It seems that this part of my journey is to be taken naked. Baring my bones, removing clothes and flesh and the cozy coverings of hiding places. Taking off the pretty make-up that transforms flaws into perfection. How much courage it takes to step up onto a stage alone, to pour one's heart out on a public page, to shear one's head into a camera lens... to be naked. So few of us explore the cleansing and healing powers that come from nakedness of heart.
Life has gotten a bit unbalanced for me recently. Or not so recently, but certainly has culminated in some shaky ground of late, which in turn has uncovered an earthquake fission of insecurities. On the tail of that earthquake, which I am not elaborating on due to the impossible depth and breadth of its source, rides opportunities and possibilities galore... I am hanging onto that tail for dear life, but it seems that all my coverings and clothings are flying off right and left, leaving nothing but pure "me." If I let go long enough to grab at some of my dignities, I will be a goner, so here I am, riding naked....but still alive.
I will start with my passion for the Irish dance. I started Irish dance classes mid-February of this year. Learning Irish dance means UN-learning the things my body was taught about ballet. Most of them anyway. It isn't an easy thing to "un-learn" something. Practice, practice, practice. I practised Irish dance, thought Irish dance, talked Irish dance...making my friends surely a bit annoyed with this topic posting in their faces day after day. I never knew such dancing existed... oh the energy and the beauty and the intricacy of it! And mostly, the history and ancient tradition of this dance that awakened in my blood, my Irish blood that recognized and celebrated its knowing, finally able to express the hidden origin of spirit.
Irish dancers compete. With themselves, mostly, but also with and against other Irish dancers. Challenging their feet to fly higher, faster, sharper, lighter... We compete in an important event called a feiseanna, or feis (pronounced fesh) which incorporates Irish music along with dance in a weekend long competition in which dancers can "graduate" into levels and of course get medals and trophies to prove their gained skills. Most of the competitors are children...very young to young adult. And the dresses, costumes, of the young dancers are simply amazing... almost ridiculously intricate and extravagant... costing upwards into the thousands of dollars.
Well, it isn't so glamorous or even popular, to be a Beginner Adult Irish dancer. It takes work and time and lots of energy and concentration that most adults do not have. We have to make ourselves practice around school schedules, laundry and housekeeping routines, soccer practices, cheer-leading, dance classes and meal preparations, to say nothing of the doctor appts and vet care and things that make up an adult's life in addition to earning a living. So, yeah, there are not many of us out there who are not so exhausted by daily life that we find a wee dance class to be relaxing. Not much thought is given to the adults, in the Feis competitions, although I believe a little more attention is being given nowadays as the adult numbers slowly grow.
After much hesitation, and not a little fear, I joined the small rank of Adult competitors. I felt good about my dances, well, as good as I could being so new at them. Having had quite a nice ballet background, I felt confident in my toe pointing, although I haven't used those muscles in years...the feeling came back soon enough. I felt ready to compete as a beginner. Adults don't get to wear the fancy dresses until they are really really good, so I was happy enough in my little black skirt, white blouse and black tights. I felt it made me less conspicuous, and also able to hide any insecurities I had about body issues... simple is best...black is best...now if I just didn't pee my pants, I would be fine. (there is a fair amount of jumping to do, you know... anyone who is a mommy will know exactly what I am talkin' about)...
Luckily, for me, the competition has accommodated the status of Adult Beginner. This particular feis, my first feis, was in Charlotte, NC and there were only TWO participants competing as Adult Beginner. I was one of them. I looked my competitor over, head to toe, and felt truly satisfied that I would do well... I looked like a dancer (in my mind) and I was confident in my hours of practice. Our turn came. We walked up the steps to the stage. Somehow, I knew what it felt like to be a prisoner walking to the gallows. I could feel my heart beat way up in my forehead. I thought for sure my new shiny headband was expanding and contracting blatantly with each heart beat. I remembered to stand and wait for the music with my feet in Irish Feet position. I looked at the audience and noticed not ONE single face, but a whole sea of faces, standing room only. Naked. I was naked. Everyone could see that I didn't know what I was doing. I focused on a spot on the floor to remember my first step...then heard my teacher's voice, "head up" and my head flung up as the music started. My first step was completed, well done... my feet took over and somehow I got through the Reel and was bowing to the judge. One dance down, three more to go.
A repeat for my Light Jig. I was gaining confidence. Did it. Danced it... kicked high, pointed toes... I was REMARKABLE. I ROCKED. Yay!!! Feeling damn proud of myself I went to my seat. My friend came to get me, excited that the scores were posted for my first two dances. It took forever to wind through the hallways to get to the score board. He was so excited for me, surely I must have gotten first place!
