There are creatures the size of mountains swimming beneath the ice.
There are babies laughing at things you can’t see.
That quiet old woman there, sitting in the corner:
she has seen some shit, man.
The lushest plants have their roots in shit,
and the lushest people, too.
They do not rise above the shit,
their roots dangling like car wash tentacles as they levitate in the air.
They sink into it.
They build their foundation in it.
They do not transcend,
And they grow.
They grow above the shit.
They grow into the shit.
They grow of the shit.
You are not a snipped and dying daisy in a vase,
all manifestation and no manure,
all show and no shit.
You are alive, and your roots go deep.
You will spread your seed. You will join in life’s dance.
Your roots are just as beautiful as your flowers.
Your scars are just as sacred as your smile.
Below and above the horrible hands of the abusers,
below and above the parents with sharp fangs,
below and above the mirror faced manipulators,
below and above the rapefinger dog men,
your roots and your branches grow.
Inseparable from the shit.
And in no way limited by it.
The old woman looks up.
She gazes at you,
and she sees your roots.
And she loves you.
And she smiles.
Caitlin Johnstone writes about the end of illusions.