Forty-Three

I was in a canoe, bundled up like a mummy. The Siberian man was rowing, we were going down a fast and narrow river. Then we were gulped by a cascade. As we were falling in slow motion, I could see people standing at the edge, watching us. I fell out of the boat, into the water. Suddenly, we were on the bench of the river, at dusk.

And the Siberian said:

“Divination is a bodily practice”

I looked at him, waiting for more.

“Why do you think the religions of the book were so against it? Because there’s no other way than through the body. And they all want to separate the “spirit” from “matter”. But there is no such thing as a body and there is no such thing as a soul. You know the body-soul that divines, the subtle body, the golden thread we are all made of, that we all weave and are woven from. Feel it now.”

And I was the wind that touched my skin. And the soil I was standing on. And the grass growing towards the rising Moon. And I was the Moon. And the Siberian man. And I was myself.

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