuff
Three hundred generations
of Bards stand with me
I am now a twig on this branch
My songs are their songs
We live and we die
We are born and reborn
We change everything
by becoming our truest selves
I was born a harp
and I became a Bard
What I shall become next
will change the World again
*In the style of many of the old Bards, this was written years ago as I began this journey of Freedom. Today, I celebrate 11 years free from a situation that could have broken me. Music = Magic, and don’t you forget it. I encourage you to write your own myth, your own legend, and embody it as fully as you can. Be true, aim high, breathe deep! You are made of star-stuff, too.