Lesson number one. Do not look at scores until ALL dances are done. I saw 2nd place after my name. Does not compute. My heart fell. My friend is just about jumping up and down (he obviously has a better way of looking at scores, being much more experienced than I...lol) "See? Sheree...you got 2nd place!" I just looked at him and said in a dead voice...."there were only two people dancing. I got LAST place." (I am well recovered this day to be able to write this with such ease...lol)
My third dance was a Slip Jig. Much more difficult than the other two dances for me, since I learned it last and apparently practised it less. With the heaviness of heart that comes with defeat, my lead feet schlumped up the never ending 3 steps onto the stage. Trying to shake off the disappointment, I smiled and squared my shoulders, in Irish Feet of course. The music started, I took a couple of steps into my first step and .... forgot my dance. There was no turning back... I tried to keep dancing but it turned into my Reel, which does NOT flow with Slip Jig music. I folded. Remembering to bow to the judge, I said "sorry" and tried not to cry. She gave me a second chance (I'm sure taking pity on me, and feeling fortunate that I did not throw up on her stage) and I promptly forgot my 2nd step again. That was the end of that. Reduced to the level of Court Jester, I swept off the stage gathering all the dignity I could find in so many levels of nakedness. And of course, I scored First Place in that dance, since I had no competition... if I had known that, I would have stayed up on stage and just did my dance drills from class all across the floor....! All in all I ended up with either 3 Second places and 1 First place score...or 3 Last places and 1 Undeserved First Place sympathy score. Depending on who I want to impress. But nakedness certainly came into play that day.
Following that day, I ended up having a Dermatology Appt for a Skin Scan. Anyone knowing me at all will tell you that I have been a Sun Worshipper since the day I discovered BabyOil and Lemon Sun-In, way back in the 60's. All my life people were predicting my death due to skin cancer. I figured I was naked already, and really really humbled, I might as well know for sure. I was stripped and naked and the doc looked in every hidden place imaginable..leaving NOTHING unscanned or unstudied. Not only did I pass inspection with flying colors, and multiple compliments upon my good fortune to have inherited my daddy's more French-Canadian Olive skin, but I learned such big lessons all weekend...and standing there in nothing but my skin I felt PRIDE. Way to go me... to look at my own internal nakedness and come out stronger. Courage is facing fears in spite of fear.... and little thing or big thing Courage is Courage. These are my naked days.
Tuesday, October 25, 2011
Saturday, August 27, 2011
From Inside the Glass...
When grown children come home to visit, it seems all of our hidden nerve endings emerge into open air. The house becomes full of unspoken, reserved opinions leaving no room for fresh air to blow around. As much as I love to see my grown young man, and as the opportunity to do so decreases, I am okay with saying good-bye too. It brutally came to my attention this past weekend, when my child made his way to our door after a two year period of limited communication via phones or internet. The "obligation" to visit was apparent upon his face, and I understood that he was gracing us with his presence, if mostly only to reconnect with his little brother whom I know he misses terribly.
So many emotions surface, that have everything and nothing to do with the relationship established on the day of my son's birth. Bringing back those roots that were embedded in a bad marriage, a lonely and poverty stricken climb to higher ground, and a struggling self esteem that somehow was supposed to fearlessly protect and nurture a child as well as the world encompassing us. Obligations felt both by myself and my child, to cling to those old roots that had long since changed and grown or withered depending upon the times...and all of a sudden we looked at each other and did not really recognize ourselves. Talk about a storm churning under our roof.
As with most storms, there is an eye of power. And when the eye of power strikes, damage is inevitable. Our words came out in anger and like the high winds of a hurricane...lashing and whipping against the object in the way. So it was this weekend at one point. And damage was done. Tears were shed. But with all damage, comes healing and restitution also. When the eye of the storm passes, and the winds get tired and disperse....the whisper of forgiveness sneaks in. From the depths of that first seed of love planted deeper than the stems of change grew, our vision and perspective cleared as we look at each other, broken from the storm. There he is. My baby, with his clear blue eyes, sad and hurt and all of a sudden I know he sees me too, for his momma that I was. He had always seen me as His Rock, the only consistent thing in the world to him and all he knew. We only had each other in this whole world. For good or for evil, we were all we had. I had always seen him as my child, to be protected and to be loved and to be handled gently while I held tightly to the leash that kept him safe for the while it took to make him strong enough to let go. Letting go is easier said than done. It took a storm for me to set him free.
So many emotions surface, that have everything and nothing to do with the relationship established on the day of my son's birth. Bringing back those roots that were embedded in a bad marriage, a lonely and poverty stricken climb to higher ground, and a struggling self esteem that somehow was supposed to fearlessly protect and nurture a child as well as the world encompassing us. Obligations felt both by myself and my child, to cling to those old roots that had long since changed and grown or withered depending upon the times...and all of a sudden we looked at each other and did not really recognize ourselves. Talk about a storm churning under our roof.
