Awen

"Awen, the living energy that stands behind the form" *

*Martin Shaw from Scatterlings

Every once in a while, it's fun to scroll through some photos and enliven them with the iPhone app Artisto. Those above seemed to want to express their living energy with the help of that neat bit of software.

Widget ... because he's just so darned cute.

Falling Into Fascination

Marion Woodman

One of my quirks seems to be that I fall suddenly into fascination with certain authors, both fiction and non-fiction. In the past, it's been with the marvelous and wise Jungian Marion Woodman (born in 1928, published her first book when she was 52) or with the evocative naturalist Terry Tempest Williams; I end up buying every single one of their books to read sequentially, and google articles, essays, and videos on them, just to obtain a more in-depth feeling for these people. It's sort of like falling in love:

"There was I, sitting at one side of a long table, quietly listening to a Geography lesson and doing (as they say) nobody any harm, when suddenly the world was filled with a wonderful and quite unaccountable light and warmth. Trying to make out where this radiance came from, I gradually realized that it centered on Daphne, who was sitting opposite. We beamed at each other."

The above quote was written (about a time when she was a child) by my new love, Mary Midgley, a philosopher born in 1919 (published her first book when she was 59), in her memoir The Owl of Minerva. I "met" Mary while reading a series of books on nature by Stephen Harrod Buhner; he mentioned Mary quite often and with every quote he shared, I fell more in love with her until the momentum carried me into getting as many of her books as I could. I've never ended up meeting any of my author-loves, and maybe I don't need to ... I hear their voices in my heart and head, almost as if they are happy to guide and bless me from afar like distant mentors.

Mary Midgley

As it happens, however, I don't fall in love only with writers, but also with topics or subjects, and when I do, then comes immersion within those as well. When I began to show dogs in my 20s, I read hundreds of books on canid behavior as well as those specific to training and breeding; almost 10 years later, I did the same with felines, and then came the energy medicines (homeopathy and flower essences) followed by Ayurveda in my fourth decade. All of these were built upon the continual scaffold-shifting that is my spiritual Self seeking the Divine. Thus, while my study of topics or subjects (or authors) is intense and immersive, I come up for air to explore my own intuition and imagination to apply these ideas in the context of my own life. 

So, what occasionally appears to be indecisive or waffling behavior is, rather, a whole-life view--the Big Picture--of what this all means to me instead of a reductionist approach in perspective. I dive deep but try not to become mired down, thus allowing my fascination or love to guide me, hopefully, into being a more loving, embodied, and empowered woman who is more at ease with the ebb and flow that is Nature.

Forests and Silence

I won’t make this post too long, or I’ll try not to (please know that I could have gone on much longer than I did! LOL). Though I’d love to have the time to do so. However, my focus is simply to share rather than to convince. What’s it all about? Books, of course!

Specifically, two books that I’ve had to forcibly pull myself away from at night in order to get decent sleep and away from during the day so that I could be somewhat productive. Oh sure, I could have read them start to finish without interruption, but these are the types of books I like to ponder, muse over, re-read sections or paragraphs, and thoroughly relish the insights and nuances. Plus, I really do have obligations -- family, creativity, spirituality -- that are also a priority. But, even if I could have read the books in one sitting, I doubt I would have; I happen to enjoy anticipation and savoring a special treat.

Now, to understand my compulsion to read these particular books, one must also know that I have nearly two hundred unread books on my shelves, books waiting patiently for their turn, books that I told myself I simply “had to have right now” but became distracted too easily by the next one to strike my fancy. Anyone else experience this? 

The author is Sara Maitland and the books are From the Forest (2012) and A Book of Silence (2008). The first one I read -- From the Forest -- was recommended to me by a friend who lives in London. I was no more than twenty or so pages into it before I ordered A Book of Silence. Interestingly, although Maitland has been publishing novels and short-stories since 1978, and is apparently well-known for them in the UK, my introduction to her has been through her recent non-fiction. 

