finding the quilled cave goddess

This photo really doesn’t do this mountain justice, but I wanted to share it as an invitation to make like a mountain and lie down on the land, let your head sink just as hers does, nose nestled into the evergreens, and settle in for a small story.

I’ve come to call this mountain “the great woman”, a name my 4 year old coined when I showed him the hip, the fleshy arm, the sinking head. Do you see it?Most people call this place Mt. Toby, and although I’ve looked and looked for an older name, one that encompasses more of it’s majesty, I haven’t found one yet. I circle this mountain daily, enamored by how much quiet attention it - or she, or they - demands. In the picture, over on the right, half way down from the hip line, there’s a cave. It’s technically a dark cavern created by two huge slabs of rock that fell together after a glacier slid away, but to me it feels very much like a place where bones meet, the birthing bones of a resting woman.

There was someone else in the cave yesterday.  I sensed a strong presence, and swung the headlamp around.  The dark seemed to devour the light, but I decided there was no bear; perhaps it was the closeness of the wet bone-like rock making it’s presence known.  I stepped deeper into the dark, willing away all the younger versions of myself that would certainly be afraid. I scanned again with my small light and found what my senses had detected.  There in the corner, tucked up as far into the crevice as she could get, was a beautiful, big porcupine.  Don’t ask me how I knew her gender, I just did. Her body faced the wall, but her little soft face turned around to take me in with her eyes.  It was so dark, and yet we could see each other clearly.  With such a formidable defense as a body full of quills, it’s curious how safe I felt.  But knowing she knew how to take care of herself, I knew I didn’t need to be overly cautious or accommodating.  Talk about some protective chi, there’s no need for inflammation here, in body or speech, a porcupine knows they are safe.  What if we humans knew, deep down, that we are safe? How might our reactions soften towards all we encounter? Turning the flashlight off, I sat down on the damp rock and listened as we breathed together. She began a little cooing song, which I added my own soft hum to. The scent of old rock, bathed for millions of years in darkness competed with the smell of earth, full and bright in my nose.  The sound was wholly consumed by the layers of rock. I wondered that there was no shrine here, no homage to some goddess or another, but then turned my attention back to the shared song happening deep inside the mountain, right then.

I remembered that the ones who say the least are often the ones who have the most wisdom to share. This porcupine didn’t let off her stinky protective scent, or quiver her teeth as me.  Instead, the look on her little face seemed to me a look of longing, of uncertainty about what’s to come, and a deep soft grief.  I wanted to protect her, but then remembered how brilliantly protected she already is. She found shelter in the womb of the mountain, her soft vulnerable belly close to the stone. She requires nothing of me, which comes as a small shock to my system - so used to giving, offering, supporting as a woman and mother in this time. I leave the little cave goddess before I’m ready, I could stay here all day truly, but the wisdom of that dark dwelling animal stays with me.  I allow her to be a metaphor for relationship, for non-verbal communication, for standing in my own skin, not reaching beyond my own clear boundaries. Metaphor for me isn’t just a nice way to evoke descriptive writing, it’s a way to weave the connected stories of our existence back into each other, like tucking the ends of the willow in for a finished basket. In this way, she is woven into me.

I drive home and stop to take in the view, snap the picture above these words.  The leaves that have covered the skin of the mountain, like fur, are all gone now.  The trees rise like soft hairs off the curves of rock and soil.  This mountain, this mountain I still barely know, is what I grip to like a holdfast of the wild California coast.  I miss the smell of bay so much my body aches, and the grandeur of oaks, redwoods, dancing bays and madrones is a sight I can only see in the dark now.  Here, the forest is not grand.  The forest is change.  The mountain is teaching me how to shape shift, how to appreciate the cold, the growth, the water pouring down like sheets. There is so much to be connected to, it’s dizzying when it really comes into focus.