As with most storms, there is an eye of power. And when the eye of power strikes, damage is inevitable. Our words came out in anger and like the high winds of a hurricane...lashing and whipping against the object in the way. So it was this weekend at one point. And damage was done. Tears were shed. But with all damage, comes healing and restitution also. When the eye of the storm passes, and the winds get tired and disperse....the whisper of forgiveness sneaks in. From the depths of that first seed of love planted deeper than the stems of change grew, our vision and perspective cleared as we look at each other, broken from the storm. There he is. My baby, with his clear blue eyes, sad and hurt and all of a sudden I know he sees me too, for his momma that I was. He had always seen me as His Rock, the only consistent thing in the world to him and all he knew. We only had each other in this whole world. For good or for evil, we were all we had. I had always seen him as my child, to be protected and to be loved and to be handled gently while I held tightly to the leash that kept him safe for the while it took to make him strong enough to let go. Letting go is easier said than done. It took a storm for me to set him free.
Sunday, June 12, 2011
Dancing out my Soul...
There is something so ancient inside of each of us, so ancient that we don't even recognize the very roots of its origin. It is our own special passion for something that has been solid and present as we slipped and fought our way out of our Momma's womb. Our cries as a newborn were instinctive and primitive, screaming out with the voice of our being, solidifying our distinct personalities and acknowledgement of self. Even the infants emerging in silence, had their own voice be it hidden from the world, in their own way claiming their passion in ways, though quiet, making a deep impression on whomever welcomed them into existence.
As we journeyed, and learned to quiet our souls, to protect ourselves and to start building the walls of societal requirement, many there are who stilled their voice of passion. Pushing it back inside so as to fit in and not make waves in their pool; losing that bit of themselves that gave them fullness and richness and courage and purpose. Maybe a greed for stability, for financial achievement, for power filled up their intrinsic nature that once proclaimed itself in birth...overwhelming their soul, and instead of filling their hearts, their greed turned on them and emptied it instead.
As for me, my cries turned inward, strengthening my muscles, filling my sinews with a music that I heard in my head and my heart all my days...each beat and note moving my fingers, my toes, my arms, my legs... obligating constant movement...tapping, rocking, swaying, jumping, flailing, and expressing my heart. Joyful, mournful, restful, or wild... my passion let loose in my dance.
It has been that way as long as I can remember. Annoying as hell to people around me... my feet tapping out a new dance under my desks at school, rocking faster, slower as I read my novels and fairy tales.. running in fields became a joyful dance culminating in sliding up trees and swinging from branches, toes pointed and hanging on with the minimal amount of pressure I could get away with trying to defeat gravity and earthbinding rules. Climbing rocks as lightly as I could...flying whenever possible. It took me on many adventures, following the lead of my passion... flying on a trapeze, jumping on trampolines, climbing mountains and swinging on ropes over miles of sparkling water just waiting for the perfect moment , the perfect beat, the perfect note to let go and poise my body to fly....
Everything becomes a dance to me. Making breakfast is a dance, and my day is spent perfecting movement and expression... it is the voice I was born with. I dance out my soul.
What is your passion? How does your soul express itself? You need to dig deep inside, way back to that root, that cry that you made as you entered this world.... it is there. Search for it, find it...embrace it.... Cry as you will....find your way to dance out your soul.....
As we journeyed, and learned to quiet our souls, to protect ourselves and to start building the walls of societal requirement, many there are who stilled their voice of passion. Pushing it back inside so as to fit in and not make waves in their pool; losing that bit of themselves that gave them fullness and richness and courage and purpose. Maybe a greed for stability, for financial achievement, for power filled up their intrinsic nature that once proclaimed itself in birth...overwhelming their soul, and instead of filling their hearts, their greed turned on them and emptied it instead.
As for me, my cries turned inward, strengthening my muscles, filling my sinews with a music that I heard in my head and my heart all my days...each beat and note moving my fingers, my toes, my arms, my legs... obligating constant movement...tapping, rocking, swaying, jumping, flailing, and expressing my heart. Joyful, mournful, restful, or wild... my passion let loose in my dance.
It has been that way as long as I can remember. Annoying as hell to people around me... my feet tapping out a new dance under my desks at school, rocking faster, slower as I read my novels and fairy tales.. running in fields became a joyful dance culminating in sliding up trees and swinging from branches, toes pointed and hanging on with the minimal amount of pressure I could get away with trying to defeat gravity and earthbinding rules. Climbing rocks as lightly as I could...flying whenever possible. It took me on many adventures, following the lead of my passion... flying on a trapeze, jumping on trampolines, climbing mountains and swinging on ropes over miles of sparkling water just waiting for the perfect moment , the perfect beat, the perfect note to let go and poise my body to fly....