Enough backstory! Yes? Yes. (select the 'read more' link below)

self and Self

Frieda Fordham's Introduction to Jung's Psychology is a gem for those of us who just want to understand the gist of Jung and his terminology. Because I'm diving into the works of female Jungian analysts as another window into the Divine Feminine, I wanted a quick-reference book. This one was re-published in 1966 (originally published in 1953) with an updated biographical sketch, and, as far as I could determine, is still considered one of the best resources for an overview of Jung. I greatly enjoyed it, I must say!

While this led me into a desire to read Jung's entire collection, as I now find him fascinating, that effort will have to be put on hold indefinitely. I have way too many other projects to do and books to read already, so I must prioritize. Don't we all?

I do highly recommend this thin volume, though, for anyone who is curious about Jung. An additional benefit is that Jung himself approved the work; the editorial note states: "The reader can enjoy all the attractive qualities of the introductory exposition with the added satisfaction of knowing that it is authentic. It has Jung's own Imprimatur and his personal commendation." Nice!

One aspect I hadn't realized was Jung's strong wish that every person be educated in the process of self discovery from childhood, and, if not, then at the very least all adults so that they could provide children with clearer guidance. Fordham also summarizes Jung's disgust with mass manipulation of people by organizations and governments, primarily because of this lack of deep self-awareness; not a surprise considering the wars he witnessed. I can imagine Jung would be even more appalled at the state of our global situation.

Of course, there are a lot of psychologists and spiritual leaders these days emphasizing the need for self-awareness and ritual in the lives of adults and children. I, for one, wish that some form of this was taught in grammar school along with the basics of meditation. We overload kids with information and sports without any framework in which to ground their own unique personalities. One of my favorite books exploring children, phases of life, and ritual is Bill Plotkin's Nature and the Human Soul. If I had children or grandchildren, I'd be recommending it. As it is, I try to talk about the subject with my brother and his kids; most of my brief suggestions are immediately turned away because, after all, he (and most other parents I know) says: "You don't have kids so you don't really have a clue." Granted. But this doesn't mean that I don't hope for a better future for the children of our world.

Script

Our words and the writing are structured so that we can understand each other and speak into the same space. Yet, as with the rest of the world, the intuitive and rational have been separated as if they are prohibited from holding hands on the same page of song and community. We allow for poetry yet even that has been co-opted at times into a rigid structure of so-called perfection. The linear left-brain control that is so masculine. Why? 

See the play of circles and spirals, the song of liberation that comes through the easy art of writing into the Divine Feminine. We call this unprofessional or incorrect. Who says? Are we so caught up in our rules and restrictions that we cannot read beyond the structure into a limitless perception that includes the weightless flight of words that resonate into Soul expression? When we write and read, where is the essence of Gaia to come through if we cast Her into the shackles of rational control of the word? Why suppress the shivers of ecstasy and keep them from resonating, expanding? What do we read and perceive in the words at play when we release our expectations and desire for control? Where is the freedom of poetry within everyday experiences that merge the faces of form and spirit? Where is the acceptability of soul within prose? 

So what if the expression is not real! What’s real? It is what we make it! All these rigid structures cannot be the end all or the totality. What if we were reading a translation of another language, where we retain the essence that leaves its scent upon the portals that open our hearts and minds, so we allow the aroma of the letters to waft under nose and skin, and settle into a bloodstream rushing easily from here to there. 

This is where I come from -- the structure and rigidity -- and there is where I am going -- into the open expanse of space where poetry and prose meet without separation. Who is to say that one is different or more important? Who is to say that our Souls cannot absorb and assimilate the pink lotus from the tall pine tree or the weeping reflections that fall from my eyes? We speak in a written language that can be infused with Infinite Spirit if we don’t squeeze the very life out of the freedom of expression. Where do we come into our own center of voice if we allow the external strictures to choke the Soul? 

Not all writing is meant to be read solely by mind as a manual that calls to the bastards and tosses them into the river before they’ve even lived. Not all writing is meant to be judged but rather it is to be felt in the heart and allowed to pulse in ecstasy throughout the subtle energy fields of one base existence to reconnect heart and mind. 

