The kiva, moist and dark in the high desert of the Colorado plateau, drips with its own kind of earth-meets-human musk. Belying thousands of years of ceremony, rhythms of use and disuse, repair and disrepair, death to one generation, and birth again to another, the ritual space sits temperate and even-toned, stoic and impassive. Even after the sun had set over the peaks and troughs of Sleeping Ute mountain and the first stars made themselves available through the little square hole overhead, the kiva, and its atmosphere of ancient didn’t so much as gesture its compliance. The ear of the earth and the great womb of the ancients need participate little in the affairs of the above and the cycles of night and day. It simply watched and waited and held and hungered. Fulfilling a promise that had begun long before the Pueblo people of old awoke with the dream to shape the walls and feed the mouth of the Mysteries.

Outside, and during the day, evidence of the seasons’ coming grandeur lights the tree tips with round, soft puffs of green and pink YES buds; near to brimming but yet gathered close and tight; milking the moments pleasure - testing just how much they can hold and feel in the waiting and the anticipation of desperate release. The cacti, letting down their defenses, bloom defiantly! Red and yellow and purple, open-mouthed and inviting, they court unscrupulously. Look at me! Come into me! SMELL me! 

Swooning hummingbirds buzz about drunk and giddy. The last to deny a good flowering. 

Around the corner in a wash luxuriates a red sand snake, unfurled and seductive, tasting her way with her tender tongue, belly to the earth. She defies her his-torians in the great magnum opus that is her very body. Slithering the persecuted sahaja dance of arousal and sultry magnetism. “Come close. Feel your way. Touch the earth as you would your lover,” she says.

Thusly uncooperative she basks in full light, muscles rippling, warming her blood. Strangely unperturbed by the trouble that has befallen her kind. Violated, bloodied, scorned and murdered, exiled, jailed, quieted and slandered countless times out of time from Lilith and Magdalene, to Monica Lewinsky. Mobs of stone-throwers toss hot potato the leaky fear born of the never-quite-extinguished, insidious anguish of repressed desire. “NOT IT!” They scream, panicked. “I’m not that…not ME!”

A raven swoops low overhead. The snake’s tongue flicks in and out. The lost art of seduction phallic-shaped and wholly sinuous sits in the sun, winking something reptilian and dangerous. Stewarding life’s most holy essence; carried on the yessssssssssessssss of carefully contained alchemical cocktails meted out through the long and curled fangs of a well-timed strike. Her love makes the shape of belonging to her slick, shiny and shedding skin - eons and eons of belonging! And so in the midst of protest, at the arrogant outset of spring, she persists, without a trace of exhaustion, in the YES.

The little paintbrush by the rock wall beckons with stories of his long and impossible dreaming dripping like nectar down his tender stalk to wet the earth. Flower tears catch the sun’s magnificent rays forming golden jewel drop accoutremonts a la Aphrodite. This is her domain. The resounding “yes… yes… YES!” that echoes in every creative act, every authentic expression, every blooming made free to bloom, every blinking doe-eyed babe, every hip sway and sashay, every delicious conversation, every last bit of life, slippery and wet, shining, and dancing of its own accord, in ripples and waves on resonant and regular earth-meets-ocean God/Goddess moans.

And down in the Kiva it is dark, and still, and hungry to be fed by life made full, and holy, and well-lived above. Gaping mouth-yoni poised to catch and lick and savor the fallen buds, and the shed snake skin like thin honeycomb, and the crushed cacti petals, and the sticky tired and spilled jewel drops, and the uninhibited pleasure dance, and the rocking, unbounded coitus, and the slithering, shocking, subversive beauty of YES, and all other detritus of last nights steamy soiree, and the day before, and the night before that, and the day before that; ready to suckle on the juices that glisten on the blooms, and drink of their no-shame ways so that the earth can flower again. Wildly.