Leaves of flame and hands without names, we all rest in Her and depend upon her for our existence . . . simple, changing.
In my dreams, my Self is free to see beyond the forms of our physical life and to realize the hunger, the need, of so many reaching out in confusion and fear. Hands in need, begging, calling out for guidance to grow, asking to learn, yearning to be taught instead of told, old ways returning with fiery truth glowing through Her leaves of gold and burning away the stagnant air of compressed hearts releasing love and creativity with honor.
I release my dreams into reality and they bloom, grow, into a depth of knowing reaching for the sky to feed the hungry hands.
I feel flutters of anxiety, calmed by knowing that all this is a play on a stage and the scenes can change in an instant but I am still me. She is within and we will be fine. All is well.
Abundance always, all around. Lack is only a perception of world that can be given the boot and set aside for the illusion it is. Certainly, less and more are relative in the world, but they are malleable, changing constantly with or without our consent. But true abundance, fulfillment, knowing that this moment in Self is enough, flares like the sun shouting out the dawning. Momma Plenty brings her basket of goodies and sprinkles stardust upon my heart until it overflows.
In my dreams, I feed the need of Self and the hungry hands with Her bounty. And when we are full, peace permeates our world spreading through the universe like a gentle breeze kissing all life into stillness . . . and infinite echo of eternity for an instant or always.
All is well--plenty--enough.
Movement comes in and we play, trying on the clothes of new roles or old ones or borrowing for a glimpse of growth.
Change is welcome and I reach out to hold hands with Her as the weaving continues . . . I touch the thread, hold the loom steady, spin the coarse fiber, stitch tightly or loosely, creating a cloak of rainbow and clouds, leaves and feathers, snowflakes and emeralds, fur and skin and bone, the moon in one hand, the sun in the other, and I rest in Gaia for we are One . . . changing yet always the same. Abundant.
Before drawing the card . . .
Spinning, weaving, the threads of my life interwoven with another and another. Here we are, traversing the path at different paces, one steps off and other pauses, waiting, honoring, loving, accepting, and warmly welcomes the return. All is well. Time is irrelevant for growth is occurring and change is happening within the tapestry we create. Now--all is well. Each moment to unfold, each thread that unravels will betaken up and re-woven into a new design, eternally creating. In this moment, all is well. Step b step, thread by thread.
As I finish writing, there is a song I recall, shared with me by a beautiful soul . . . I share it with you here . . . "Weave and Mend" . . .
|Old woman is watching, watching over you|
In the darkness of the storm, she is watching
She is weaving, mending, gathering the colours
She is watching over you
So weave and mend
Gather the fragments safe
And win the sacred circle sisters
Weave and mend, weave and mend,
Oh women, weave and mend
Old woman is weaving, gathering the threads
Her bones become the loom she is weaving,
She is watching, weaving, gathering the colours
She is watching over you
For years I’ve been watching, waiting for old woman
Feeling lost and so alone, I’ve been watching.
Now I find her weaving, gathering the colours
Now I find her in myself
Written by Mary Trup; Sung by Frances Black