Everything becomes a dance to me. Making breakfast is a dance, and my day is spent perfecting movement and expression... it is the voice I was born with. I dance out my soul.
What is your passion? How does your soul express itself? You need to dig deep inside, way back to that root, that cry that you made as you entered this world.... it is there. Search for it, find it...embrace it.... Cry as you will....find your way to dance out your soul.....
Friday, May 27, 2011
The Many-faceted Heart is like a Diamond
I think it must be in our hearts, that our souls actually dwell... although I feel my soul seep out into my limbs from my heart and my throat and my mind when I dance, it must rest in our hearts to nurture and fill. Maybe when we sleep.
Our hearts are not so different from each other's...not the way they are shaped nor the mechanics of their beatings. But deep inside, there is the diamond. The soul, that is as individual as a snowflake or a sunbeam, or as multifaceted as a diamond when cherished and cut and shaped to bring about the most glorious and valuable shine of all.
Diamonds have a depth where the shadows lie smoldering, and a glittering and smooth surface where the eye can see clearly it's beauty. No one can ever say they know their own soul unless they have delved deep into their heart. My mind and my heart and my soul are all disconnected in parts, yet enclosed within the same world needing the same life force to work...yet, if my mind and my heart stop living, I like to believe my soul will go on as it is... freed from it's bondage of our physical muscle and blood... recycling into something of magic, while regaining a host.
Thus our souls, our diamonds, are as old as the ages. And they have gathered wisdom from the ancient days when all was new...Our souls, like the mountains and the seas, are ever changing and evolving, adding new landscape to their design and burning with the heat of life and love and all things shifting. How wonderful that our bodies get to be the keepers of those diamonds while we live!
Many people believe that our "life force" is our blood and bones and muscle and grit...but I think it is our soul that brings to us our personalities, and our destinies. I never believed, entirely, of "soul mates" and used to "pooh-pooh" the idea of reincarnation, but I am beginning to feel differently nowadays. It is the ultimate recycling plan...it is the way nature works. Nothing really stops "being" ...it just changes, morphs or something, into another form. Why wouldn't our soul just go on and eventually find itself in another generation and another new body to carry on....?
There is something in all of us that speaks and draws us to a passion that is strong and magnetic beyond understanding. I happen to feel like I am still living outside of my "home"... in a new age, and a new place that I don't quite belong. I have never been to Ireland, or to Scotland, or to anyplace where Gaelic and Pagan hearts gather in peace, and yet here I am.... irresistably drawn to all things Celtic. I come to the conclusion that my soul remembers. Like Harry Potter's snitch, my soul has a "flesh memory" that hangs onto it's origin and it's "home"...
This could all be fantasy. An over-active imagination, brought on by boredom wrought from a suburban lifestyle of a middle aged woman who finds herself planted in a vast superficial bubble of soccer moms and pedicures.
I look for adventures and grit whenever I can... it's tough to satisfy my diamond of a soul, craving wild hikes and hunts, and challenges of defeating anonymous and invisible status. I have been known to climb on my roof to read a book, or just gaze at a star, and to climb fences ten feet tall just to feel it when I fly over them...and to know that I am halfway done with this life already...I want my soul to take my body with it this time... I want to go home, with my soul where it belongs. Wherever that is.
Our hearts are not so different from each other's...not the way they are shaped nor the mechanics of their beatings. But deep inside, there is the diamond. The soul, that is as individual as a snowflake or a sunbeam, or as multifaceted as a diamond when cherished and cut and shaped to bring about the most glorious and valuable shine of all.
Diamonds have a depth where the shadows lie smoldering, and a glittering and smooth surface where the eye can see clearly it's beauty. No one can ever say they know their own soul unless they have delved deep into their heart. My mind and my heart and my soul are all disconnected in parts, yet enclosed within the same world needing the same life force to work...yet, if my mind and my heart stop living, I like to believe my soul will go on as it is... freed from it's bondage of our physical muscle and blood... recycling into something of magic, while regaining a host.
Thus our souls, our diamonds, are as old as the ages. And they have gathered wisdom from the ancient days when all was new...Our souls, like the mountains and the seas, are ever changing and evolving, adding new landscape to their design and burning with the heat of life and love and all things shifting. How wonderful that our bodies get to be the keepers of those diamonds while we live!
Many people believe that our "life force" is our blood and bones and muscle and grit...but I think it is our soul that brings to us our personalities, and our destinies. I never believed, entirely, of "soul mates" and used to "pooh-pooh" the idea of reincarnation, but I am beginning to feel differently nowadays. It is the ultimate recycling plan...it is the way nature works. Nothing really stops "being" ...it just changes, morphs or something, into another form. Why wouldn't our soul just go on and eventually find itself in another generation and another new body to carry on....?
