We men sat in the forrest.

The fire was lit and the darkness had come. Sitting alone, each with themself. Feeling the earth, listening to her, letting ourselves be breathed by life. I crawled on all fours - wanting to be closer to this mother - clawing my fingers into her soft belly - leaves giving way to earth - the pungency of the forrest floor in my nostrils.

I called to weraroa - the native psyliopsybe. Somehow calling this word felt right and a feeling that I might stumble across them this early winter. In the forrest, we all let go our masks. There is no pretending to the river, no bettering ourselves - no marketing plan to launch anything - there is quiet, full acceptance of me as I am.

We were in open country.

The wild, wide eyes of our animals looking out - through to eternity in all directions endlessly. Caught in the timeless gaze - fire in our eyes and a recognition in our bodies that we are all suffering in small and not so small ways - we are all waking up to our child, to our wild and longing for this mystery to manifest itself more and more in our everyday lives.

The forrest ministers to me - to all the parts that cannot be soothed by the machine of culture - that cannot prove my worth or greatness. The grace and flow of her arising and her dying all complete themselves with and without us. I am glad we are with her, and I get a sense that she is happy too.