Although I have in the past been an avid member of various Christian denominations, I have always viewed the world differently from those around me. Attempts to explain or describe this view have traditionally proven futile and would elicit responses ranging from curiosity to open disdain. This is perhaps due to a lack of common ground.
It was only relatively recently that I stumbled upon a word that more or less describes my way of seeing the world—Animism. If you look this word up in the OED, you’ll find three distinct definitions, all of which can apply to my way of seeing the world. Basically, the animist sees the material world as manifest and inseparable from a spirit world. This statement is crude, at best. The dictionary definitions are themselves inadequate, but they at least point in the right direction.
Either way, animism is a substrate, not a religion. It is a basic way of seeing things, not a way of living, and certainly not a doctrine. The English word “spirit” derives from the Latin “spiritus”, which translates as “breath”. So, my 21st hybridanelle.
Song of the Animist
The rocks are breathing. Rivers also breathe,
clear up the canyons to the glaciered peaks,
caressed on either side by whispering leaves.
From molten ores to flashing thunderheads
to fields of glowing gasses joined with dust,
all the universe is fused with breath.
From lakeside pebbles ground through centuries
to mesas looming black against the dusk,
the rocks are breathing. Rivers also breathe,
inhaling rains into their liquid lungs,
exhaling mists that turn within the light
to fields of glowing gasses joined with dust.
The sands are breathing. Branches also breathe
amid the play of feathers claws and beaks,
caressed on either side by whispering leaves
that tremble twist and sway against the sky
like dancers twirling over sheets of ice,
exhaling mists that turn within the light.
Jutting from the depths of plains and seas,
or crumbling to the steady boom of breakers,
the rocks are breathing. Rivers also breathe
in moonlit meditation through the night,
slight reflections wimpling in the dark
like dancers twirling over sheets of ice.
Our dreams are breathing. Stillness also breathes
in quiet contemplation like an oak
caressed on either side by whispering leaves
as moments dissipate beyond the stars
to visions shining from the distant past,
slight reflections wimpling in the dark.
Throughout the crust where granite forces seethe
and drips of water ripple cavern lakes,
the rocks are breathing. Rivers also breathe,
caressed on either side by whispering leaves
across the living contours of the land.
From molten ores to flashing thunderheads
to visions shining from the distant past,
all the universe is fused with breath.
