A Beckoning

Sometimes we’re not sure of the direction in which we’re headed. And so we study, and we grow, and we learn, and we search wholeheartedly for that one thing that moves us into knowing, into truly living in the essence of who we are. This is a journey of years, of lifetimes. And it is one that all of us share, one that we who name ourselves seekers willingly acknowledge.
We dive in. Even when we are afraid.
Starting With Rabbit has become my little window looking out onto the world, my treetop perch, where I can quietly state my piece, pass my gifts (such as they be), share my passions, and create from the inside out the person that the Great Mystery beckons and calls me to be.
I am made of the sweet smell of sage at the start of a burst of rain, of bird feathers and fallen branches, of the infinite shades of green in early Spring. I possess the brightness of a high noon sun over a sheet of diamond-encrusted, deep-winter snow, and the velvety darkness of the February New Moon.
I am a coyote calling, looking back as I run, going wherever it is that wildness lives. I honor the Earth, and consider this ground my sanctuary.
Run with me.

 

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Colors

As a child, I was instilled with the belief that I was brilliant, by a misguided but well meaning father.

I wasn’t brilliant, only a hard- working average, but didn’t realize it until many years into adulthood. It’s led to many disappointments, and the wondering why things didn’t work out brilliantly.

The talents I did in fact have as a child weren’t nurtured. So I lost them, and am going through the process of becoming reacquainted.

Parenting oneself isn’t easy, and knowing what a disappointment you are to others is a fragile and on-the- brink place to reside.

Painting like an eight year old is frustrating, but freeing, too. I lie back into a box of colors, and try to remember who I am.

King Prawn

Last night
I floated on seawater,
And a glowing King Prawn
Darned my womb
with silken thread,
And clicking fingers of burnt sienna.

Sol Invictus in an exoskeleton, with full Mother Moon
looking on.
I’d have been afraid,
Had Mother not been there.

Threads, he said.
You are made of threads,
Each one a break or a bond.
It’s braids you must build,
To keep it all together.

White silken braids,
Made of love and longing
and the bleeding silver
in your hair.
(Which you must not hide,
he added.)

Red silk in warm water
Is not the path,
Even when the beckoning
Is strongest, stronger than
Even the pull of the tide.

Seek the threads,
Save the threads,
And remember what tapestries
The Mother creates
From gossamer.

Never let the warm water
Bring you under.

So said the Invincible Sun
With his King Prawn eyes
And tiny feet that tickled my belly.

I believe him.

It Is I

tonight beneath
a new moon
the apple tree
reached out a branch
and assured me.
all is well.

and by the light
of my bedroom lamp
hair up
back straight and strong
my collarbones
held my heart
on a string.
all is well.

i keep
secrets and seashells
and mirrors about,
to remind me
of soft places
and the watery
knowing
of my invisible
crown.
all is well.

Fingers In Paint

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She started out as a blonde, but was the victim of a large green splat, so she went with the flow, and decided to go greeny-blue. Faceless right now, but because of a serendipitous mess, she’s the inspirational start of a four part series that I’ll call The Elementals. She will be called Water Woman. I am excited to be painting again!!

Last night I painted the pages below. She is finished for now, but isn’t fully complete. I’m letting her rest before I revisit her. I know that she’ll need finishing details and maybe a bit of collage work. I really want the roses in her hair to stand out more, and her facial features need softening and highlighting. She is my first two-page project in several months, and she has been very fun to work on. I had painted her eyes in at least three times, and covered them up again, and then closed eyes seemed to be peeking through the layers of cover-up paint, so I went with that, and felt like it was really the right expression for her! She reminds me of a Mother Mary sort of being, and I feel very happy when I look at her.

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And lastly for today, my nine year old daughter, and painting partner extraordinaire, painted a portrait of me, which I am in love with. Painting with her is much better than painting on my own! Closing out the year with simple tranquility and family time, and enjoying it immensely.

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Fizzle

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So if money weren’t an issue…but it is.

That dream come true I wrote about just day before yesterday? Today, not so much.

We are a two income kind of family, and the type of house we could afford on one income isn’t that cabin in the sage that I thought it would be. It’s actually just a run down shack down a mud-slid slope, waiting for the next hard rain to bring it all down.

Right now there’s a slow drizzle in my heart, which aches a bit from a dream dashed. We think our lives will turn out a certain way. Forty had felt like a reminder of last chances, before it’s all to late and I’m too full of aches and creaks and can’t climb my mountain any more. I’ve felt an urgency to take the chance, make the last grab before it’s too late. I wrote about an ending of ellipses. Luckily, ellipses are my favorite punctuation…

Today was a lesson in remembering I’m no Laura Ingalls, even on a good day. I’m also no Pollyanna, so the ache is deep. But I am a little bit Anne-with-an-E, so I can see there are flowers I can continue to plant in this story, even if there won’t be any that grow wild.

The story will be different than planned. There. I’ve said it. I may have to take a pill or two for it to fully take hold, but I know I’ll be fine. Some months ago, I’d be looking for the nearest bridge, far more than two pills, and half a pack of Marlboros, but today, maybe, beneath the weight of disappointment, there is also some relief.

I will make some new dream to keep me going. A little brick cottage in the old town next door, perhaps. There are trees there, and old ladies with small dogs. I will plant more poppies. The kind that beat hot orange like the sun, the sun I used to worship, even before I was named pagan.

A new dream can deserve my love, even as the wildflower cabin dream draws its last breath.

Holy basil, I am a drama queen…and writing makes the hurt feel like something lovely.