spinning

Seated at her second story bedroom window, on the old bentwood rocker with the sagging seat, the one she dragged home from the neighbor’s yardsale because she was certain it held many stories, she breathes in the twilight.  Gazing westward, she rocks softly backward, as does the earth, until she no longer perceives the ball of fire around which they orbit. From this vantage point she can glimpse the slice of sky between the rooflines of the neighboring houses and the edge of her window frame.

Flock after flock of geese traverse that magenta-painted slice, heading north. She has read that, despite momentary glances of swirling disorganized chaos, which might lend quite an alternate impression, theirs is no meandering, aimless flight, but is quite deliberate and determined.  She imagines there is no turning back.

The sky shifts to the duskier shades of lavender, blue and mauve. Day slides into night…

She has been pondering orbits and dreaming of dances.  Something in her yearns for direction that is determined, yet is something other than rigid linearity, something that has room for swirlings.  Is there really such a thing as freedom of choice, she wonders?  Are not all choices interconnected in some way in this dance of life, in this web where pulling one strand makes it all come unraveled?  She is fairly certain that we have far less control than we’d like to imagine we do.

Some days she suspects it is all an illusion – this idea of self-determination. Perhaps we are doing just fine if we don’t trip on Life’s feet as it takes us for a whirl. Of course, the problem—and the grace—with that metaphor is that she imagines she really could take the lead if she chose to do so.  Yes, she imagines Life is as gracious as that.

The day had come when she had to ‘make good’ on her promises to herself and she was terrified. It’d always been too easy, she supposed, to hide behind everyone else’s need. All at once, she realized that she had no experience at all in trusting her instincts, no previous experience to put on her resume to show that she had the potential to choreograph– to chart and to follow a course. Suddenly, it was blatantly clear that she’d never chosen a thing for herself in her life at all. She’d always allowed Life to choose her.

Perhaps that had been a choice. Consenting to Life taking her for a spin, always following – sometimes gracefully, sometimes trippingly, sometimes staggeringly – she’d remained (mostly) on her feet.  Though she may have been constantly playing catch-up, chasing some Mad-dancer across the floor, she’d learned those steps fairly well.

How might it feel to lead the dance? she wonders. To stand confidently, face Life squarely, extend her hand and invite Life to join her. How might it be to take that first step forward into Life, to feel it’s graceful, though perhaps stunned, backstep in response?  To be in full possession of her own existence.

She plays with the feeling of that in her body. It is a heart-fullness that she notices there. That’s new. Maybe courage! — that strange mix of great love with fear, of joy with trepidation– is in her after all. There is no doubt it feels powerful.

It seems that just yesterday when she’d closed her eyes to ask the same question, she couldn’t feel it at all. Instantly, she’d realized that her power was not centered in her own body.  She’d given it away once again to let someone else lead the dance.

So that explained the feeling of losing herself, she supposed, the feeling of having her dream be usurped by another, carried by a surrogate into life in some other direction. That explained the loss of energy, loss of passion, loss of power.  Rather than running with it to her own heart, her fear had handed it over to another. It’s as if she’d chosen this Life-partner, taken it by the hand, and no sooner begun dancing than she’d been cut in on. Oh,  too easily she’d handed over her Love to another.

The sky has grown darker. Overhead now charcoal blankets, while the horizon clings to a hint of pink, like a child to her lovey. The space in between — a deep shade of periwinkle– is dotted with cumulus shadows.

Power. Something she has never owned in herself. Agentic power is the word brought to her awareness this week. Recent events have made her realize that she has always lived as if at the mercy of another’s choices, another’s ability to be the agent of change, another’s power. Mostly that power had been economic. She believed she’d had little self-agency because she’d had no power—no economic power – to make things happen. But she realizes today that it’s really not possible to separate out one power from another. There is something holistic about power, as with all things.

The fulfillment of her desires had always been dependent upon another’s participation, permission, agreement and action. She may have seduced to plant seeds, then nurtured them, waited for them to grow, for the time to be ripe in the other, but relying on another’s yeses, she’d had no ability to be self-determined, and her power had come out sideways, in passive-aggressive manipulations and co-dependent maneuvers attempting to manage the dance.

No more excuses for remaining a wallflower. No more chasing after Mad-dancers, being led on a ‘wild goose chase’.  No more hoping the exits will be blocked and leave her no easy way out.

The sky is now dark as far as she can see. The lamp on the table behind her the only source of light reflected in the glass. Where does its power come from, after all? From the earth, of course, which creates its power by transforming the energy of the sun in some way or the other. All power connected to another.

