The nest today reminds me of a container, a bowl from which I’m fed as well as the container that is the body, this flesh nest into which soul drops for a day in time's span.
The angel still stands her hands together in prayer. Her hands are such a contrast juxtaposed to the bowl's openness. Closed hands beseech. Open hands receive. Who invented palms closed in prayer? Isn’t it more fitting they be open to receive?
Open is certainly more vulnerable. What happens when into my bowl nothing comes, when my bowl isn't filled? People all around the world know this. Empty bowls, empty bellies. Death.
What happens when into my bowl lands sorrow and grief? People around the world experience this. Pained bowls in our world often become drugged souls leading too to death.
I use to want to shove my bowl away until I realized this bowl within is fed not just by food but by feel. My soul’s bowl is filled by feeling all that comes its way.
Yet still there are days, I walk around absent, not unlike the drugged, disconnected within.
What is trying to be born in this nest of Me?
Beneath the angel’s praying hands, still sits the nest on Earth, the precious global nest we've been given, this gem of bounty onto which souls tumble to be tumbled.Empty and open I want to accept the tumbling, yet when my bowl’s pain 
becomes too much, my own hands beseech. I cling to the rough edges I know, as polishing I resist, forgetting in coming here we make a pact with loss and bliss.
How the tumbling intensified ten years ago as our collective bowl was filled. Into the nest of our innocence arrived sorrow, anger and fear. I question how it is that I write innocence when from our country’s collective nest we have visited war on other countries and on one another in the civil war which was anything but civil? How is it we felt so innocent when our kin killed Natives by the thousands not that long ago here on this same land? Yet the events that day shattered part of the collective perspective that harm of this magnitude could not come to our nest.
Hands clasped in prayer while others turned to fists. Grasping for power and to make our point, soon we went to war for getting revenge, forgetting the power in vulnerability, forgetting the power of opened hands.
Ten years have passed and our nest has been stretched in more ways than we would have previously conceived. Maybe the angels clasp their hands in prayer hoping we’ll still get it and open to receive.
What is trying to be born in this nest of We?
-Dawn, The Good News Muse at Imagine the Shift, 12 September 2011
dawn@imaginetheshift.com
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