Blood red and flowing from where it should not be and going into forbidden realms. A passage unauthorized yet still the intrusion happens, filling the space and crowding the individuals closer together in distress.
Ungainly and rough, a limb reaches out to the side from a dis-eased trunk that isn’t supporting its needs and, feeling betrayed, is unable to offer further support in itself.
Rivers of thick and thin, now thin and seeping into all the crevices once immune to its teasing, trickling until a shallow bowl is brimming with unfamiliar dampness and the slightest tilt spills the fluid into ever more channels. Mopping it up, the sponge turns from light pink to dark burgundy, saturated and with nowhere to release the excess, trying to transmute the glistening paint into other shapes and forms that might be useful -- a box, a triangle, a star.
As the red flows over its banks and slides down cracks that weren’t there before, the pace of the source begins to slow, falling into a stupor and not even possible to move. The rushing force that was rhythmic, begins to stutter, to drain, to disappear its vitality into the cracks and crevices.
What we need is a new plan, to create a template to be overlaid so the stream knows the way home and the river tired of leaking can tumble once more in rapid joy around corners and up the neck of the beast. Running uphill where forbidden or welcome?
There isn’t any red mud in the yellow river anymore; all that’s left is the silt so light and thin that brings color but no substance, it is an illusion of the spectacular, pretending to be something that it no longer is.
And yet the whole still retains the song; the notes may be off-key or even dormant, non-vibrational, but they can be re-tuned and played into harmony if we just find the fork, the right one, the note. For the illusory fluid retains the memory of what it once was, it remembers how it used to flow thick and fast, filled with strength and depth where one could look into its center and see the nucleus of life, of renewal. I can see its reflection even now, the memories of play and vigor. Yet as long as the red river cascades out of bounds, he continues to weaken and falter.
The boomerang has become a ball, not only taking up too much space but also not returning to its own sense of perspective, self and respect for duty; it’s pretending to be what it’s not, imagining itself another shape and needs to be reminded of who it really is, what its purpose remains to be.
The magenta waterfall grows and expands, washing away the integrity of the clay and the walls, filling the cavity taut like a balloon of sludge rather than screening it. Exhaustion follows reluctantly, confused and dismayed, carried along a red current that divides and floods.
Where’s the architect? Where are the plans? So many to choose from, and so I dig into the archives, reading, selecting scroll after scroll, ancient earth templates of health to be melded into the flood, where the vibrations will sink into alignment and somehow restore vitality, balance and ease.
__________The above is a reflective stream written four days ago regarding Pooka's sudden illness; a week ago, he collapsed and diagnostics were unclear as well as conflicting. The only thing we know for sure is that his spleen is enlarged by a mass, and there is internal bleeding so he is/was anemic. My thoughts during the reflection were from an energetic perspective, and were simply an attempt to align my own energy with his condition as I sought the appropriate Homeopathic remedies to support him.
I'm happy to say that he is -- as of the past couple days -- alert, comfortable, and doing quite well all things considered. :-)