Maybe we ask ourselves ... what am I writing for and into? Why do we write? Is this piece meant to follow the gr’up footsteps of academic precision and vital learning or is it meant to bloom in the simple childish innocence of the wildflowers along the barren highway of long forgotten trails where pilgrims once traveled before the highway paved over free spirit?

Imagination Instead of Blame

Southern Cross, Australian Bush Flower (wikimedia commons)

"In recent years some have spoken against a metaphoric view of disease because they don't want us 'blaming' patients for their physical problems. If cancer is related to a person's way of life, they complain, we will hold the individual responsible for an illness over which he has no control. It is true that blaming a person for his disease only leads to guilt, and no increase in imagination. Yet, in Sardello's words, 'The object of therapeutic treatment is to return imagination to the things that have become only physical.' Whenever we place blame, we are looking for a scapegoat for a real dislocation which is difficult to find and in which we ourselves, as individuals and as a society, are implicated. Blame is a defensive substitute for an honest examination of life that seeks guidance in our mistakes. Fundamentally it is a way of averting consciousness of error. Sardello recommends that if our hearts are attacking us or if cancer is immersing us in fantasies of death, then we should listen to these symptoms and adjust life accordingly. Rather than blame, we could respond. Listening to the messages of the body is not the same as blaming the patient."

~ Thomas Moore in Care of the Soul

What I like about this view is that it provides us with the ability to step back from standard thoughts about ourselves and others; to allow some relational space between body and soul; to realize that there is more to life than what we can see or touch, or even feel. With each passing year, energy medicine gains ground and more people awaken to the possibility that we each have let circumstances influence and control us on an unconscious level. Imagination is powerful and empowering...

Beauty

When the flower wilts,

as it must,

it is not beauty that passes away

but merely the form

on which

beauty is reflected.

~ Pandit Vamadeva Shastri

another blog

For those of you who may be interested, I have started another blog called On the Gaia Path because I wanted to create a separate space in which to more deeply write into my relationship with the Divine Feminine. Some of the types of writing that used to appear here will be posted there in future. But, no worries, this one will continue as well.

Blessings!

Poppy

Bud in the heart ... and in the flower ...
where in every moment her love is a shower
of blessings that guide us and share in the night
the wisdom of peace over power of might
and so is the little one growing in height
receiving the blessing of full moon's cool light.
See the bud opening from sleeping in white,
so tiny and faithful, a golden delight.


     Clear and sweet is the message of the flower bud, awaiting its turn to shine yet already drawing to it the butterflies and hummingbirds, all hovering to find out who she will be and what gifts she brings into their world. Their glorious colors mingle with hers ... she is darker at first, contracted, arms wrapped around herself, also waiting in this moment yet already knowing her purpose that rises upon the wind, her scent going out, seeking and showing.
     She allows the food she needs to flow gently into her roots and leaves but she doesn't have to do anything except open to the bounty all around for she has adapted and what others see as scarcity, she sees as opportunity and a serene wisdom in knowing now is her time. Now is her moment in the sun before the long sleep of the cycles that continue, repeating themselves within the illusion of form that is cherished.

     I open a random book and read " ... your fleeting steps kiss the dust of this world into sweetness ... "

     There is a mesmerizing appeal to reading Rabindranath Tagore (the quote is from The Fugitive). His words flow like poetry yet their rhythm is that of prose holding itself proud and tall upon the stems of Divine flowers, second to none and absent the rigid affectations of some poems that spit in short, concise stutters upon the page as if they fear saying too much and expect us to glean their hidden intent by digging without the proper tools (I love poetry but some definitely has this effect upon me). But Tagore's writing ... what a glorious feeling to watch the shapes of the words and sentences bend in an arc that covers the pages like a rainbow, the imagery heart-felt. It is as if Tagore knew the intimacy of the Sacred World and the Divine Source as One and merely opened himself to their harmony.

