Call to Adventure II

By Stasha Lynn

Call to Adventure II

I need to live in a hut
that wanders on chicken feet
through juicy primitive rainforests
and floating islands.
I need to catch stories
from faraway lands
and eat them.
I need to feed foreign stories
 to my family too.
The call to adventure
Is screaming and I am dreaming
of flying with shamans.
Last night in the dreamtime
I pulled myself out of
a wormhole. 
It was cold and sludgy and
I remembered:
I know how to fly. 
It isn’t like riding a bicycle. 
Gravity can be an anchor
and doubt – lumpy stones in my skin.
Dream-flying is born in my thighs
where strength roots.
It speaks the language of monarchs awakening
and quickens a fierce lightness in me.
I defy myself. I fly.   
When I try, I fall.  It has to be
a leap
beyond belief
through faith and straight into the cellular memory
of butterflies and imaginal buds activated
during dissolution.
I have imaginal buds too.
Caterpillars work hard.
Butterflies just are.
It was hot in my bed when I awoke
The fireplace was a supernova
and we were all tossing and turning.
Mila couldn’t stop giggling –
first while nursing, then standing up
at the head of our bed and spontaneously
flinging her little monkeybody with all her might
onto softness.  Squeaking joy
as if saying, “gravity is fun, mama. gravity too is fun.”
I want to fling myself into the unknown
and land joyfully inside a south American rainforest
where I can make love to the smell of orchids
slosh my bare feet in red clay
harvest mate leaves, drink them from a bombilla
and watch Mila run after
blinking iridescent wings.
By summer I want to exchange root stories
and winged stories
with an international tribe of nomads and archetypal gypsies.  
We’ll recognize one another by our warm souls
and happy soles on mushy, rich soil. 
Here sits my equinox & Ariesnew moon
prayer: May I live my life as a poem,
spin cocoons inside new languages
and emerge from them changed.
May I discover a corn-filled rattle in my dreams tonight
shake these words into the sky
and watch as they sprinkle the ground
like cacao pods. May the sun roast them mighty good.
I’ll jump on them, crack them open
and eat them the way a caterpillar devours itself.
They will grow an unconventionally wild family tree
from our bellies and through exotic story forests
with roots that journey  deep into the heart
of unknown territories and ordinary magic.


For more information on Stasha Lynn visit

Image on homepage by Kathryn Solie

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