Song of Belonging

And you would savor the slow rise of lifting your head to see the moon shining above you. There was pure delight in opening your eyes slowly. All around you was the night dance. Yes. All you could feel was YES.
— Tish Linstrom

by Tish Linstrom

The open meadow behind your house, in the days before the next neighborhood came, was your sacred land. You ran there every chance you had, hid in the oak, played, danced, napped. Listened. You were told the bigger story. And whether you were in the trees or in the manicured lawns of suburbia, you were with your belonging. 

On those luscious summer nights, you stayed out as late as you possibly could, ducking from the sight of your parents, hoping they might forget you were outside and you could linger, revel a little longer. At a certain point it would be time for the sweet, sweet bliss—laying down on the damp cool grass—bare arms outstretched and palms wide open. 

You laid on the ground, the summer night breeze whispering through your hair, carrying the teachings of your sultry, sensual nature. Your lower back sunk perfectly into the very spot you chose, as you always knew she would make space just for you. You knew you fit perfectly to her.

And you would savor the slow rise of lifting your head to see the moon shining above you. There was pure delight in opening your eyes slowly. All around you was the night dance. Yes. All you could feel was YES.

The fireflies danced their dance, never wondering if it was right or if their shine was too much. And you? You were beaming right back to Grandmother Moon. Beaming with your aliveness, of knowing you were sacred. Knowing you were full absolute beauty. Knowing you were of all that surrounded, held you. Knowing not in a conscious way, a bone deep knowing way. It was

You laid not on ground, you laid on her. On the Mother—you didn’t call her mother, but you knew she was. She was what was holding you, she was the force of all that surrounded you. You belonged to her. And you received her holding. You didn’t wonder if you were worthy, taking up too much space or too heavy, too much. 

You belonged to her. And you received her holding. You didn’t wonder if you were worthy, taking up too much space or too heavy, too much.

You looked deep into the night sky—seeing beyond the stars, seeing into the darkness, those depths that you trusted, that ignited a spark deep in your belly, and made you tingle all over your body knowing you too had those depths. 

And you looked right to the Moon. To her glow. And when you looked at her, you giggled. You giggled in response to the intimacy you felt—the embrace of mystery, the intimacy between you and all of time. You remembered. And you knew you remembered. 

You stared at the sky as he held the moon and you could feel the dance. You could hear the song of belonging. You could feel it--in your bones. You could feel the fierce whispers, You are beauty. You are whole. You are magnificent. You are a gift of/to this world. You are love. You are loved. You are of us. 

Held. Seen. Heard. 

And you knew your unique song, your dance was vital to the great song. You felt the tingle all over your body knowing you were sacred. Knowing you were alive. Knowing you belonged. Knowing you mattered. Knowing you were forever of the great web. Knowing you were of mystery and earth. Knowing you were of rock and water. Knowing you were of a world so much deeper and wider than the seen—the unseen and eternal. 

You knew the ancestors were with you, they spoke to you. You knew the dandelion was powerful medicine, she spoke to you. You knew the story of the unseen because you listened. It was all speaking, revealing and telling the bigger story.

All of this was your knowing. Your way. Your truth. 

When you see the dandelion rising, you remember. When you see the sun setting and you feel the tears well up, you are holding what you heard. Knew. Take your moment hand to heart, hand to belly and breathe in. 

Because somewhere in you—is a deep hunger to remember. You still know. The song of belonging never left you. You are beauty. You are whole. You are magnificent. You are a gift of/to this world. You are love. You are loved. You are of us. 

You are Sacred. You are Sacred. Dance beauty woman. Dance. 


About Tish

Way Maker. Way Keeper. Fierce Lover of the Whole Woman.

Tish Linstrom founder of EssenzaRoots, her business serving women and mama’s to reclaim sacred roots and rhythms. Wild Soul Nourishment. I have had the immense privilege of gathering the stories and wisdom of women for over 20 years and I heard clearly, from my story to your story, our hunger to remember. And so it is. And so we do. And so we will. www.essenzaroots.com