______________

I remain devoted to the lovely Arizona Poppy and her sweetness. :-)

A Simple Sip

Drink from the flowering chalice of gold, 

never to die and never grow old,

for sunshine and light are always here,

only our form may fade ... disappear.

So sip from the cup of awakening Soul,

feeling the warmth in which we are Whole.

     She opens her arms and offers all she is, ever allowing and loving, accepting the journey for what it will be and knowing the warmth of love will soften and gentle the rigid contours of the resistance that fell from the sky when we thought we had to protect ourselves.

     As the five yellow petals cup her warmth, they welcome us into the center where orange overlay is sweet as marmalade and hold us softly. There are no other concerns, only the love that rests at the center, warm with welcome and the wrinkles in the petals like tissue paper that tear easily. 

     Easily uprooted by the winds and carried somewhere unexpected yet the sun emerges after the rain and the roots seek new soil, delicate thread tendrils winding through the rock with soft caress and they settle to bloom again, one at a time; some tiny, some larger, yet so similar are they really different sizes or is it illusion?

     Much green upholds the slender stem that attaches to the blossom tentatively. Lots of tiny leaves line themselves up along the stronger stems in graduating narrow ovals, barely allowing any distance between them, they are a strong community, joined together to nourish and uphold the light of wisdom and the birth of warm embrace to those who seek the sweet nectar of awakening.

     The petal-cup curves with gentle touch, firm at first as if to catch the morning dew but only receives the rare raindrop for dew is unknown here. And yet, she breathes in and out a whisper of faith. Her time is now and she cannot wait for the water that may not arrive, she has to dance now for now is all she has.

     A dainty chalice warm with welcome. Petals of gold rays of sunshine melted and molded into the flower of the sun.

     Petals of gold, a sunshine mold, made from peace, our heart to hold. 

     Leaves of green that overlay while they grow and play in the shadow of the sun, unborn yet One.

     Feel the warmth of changing world within the flower the anther twirls, dancing on the curving stage where none can harm and there is no age. For only now is what we know, when dancing in the bloom that shows us how to be warm with welcome in the lee of wind and rock and burning sun ... warming, holding, all are One.

     A ladder do the leaves begin, overlaid long and thin, graduating as they grow into the branch of all we know, one lesson learned upon the other, family, friends, commune together. Watch the little figures grow, expanding with a gentle flow of green distinctive edges showing, yet reliant upon the one defiant. All together, they are stronger and can support the culmination of their life as One that rises high on slender stem to catch the eye, a vision splendid only dreamed and come to life. 

     A magic in this little flower, living, dying, within a few short hours. To be here, now, to rise and fall, as the fragile tissue paper petals dry and thin and tear becoming ragged and then shriveling into a papery shell of what it once was, to fall into dirt or fly upon the wind carrying it seeds, its message far away and await its turn to warmly welcome once again within the natural flow in faith.

The Trail

     For the first time in a very long while, I found myself unable to stop reading a book. All my other plans and projects fell by the wayside. And, the additional shocker in that complete captivation for me was that this is a memoir, not a novel, plus is over 400 pages long. Being so caught up in a book that I couldn't put it down used to happen to me constantly, up until a few years ago. However, over the past five years, I often have multiple books going at the same time, flitting from one to the other, easily distracted. Not so with The Trail.
     The author, Elizabeth Sheehan, surprised me with how quickly I was captivated by her tale; I didn't expect to be. I bought the book simply because I was curious. I had watched the movie The Way recently (which is fantastic), and recalled that Elizabeth had written of her own experiences on The Camino de Santiago, a 500-mile walk from one end of Spain to the other that is a 1000-year-old pilgrimage. And, since I knew a little about Elizabeth from reading her mother Molly's blog for years now, I figured I'd give it a go.
     Elizabeth brings her unique perspective truthfully and earnestly in to the story. From the beginning, I applaud her honesty in revealing her desires and demands upon herself and others, and admire how she reveals enough backstory of her follow pilgrims to create a connection yet beautifully respects their confidences by not sharing intimate details of their deeply personal journeys. Elizabeth's writing straddles the arrogance of youth (she's 24 when she begins her walk) and a lovely budding wisdom firmly founded upon her spirituality and her family.
     Much of her writing is simply gorgeous, and there are many moments where the prose is exquisite. I wish that I had made notes of those very special turns of phrase that brought incredible light and joy into my very being. But you'll just have to find them for yourself by reading the book.