There is something in all of us that speaks and draws us to a passion that is strong and magnetic beyond understanding. I happen to feel like I am still living outside of my "home"... in a new age, and a new place that I don't quite belong. I have never been to Ireland, or to Scotland, or to anyplace where Gaelic and Pagan hearts gather in peace, and yet here I am.... irresistably drawn to all things Celtic. I come to the conclusion that my soul remembers. Like Harry Potter's snitch, my soul has a "flesh memory" that hangs onto it's origin and it's "home"...
This could all be fantasy. An over-active imagination, brought on by boredom wrought from a suburban lifestyle of a middle aged woman who finds herself planted in a vast superficial bubble of soccer moms and pedicures.
I look for adventures and grit whenever I can... it's tough to satisfy my diamond of a soul, craving wild hikes and hunts, and challenges of defeating anonymous and invisible status. I have been known to climb on my roof to read a book, or just gaze at a star, and to climb fences ten feet tall just to feel it when I fly over them...and to know that I am halfway done with this life already...I want my soul to take my body with it this time... I want to go home, with my soul where it belongs. Wherever that is.
Thursday, April 28, 2011
Landing on My Feet...
Back in my mind, when our lives were in shades of black and white, I wallow.
The 50's, the 60's, and even the beginning of the 70's when the grays starting showing pastel and the sharper colors of the day redefined photography. My journey had just begun, my bare feet just beginning to form the tougher layers of experience to protect them from the rocks and stubbs of life. Falling down, then, meant learning to push myself away from my father's arms when he caught me halfway down...gradually increasing my strength as his arms allowed me more independence as I grew. I am nostalgic for those days. Yet, I could not wait for those days to be behind me when I lived them. My falls became crashes, with longer and more painful landings, especially once I moved too far for my father's arms to ever reach me again.
There is a lot to be said for "falling down." My folks always told each other that "Sheree always lands on her feet"...not sure what that meant for the longest time, but I know it gave them comfort as they watched me struggle and journey through time. I have begun to believe "attitude is everything." Every single time I fell, I did not rest until I found some way to get back up, brush myself off and continue on my way. Not that getting up was easy. Never was it easy. But it was fulfilling, and my soul always celebrated with joy to be upright and maybe a little soiled, but certainly stronger.
Attitude is everything. It can keep you down, or it can lift you up. It is our choice, and our choice alone. A spirit of rebellion thrown in doesn't hurt, either, when one is on the bottom side of a pile. I think of the stories of Holocaust survivors...the amazing stories of human spirit and strength, both quiet and booming. Down deep in their souls, they were choosing to "land on their feet"... surviving and thriving to tell their stories and the stories of those who didn't have the chance to face the sun again. At great cost, those survivors gained strength and wisdom and learned what it is to cherish the little things.
Attitude is everything. Landing on our feet does not keep us from falling in the first place. It takes such instinct, such experience, and a great deal of flexibility and preparation. As we get older, we learn to anticipate the pot holes, the slippery slopes, the very movements of the earth that once would have taken our feet right out from under us. It is a dance. This is The Dance of Life... our steps chosen with care, and our bodies prepared to balance and flow into the winds, using our world as support and shield all at once.
I share with you the Balance of the World. The good, the bad...the horrible and the sublime. It is a part of our humanity. It just is. With every bad, we see a good that counter balances our footing, and shifts our direction. Dance the journey, folks. Just dance.
The 50's, the 60's, and even the beginning of the 70's when the grays starting showing pastel and the sharper colors of the day redefined photography. My journey had just begun, my bare feet just beginning to form the tougher layers of experience to protect them from the rocks and stubbs of life. Falling down, then, meant learning to push myself away from my father's arms when he caught me halfway down...gradually increasing my strength as his arms allowed me more independence as I grew. I am nostalgic for those days. Yet, I could not wait for those days to be behind me when I lived them. My falls became crashes, with longer and more painful landings, especially once I moved too far for my father's arms to ever reach me again.
There is a lot to be said for "falling down." My folks always told each other that "Sheree always lands on her feet"...not sure what that meant for the longest time, but I know it gave them comfort as they watched me struggle and journey through time. I have begun to believe "attitude is everything." Every single time I fell, I did not rest until I found some way to get back up, brush myself off and continue on my way. Not that getting up was easy. Never was it easy. But it was fulfilling, and my soul always celebrated with joy to be upright and maybe a little soiled, but certainly stronger.
