Under the Sycamore Tree

By the river, a huge old Sycamore tree with roots as big around as my waste and lots of nooks and crannies.  And a hollow in the center as big as a room.  It’s a way through, from this world to that.  I climb under and go inside the tree and begin my descent.  Twists and turns, ducking my head as I move through a dark, moist tunnel surrounded by the veins of trees.  They vibrate — no, shimmer is a better word — as they pull earth blood up, up, up.

It is dark, but I can see just fine.  This is where seeds are birthed.  I smell the mycelium. My feet sink into the rich loam below.  My hand traces a path along the rough vasculature of the giant roots as I pass.  I see a light ahead and know that I am about to enter that world below.

I emerge into a sparkling, colorful night time landscape. Starry night.  It is so beautiful with twinkles and streaks of neon colors.  And then, just over the hill, I am in a bright oz land with golden rainbows and grass that sparkles.  I can fly up and over the rainbows. No, actually I’m running and flying at the same time, up and over, and up again, over the colorful rainbows.

I hear in my  head that it’s my job to always wear rose colored glasses so I can see all the beautiful colors.  So I can find the colors and sparkles even in the darkest of landscapes.

Then I am under a mushroom that is as big as a house.  I’m looking up at it in wonder at the size, and also at the pointy hat on it’s top. The button top forms a point.  Then I am on top of the mushroom rolling around, feeling its smooth texture, going round and round all over its surface.  I get to the edge and peak over the smooth, rounded lip and see the folds underneath.  I climb up into the underside and am christened with living spores that vibrate and sparkle and shower me with love.  And I tap on the membranes and feel them vibrate like a drum.

Then I am swirling around the stem.  I feel rough, raised patches, like circles of eczema.  I keep swirling, faster and faster until I am dizzy with ecstasy.  It’s an almost sexual experience.  Almost. Certainly just as intimate.  I am “knowing” this mushroom.

And then I am at the base of the stem. It is rounded right at the edge of the earth. I lay myself flat against the roundness and peak down into the ground.  I see the mycelium mat and I follow it with my eyes to where it connects to a giant cedar tree, to its roots.  And the tree grows up so tall I can not see the top.

I look carefully at the intertwined sinews of its trunk.I feel the rough texture and shaggy, peeling outer bark.  I think of Christmas trees.  Cleansing smudge.  A bonfire to send prayers to the Great Spirit.  Ringing Cedars.

An energetic connection between heaven and earth. I am fascinated by the connection of this tree to the giant mushroom.

And then I want to go back to the mushroom and “know” it some more.  I am back to laying myself all across its surface, feeling and looking at every part of its surface.

I realize the mushroom is a coupling of male and female.  The strong upright stem inserting itself firmly into the folds of a button vulva.  It is so beautiful and I want to just keep looking at it, swirling around and over it.  My fascination is something I can almost taste, a deep craving to “know” this mushroom.

I suddenly remember I didn’t ask the mushroom or the cedar their names.  I ask if these are my spirit guides?  I ask them if I can know their names, but I don’t get an answer.  Perhaps they are simply called “Mushroom” and “Cedar.”