She is brought back to those solar system ponderings that have been forming and informing her psyche of late. She has been pondering the sun, the way its power is central as source of the dance, the way all bodies fall into orbit around it in one way or the other in its particular system. She longs for the centeredness of the sun, being what it is, nothing more, nothing less, burning passionately of itself in life-giving ways.

The shift becomes clear. No longer is she to spin relentlessly around some pull of gravity outside of herself. Dancing with purpose and passion from the sun beating in her chest, she moves from the center of herself.  From there she’ll know what belongs in her orbit by what is drawn by the gravity of her own burning desire.

No longer being cut in on just when she is learning the steps, Life dances about her.

She turns off the lamp. The sky is black, no moon to reflect the sun tonight,  the cover of clouds blocking those other faraway suns. Venus is out there in that space in-between the horizon and the blanket of clouds overhead.

Venus is brilliant tonight.

inn of the wood

inn of the winter wood

 

death fells the pine and she goes

from being shelter

to being nourishment

her inner substance revealed

in the stripping of her bark

softened she receives

the falling of the needles, leaves, and rain

into her womb

as winter stillness rises from the earth

made room for by the dying

i can see

far into the wood

 

 

the advent

Advent

 

the day the geese flew north in winter

and thunder hailed from west

i stood in my back yard, entangled

in the lights and wondered

who am i

(again)

i felt You longing

 

the afternoon i echoed my hello

to every bird that squawked and shrieked above

to goose, and crow, and hawk with the red tail

 i mired in the mud and wondered

who am i

(again)

i felt You longing

 

 

the night that jupiter and venus

dangled by the moon

atop the scarlet setting sun

i fell asleep with You beneath my fingertips

and wondered

who am i

(again)

and felt You longing

 

holiness is never far

i wonder why i seek it ….

i wonder if the fish have all been eaten

or if they’re holed up neath the cold

 

the morning i awakened

pulling back the curtain on your splendor

i lay deep within the comfort of your promise

and wondered

who am i

(again)

and I felt only You

four winds – an advent song

four winds- an advent song

 

gather me, Love, gather  

these scattered pieces of my life and draw them in

that i may be

wholed.

 

behold me, Love, and hold me,

here within Your heart

for it seems i know not

north or south

and east and west are spinning me in circles

 

so still me, Love, please still me

quiet me with your song

that i may follow it within

to where you wait

for me

 

release me, Love, release me

unbind my heart

unknow my mind

that i may Be your love

poured out upon the earth

 

 

 

 

 

 

creation

she wears a green sash

tied about her waist

her femininity irresistible

in this knotting of the bow

i’ve read all about the symbolism

in this painting of the sacred  

the red dress of humanity

the blue mantle of divine

but here i am

so simply tied together

my own eyes cinched by

by the color green

  

something here in this silence

There is something here in this silence. At last. I have felt not such presence here in this place before. Or has it merely been so long I’ve forgotten. This morning, there is space for my heart to breathe, and so for my eyes to see. This small room is quite quiet, the first in some time. How I yearn for the return of this spaciousness, this silence, to my days. This emptiness feels full, palpably so, such that my heart wants to reach out and touch it, be received by it. This is a fullness that does not overwhelm, a fullness that fills stead of draining. Or perhaps it drains what is necessary to be drained, receiving the pollution from too much, over-production, and replacing it, refilling me with something pure. 

In the corner opposite from me, the fountain bubbles perpetually, beneath her, the peace of the sitting one. Is she a mirror, in that corner or a negative image, the yin to my yang. When I mentioned to a friend that I like to think of myself as rather centered and calm, she covered her smile with her hand, not trying to hide it really, but rather I think again she was mirroring what she saw in me. The humor of it. The truth that the surface belies what lies beneath. And so what of that fountain bubbling in the corner? No lies there, I think. It brings to the surface what lies beneath its pile of rocks, stead of letting it lie inhibited and suppressed, stagnant,…. and so fills it with oxygen, freshens it so that even the cat can drink from it.

And she, who sits beneath in her stony silence, is just that, a stone. I suppose it is easy to be serene when you are a stone. What feelings has she got coursing through her veins, pressing at the fountain pump that is her heart, which need be brought to the surface for air? Perhaps that is why she has grown fat, all that sitting, all that suppressing, her fat a protection from the bombardment within and without. Yet she looks so peaceful. Could she be real?

I long for the feeling I see in her face.

Is that a desire to deny the whole of me? Is that to live a partial, fragmented life?

I wonder,  does the desire to be more-than-human make us less-than-human?

  

The opening is at times small through which something life-giving might arise. A word. An image. A child. It bubbles up and spills o’er the rock and moistens me. My colors at once brought back to life.

 

Even as she sits serenely beneath, underground, with her knowing that all is well.

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