Attitude is everything. It can keep you down, or it can lift you up. It is our choice, and our choice alone. A spirit of rebellion thrown in doesn't hurt, either, when one is on the bottom side of a pile. I think of the stories of Holocaust survivors...the amazing stories of human spirit and strength, both quiet and booming. Down deep in their souls, they were choosing to "land on their feet"... surviving and thriving to tell their stories and the stories of those who didn't have the chance to face the sun again. At great cost, those survivors gained strength and wisdom and learned what it is to cherish the little things.
Attitude is everything. Landing on our feet does not keep us from falling in the first place. It takes such instinct, such experience, and a great deal of flexibility and preparation. As we get older, we learn to anticipate the pot holes, the slippery slopes, the very movements of the earth that once would have taken our feet right out from under us. It is a dance. This is The Dance of Life... our steps chosen with care, and our bodies prepared to balance and flow into the winds, using our world as support and shield all at once.
I share with you the Balance of the World. The good, the bad...the horrible and the sublime. It is a part of our humanity. It just is. With every bad, we see a good that counter balances our footing, and shifts our direction. Dance the journey, folks. Just dance.
Thursday, December 23, 2010
With Wine as my Muse and Wicket as my Familiar....
I be. Sitting in a swirling mist, hands gracefully draped around the wine glass...melting in our hot tub, alone. But yet, not alone...bigger. The mist, magic and science, alive and lively, surrounding me, while seductively enticing old memories of more sensual days, younger days...pulling my thoughts into it while my old mellowing body gives up its muscle into the heat of the water. I be. Transforming memory into body, and body into memory. With eyes closed, seeing clearer than in the sunlight.
Transformation completed, I see infinite worlds swirling with the mist created by heat and water. Through the Glass, through the yellow sparkle of the fruity wine that plays on my tongue...so close to turning into vinegar, yet magically growing sweet in my mouth.
It seems it is the mist itself that is taking me, drawing me, and turning me into a person who used to be me, but stopping short of actually Me. How could it have been me, when I didn't exist fully without the years padding me ....I am more me now than I was then, and I know, I FEEL that there is more of Me to come...adding substance and volume to what is me right now. I can't wait. How exciting to know there is more to come.
The thought that winds itself in and about the mist is Magic. I always wanted to be a Witch. Not the old thing that rides on a broom with warts on her face and has shrunken her heart to contain her tiny imagination...but a real, true witch that knows the earth and feels the heat of it growing and spreading and enriching and fertilizing populations of souls yet to come.... I want to be that Celtic ancient pagan woman who embodies the whole of the world of femininity and love...who can look at a single person and KNOW. Just know. There is such a divide between that Witch and our society's "appropriate" Christianity....and I know in my heart it is one and the same. I want the magic... I want to discard the science. I want to discard the logic. I want to live in the mist. I want to leave behind the judgment and the hard lines. I don't see them. To me, they all blend. Like mist into air. Like mist into water. Blend. Science and Magic. Where one melts into another...no lines, no borders.
It is hard to be in both worlds. If anything will drive me crazy it is that I try hard to make lines. It is not within me. I don't have borders. I don't have lines. I look at each person and see a life, a mist, that has a music of their own and a substance with no borders. It is okay. I want to say that to everyone I meet. It is okay. You are okay. Stop trying to contain the mist into borders. Please don't make me hard. I don't want to be hard, and contained. I want to flow. To just feel my way around and go where my mist seems to leak and seep.....
I do not do well when I put myself into boxes. I keep trying. Many times in my life I box myself. I don't want to hurt anyone who strives hard to "believe"...in the Jesus that is "true" and "one" .... I love that Jesus. I love his words. I love his belief. And yes, I love his humanity. He did not cause all those wars or those harsh mainstream judgments of "believers" who harken to some of his words, but mostly to words of people, like themselves, who are just trying. It's okay. Your boxes are intended to keep you safe, I understand. But test the waters...test the mists. Question a little. Put your toe out, gently....feel around. The mist is not evil. It is science and soul.... it will set you free.
I don't have answers to anyone's questions. Certainly not the big questions. But I know that a little nakedness of soul will do you good. Let your life fill you, let it swirl around you.... let go, just a little.... I believe there is a little Witch in all of us. We just call it different names.
Transformation completed, I see infinite worlds swirling with the mist created by heat and water. Through the Glass, through the yellow sparkle of the fruity wine that plays on my tongue...so close to turning into vinegar, yet magically growing sweet in my mouth.
It seems it is the mist itself that is taking me, drawing me, and turning me into a person who used to be me, but stopping short of actually Me. How could it have been me, when I didn't exist fully without the years padding me ....I am more me now than I was then, and I know, I FEEL that there is more of Me to come...adding substance and volume to what is me right now. I can't wait. How exciting to know there is more to come.