     Ultimately, I couldn't put the book down because I felt Elizabeth's angst and desperation, and wanted to know what would happen, and ... because she returned me to my own feelings and experiences of early adulthood with its challenging path of growth from youth to maturity. Throughout, she beautifully alternates between the physical, mental, emotional and spiritual aspects of the journey. While the book is nearly all narrative, with only the rare venture into recalled dialogue, I was never bored as she enticed me to follow in her wake along the Camino.

    I highly recommend The Trail ~ A True Tale of the Camino by Elizabeth Sheehan.

Song of the World through Flowers

Here and now, in this beautiful moment, follow the rhythm of the pen and the ink, the words that flow in their lines and swirls ...

Photo Courtesy of Green Hope Farm
all rights reserved 2012

I am amazed at all the world
feeling so free and light this morning--
odd in that the humidity is heavy 
this monsoon day from rain last night. 


The breeze carries messages of moisture
the 'memory of water'
that holds the vibrations
rhythms of flowers plants birds mammals
their voices and the howls of coyotes
and the cooing of doves 
echoing across the desert in song.


Just imagine the particles of water 
flowing in the air currents
holding the song of a flower's transcendence
into more than what we see
feel the touch of a thousand blooms 
as they drift upon the air
able to follow the rhythms of life
and world far from where they
grew and bloomed.


Their subtle energy patterns 
dancing upon the water molecules 
like fairies upon the fields of forever
in distant memory when we were children
and all was ephemeral and magical.


Sitting outside in the humidity
can we feel the rhythm of drums from long ago
that left their prints within the earth
that provides nourishment to the to
slender flower stalk that
when it blooms
beats with the hearts of millions
past present and future?


All we need to do is open
be present to the wonders of Nature
the amazing orchestra that is Gaia
upon the winds and 
within the rivers and oceans
where high above in the mountains 
a solitary flower nods her head and the
whole world bursts into song
carried upon the wings of a butterfly.

Photo Courtesy of Green Hope Farm
all rights reserved 2012

We are blessed with incredible wonders.
Can we feel the rhythm?
... the ebb and flow, the flutes and drums and 
strings of theory that wise ones knew in the beginning
that have been reborn into the present?


Feel the rhythm of blood 
flowing with the wet air
hear the thunder of awareness 
sharpen our senses
and the bolts of lightning illuminate our souls 
as we feel the charge chase itself 
upon our spines
and going deep, deep into Mother Earth
connecting the songs of all life as One.


We synchronize
and harmonize
and offer up space for solos
that we honor
who then step aside for the next unique display of love
bound in courtship with all life in Community.
This is feeling the rhythm
the pulse of the Universe
of the Divine
that is pounding and rushing at one moment
then gently cascading the next into a
sweet slumbering stillness
where we can hear the voice of the flowers
and the rocks and billions of organisms 
creating a wonderland of labyrinthine passages
beneath our feet and
within our own bodies 
where we all live in harmony
recognizing when we stumble that another will pick up the thread
the tune of another melody just as valuable
just as amazing.


Feel the rhythm of the world 
dancing in and out of existence 
with each breath, each thought---
my thought or yours or the thoughts 
of the quail walking the wall in witness to Life.


Feel the perfect rhythm that is Gaia manifest 
and we know the song in our own hearts ...
we listen and hear Her voice calling and 
we join in the rapture of Life.

Photo Courtesy of Green Hope Farm
all rights reserved 2012

When I partake of flower essences
it is as if I open to feel the cosmic rhythm 
that is carried through them and birthed into the world, 
their pure love and grace of abundance. 
When they offer their subtle energy into the world, 
and into a form that connects us all
---the precious water of Mother's Womb---
then they are singing the rhythm of healing and harmony 
into the Song of the World.
And sometimes, 
in those rare moments when we feel 
completely open and vulnerable and willing, 
we feel their rhythm 
across the illusory bounds of time and space 
and millions of flowers 
sing us into the Rhythm of Life.










