The morning after the campfire

 

The fire pit is empty

the burnt and blackened logs of the night before

resting

Until another arrives

to ignite and fan the flame

The songs sung and the yarns spun

hang around

like a wisp in the air

like webs carefully woven

and added to an intricate pattern of weaving 

that continues

long after the story makers leave

The birds and trees and fungi

gather them up

and let them settle

deep in the earth and wind and fire and water

A return to the elements

held lightly

cherished and nurtured

until another soul encounters the wisdom stored 

in a place reserved for listening 

for recovering the ground beneath our feet

and for sharing in the healing of the earth

Non binary

I cry myself

Portfolio Priest

And, as I live with this

self proclaimed handle,

I realise

it comes from all those years

I was told

You have to choose

You have to be one thing 

or the other 

Those years when my vocation

was questioned

by a patriarchy

that knew not how

to re-imagine priesthood

A patriarchy that sought to weed out

and punish by exclusion 

all who were different

And I know now

as I knew then

My vocation is non binary

not this or that

but a kaleidoscope of bits and pieces

of many shapes and hues

tumbling together

And I recognise

my privilege

that allows me to claim my identity

An identity that embraces the possibility

of more than one thing being true

at the same time

and to call it fabulous