The thought that winds itself in and about the mist is Magic. I always wanted to be a Witch. Not the old thing that rides on a broom with warts on her face and has shrunken her heart to contain her tiny imagination...but a real, true witch that knows the earth and feels the heat of it growing and spreading and enriching and fertilizing populations of souls yet to come.... I want to be that Celtic ancient pagan woman who embodies the whole of the world of femininity and love...who can look at a single person and KNOW. Just know. There is such a divide between that Witch and our society's "appropriate" Christianity....and I know in my heart it is one and the same. I want the magic... I want to discard the science. I want to discard the logic. I want to live in the mist. I want to leave behind the judgment and the hard lines. I don't see them. To me, they all blend. Like mist into air. Like mist into water. Blend. Science and Magic. Where one melts into another...no lines, no borders.
It is hard to be in both worlds. If anything will drive me crazy it is that I try hard to make lines. It is not within me. I don't have borders. I don't have lines. I look at each person and see a life, a mist, that has a music of their own and a substance with no borders. It is okay. I want to say that to everyone I meet. It is okay. You are okay. Stop trying to contain the mist into borders. Please don't make me hard. I don't want to be hard, and contained. I want to flow. To just feel my way around and go where my mist seems to leak and seep.....
I do not do well when I put myself into boxes. I keep trying. Many times in my life I box myself. I don't want to hurt anyone who strives hard to "believe"...in the Jesus that is "true" and "one" .... I love that Jesus. I love his words. I love his belief. And yes, I love his humanity. He did not cause all those wars or those harsh mainstream judgments of "believers" who harken to some of his words, but mostly to words of people, like themselves, who are just trying. It's okay. Your boxes are intended to keep you safe, I understand. But test the waters...test the mists. Question a little. Put your toe out, gently....feel around. The mist is not evil. It is science and soul.... it will set you free.
I don't have answers to anyone's questions. Certainly not the big questions. But I know that a little nakedness of soul will do you good. Let your life fill you, let it swirl around you.... let go, just a little.... I believe there is a little Witch in all of us. We just call it different names.
Saturday, November 13, 2010
Old Things in New Times...
Food digestion is an interesting thing to me...How long it takes meat to digest as compared to a boiled, mushied pea just makes sense. I heard it takes more than 24 hours for a human body to digest one bite of steak. When I think of the huge T-bones I used to consume at a sitting, along with those butter and sour creamed boats of potatoes...I am surprised that I was hungry ever again. Memories and life are like food digestion.
Having over half of a century on this oddly meandering path that is my journey, looking backwards I tend to remember best the "steak" times, the meatier memories. We all have them. The milestones: certain birthdays, the first kisses, the first orgasms, the first funerals of people we depended on, to say nothing of weddings and births and...well, you get it. Those are the meat of our memories, and ones that take much digestion and much of what stays with us as we move on to other days. The funny thing is, although those memories are with me in a familiar level each day, it is the less meaty memories, the "peas" so to speak, that I work at digging up and re-visiting in my quieter moments.
I let myself sink back into my memories of "a regular day"...of a day I would get up and get ready for work and walk into my next minute with no distinction between today and tomorrow. Our lives are made up of those days, the days that build the foundation for our "special Steak day memory"...days we walk through without consideration of it being the only day, that day, that we will ever see again. "Getting through" it seems to be all it is worth. Contrary to what it seems like, those are the days that I concentrate on and enjoy wallowing in...those days that are vague and long ago, and blending into my meatier memories like applesauce filling in the hollows.
Closing my eyes, sitting in my wonderful easy chair, I let myself slip back through old days, sifting my "meat" and my "peas".... Usually, I choose the "pea" days to wallow in. I bring up memories of, as a young girl, brushing my little sister's hair...careful not to pull the tangles, and smelling her little-girlness in the shampoo waftings as I brush her airy hair into a pony-tail. I think of the warmth and steady comfort as I cuddle into my mom's soft side when she reads the chicken scratch on the pages that say things like, "...and I shan't get home tonite" about a little old woman and a stick, stick that beats pig... I wallow even more in the memories of an every-day time when my chubby little baby boy giggles on the floor as I sweep my hair over his sweet face to make him laugh when I say "boo."
Another memory pea happens in a time lost to me when I worked in a wonderful group home facility in Oregon. The people I "took care of" (who were actually my teachers in disguise) and the everyday-ness of our lives together as we taught each other and became entwined as family rises as a foggy pea memory. Marilyn, my sweet friend, had multiple "issues" the least being that she was developmentally delayed...with her useless tiny little legs, but overwhelmingly huge toothless smiles...who just wanted to "marry" every man who walked into her vicinity. I think she even asked me to marry her once. The sadness and the sweetness of the lives within that home lives on in the misty pea memory of my mind. Michelle, whose intelligence could not even be tested due to her multiple "disabilities" was an amazing teacher and excellent confidant, since she could not "talk" like us, but communicated by smiling and laughing so hard we thought she might die from lack of air...but who kept laughing in spite of the peril.
