Symphony of the Wombed Word
A reflection in the spirit of Hildegard von Bingen (1098-1179)
*Every now and then I’ll be switching from the regular Monday blog posts to a Thoughtful Tuesday muse-post that is more in line with the musical and poetic side of my writings.
O most honored Greening Force, You who rise within the pulse of soil and soul, sing in me the music that was seeded before words were written.
Let my breath be a psalm, my ribcage a cathedral, my wombed heart a chalice for the sweetness of rḥmā—the divine mercy that mothers galaxies and murmurs through the marrow.
Your rechem, O God, is not bound to gender but to the mystery of birthing—a sacred Yes within the silence, a holy moistening of the soul lest it wither. Within the womb, that inner pasture where spirit meets sinew, You compose symphonies of becoming.
There, the soul is not still—it hums, gestates, flows, like rain soaking root or dawn reddening the edge of time. You redden, You green, You flame, You flow. Nothing static. Nothing stilled. Even in stillness, Your harmony resounds. The soul is music, Hildegard says—and I believe her. It is song woven with silence, praise twined with pain, the feather floating on the Breath that begets all things.
And so, may my life be sung from the womb of Your mercy. Let me burn with greenness, gestate with joy, and return each day to the breath of God that sings me into being again, and again, and again.
Amen, And Amen.