For the Remembering

From the Book of the Forgotten

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When the moon dressed like Saturn, she knelt and silently whispered to the ancestors of man, long forgotten secrets. The ancestors, having no mouth with which to speak, now spend eons stitching these truths into the marrow of humanity. Truths of the all that is, spanning volumes and volumes of all the world's lives, scratched upon tattered remnants of stars that long shed their skin and have since become our fragments within.

Always patient, ever still, the watchful trees quietly record all these happenings including the whispered truths as they unfold through the passage of time and lives. Holding everything inside, trusting that in death, their life will have meaning when the day should come that we remember how to read all the truths they have so lovingly swallowed.

Seeing this devotion, moved by both plant and animal yet belonging to neither, the mighty fungi fell in love with the tree's passion for humanity’s truth. Forsaking their wandering ways, vowing instead to help the trees spread these truths, threading them through generations upon generations of trees. Dissolving the illusion of death. Ensuring all truths, like souls are never lost, only waiting until mankind remembers and develops the eyes to see.

Water, too, drawn by the Moon’s hypnotic pull, stirred from stillness into shapeshifting energy. Feeling in this eternal dance, its interconnectedness to all things, and becoming a consciousness and keeper, holding now all of the world’s memories for eternity.

And the Earth…

She called upon the wind to carry it far and wide. Whispers entombed deep within the crypt of our DNA. Ancient truths held within the air we breathe. Our beautiful truth woven throughout the fabric of everything. And still, we are too blind to see. Too busy to care. Too full of self to remember.

We wander the world, ignoring the winds, forgetting the trees. Blinded with eyes that cannot see anything beyond the illusion of our death and needing. A poison of the soul so all-consuming.

“Time is a river that sweeps me along, but I am the river;
it is a tiger that devours me, but I am the tiger;
it is a fire that consumes me, but I am the fire.”

— Jorge Luis Borges

Athanatos awoke to find himself dying.

Not remembering what had happened before or from where he came.

Not knowing who he was.

Startled by this and filled with fear,

He draped himself in the loneliness that hung heavy where the stars once were,

And set out unto the world.

“We are not human beings having a spiritual experience;
we are spiritual beings having a human experience.”

 — Pierre Teilhard de Chardin

Thank you for reading and supporting my work. I aspire to inspire when sharing these parts of myself and my journey with you all, or as is the case with this piece — our shared journey of remembering.

©Tisha Dee✨ 2025