The memory of feelings are my pea memories I hold precious. Remembering walking, alone, on a sandy beach growing up...feeling the sand grains soften my hardened barefoot soles and smelling the bay water of fish and rain. Memories of the quiet excitement of having my grandparents join us on a Saturday, slicing the luncheon meat and cheese and being lovingly teased by a grampa who smelled like love and laughing and potato chips warm from the box.
More recent pea memories are even more poignant. The lurch of love and joy when, after answering the phone with my Caleb's number introducing it, and hearing his voice saying, "life is so great, mom...I'm okay"....I love that. And having my littlest child, with lengthening legs and bones jutting into the soft areas of my middle age, cuddling and resting as a familiar nest...I know those days are too soon lost, and he will join his brother out in the world, making and digesting his own "steak and peas"...I can only hope that they find me someplace in the sweet pea memories of their mind, too.
Yup. Digestion of food is like digestion of life. Building memories and nourishing our lives to help us keep walking and keep traveling until we can reach a destination that is made just for us. Whatever it may be.....
Having over half of a century on this oddly meandering path that is my journey, looking backwards I tend to remember best the "steak" times, the meatier memories. We all have them. The milestones: certain birthdays, the first kisses, the first orgasms, the first funerals of people we depended on, to say nothing of weddings and births and...well, you get it. Those are the meat of our memories, and ones that take much digestion and much of what stays with us as we move on to other days. The funny thing is, although those memories are with me in a familiar level each day, it is the less meaty memories, the "peas" so to speak, that I work at digging up and re-visiting in my quieter moments.
I let myself sink back into my memories of "a regular day"...of a day I would get up and get ready for work and walk into my next minute with no distinction between today and tomorrow. Our lives are made up of those days, the days that build the foundation for our "special Steak day memory"...days we walk through without consideration of it being the only day, that day, that we will ever see again. "Getting through" it seems to be all it is worth. Contrary to what it seems like, those are the days that I concentrate on and enjoy wallowing in...those days that are vague and long ago, and blending into my meatier memories like applesauce filling in the hollows.
Closing my eyes, sitting in my wonderful easy chair, I let myself slip back through old days, sifting my "meat" and my "peas".... Usually, I choose the "pea" days to wallow in. I bring up memories of, as a young girl, brushing my little sister's hair...careful not to pull the tangles, and smelling her little-girlness in the shampoo waftings as I brush her airy hair into a pony-tail. I think of the warmth and steady comfort as I cuddle into my mom's soft side when she reads the chicken scratch on the pages that say things like, "...and I shan't get home tonite" about a little old woman and a stick, stick that beats pig... I wallow even more in the memories of an every-day time when my chubby little baby boy giggles on the floor as I sweep my hair over his sweet face to make him laugh when I say "boo."
Another memory pea happens in a time lost to me when I worked in a wonderful group home facility in Oregon. The people I "took care of" (who were actually my teachers in disguise) and the everyday-ness of our lives together as we taught each other and became entwined as family rises as a foggy pea memory. Marilyn, my sweet friend, had multiple "issues" the least being that she was developmentally delayed...with her useless tiny little legs, but overwhelmingly huge toothless smiles...who just wanted to "marry" every man who walked into her vicinity. I think she even asked me to marry her once. The sadness and the sweetness of the lives within that home lives on in the misty pea memory of my mind. Michelle, whose intelligence could not even be tested due to her multiple "disabilities" was an amazing teacher and excellent confidant, since she could not "talk" like us, but communicated by smiling and laughing so hard we thought she might die from lack of air...but who kept laughing in spite of the peril.
The memory of feelings are my pea memories I hold precious. Remembering walking, alone, on a sandy beach growing up...feeling the sand grains soften my hardened barefoot soles and smelling the bay water of fish and rain. Memories of the quiet excitement of having my grandparents join us on a Saturday, slicing the luncheon meat and cheese and being lovingly teased by a grampa who smelled like love and laughing and potato chips warm from the box.
More recent pea memories are even more poignant. The lurch of love and joy when, after answering the phone with my Caleb's number introducing it, and hearing his voice saying, "life is so great, mom...I'm okay"....I love that. And having my littlest child, with lengthening legs and bones jutting into the soft areas of my middle age, cuddling and resting as a familiar nest...I know those days are too soon lost, and he will join his brother out in the world, making and digesting his own "steak and peas"...I can only hope that they find me someplace in the sweet pea memories of their mind, too.
Yup. Digestion of food is like digestion of life. Building memories and nourishing our lives to help us keep walking and keep traveling until we can reach a destination that is made just for us. Whatever it may be.....
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