______________________
I could say that this piece began this morning from a Clarity Works prompt "feel the rhythm" and I simply followed the beat ... but it was far more than that, and began much earlier. The past several days have seen me settling so peacefully into Self and Space that I once more felt the flowers calling me through their Essences. Specifically, it was the Green Hope Farm Flower Essences calling my body-electric and I give thanks to the Flowers, their Angels and Elementals, and the magic that is Molly and those who join her in providing their offerings of healing Essence.

Spiral Woman

A woman stands in a field, and then spins, twirling, not knowing which direction to go or even to look toward . . . arms flung wide, spinning, so many options and she can't stop spinning, becoming dizzy until she drops, resting at last among the field of flowers that cover all the graves of other women who didn't know where to go or who to turn to, not realizing that they only had to look within to find the stillness and a pure guide that would point the direction of life that would be strong and full.


A woman stands in a field, the plow sturdy beneath roughened palms, the rows behind her circle gently into a spiral, and the horse before her calls out, tossing its head full of mane and spirit, inviting her to pause in her work. The woman steps away from the tool, releases the harness, and, grasping a handful of coarse hair, flings herself high onto the back of the horse and they are off, galloping across the field, into the woods, up the mountain . . . they lean forward together, one Being, as legs tighten around a full chest breathing powerfully and four legs run uphill, muscles bunching and releasing, incredible endurance even after a day of plowing the field; once freed, the horse knows only the pure joy of running, and they breathe as One, nearing the top, and then they pause, chests heaving, nostrils flaring. Together they see all directions from the peak -- past, present, and future. And peace descends like a soft mist enveloping them in its cool embrace, pleasantly blinding them to all but the present moment. Breathing returns to normal as they stand as One, heads bowed in Grace.


A woman stands in a field, lost, slumping . . . she looks up and sees a vision upon the mountain, she sees a Being of Beauty: horse and woman as one. She sees freedom and power, grace and strength to move forward without knowing the destination because she will be safe and guided once she accepts and welcomes her own wisdom. She keeps her eyes on the woman-horse, and lifts a foot -- for a moment the golden shackle is heavy, but she continues lifting her foot, and believing, and all resistance dissolves as the shackle's lock falls apart and the gold breaks into a thousand pieces that begin glowing and rise into the sky like sparks from a campfire chasing each other across the field. And the woman walks, first slowly, then with more confidence, across the the field that held her sweetly grounded, but knowing now was her time to fly and, eyes upon the horse-woman, she transforms into an owl, a tiny Elf Owl who will fly both day and night, witness to all that is in the world, until she creates her own nest among the saguaro forest.

Elf Owl at AZ-Sonora Desert Museum

A woman stands in a field, then is spinning in joy, knowing she can pause any time to run or soar or fall back among the daisies waving happily all around her in encouragement and support. No more sad waiting or spinning without direction. Gallop or soar into the world of imagination and do it now!

____________
The above stream-of-consciousness piece came out of the ClarityWorks prompt "a woman stands in a field" but was clearly influenced by an image of a horse I saw this morning on fb, as well as the Elf Owl I saw Wednesday at the Arizona-Sonora Desert Museum. Ron and I had both agreed that the Elf Owl won the "cutest critter of the day" award; some amazing photos of the Elf Owl are HERE.

A week ago, before the rains came, Ron helped a pigeon in the park quench his thirst and cool his head! See the short video below.

Melting

Melting all over the table, the dish was not large enough to hold all the water from the thawed ice sculpture. Should have thought of that ... container and form. It was making a mess, starting to drip over the edge, plopping onto the floor, slowly at first. But now that the water had a channel, a destination, it almost seemed as if the melting increased in speed. The beautiful swan, created so very carefully, was becoming a lump, smooth and slippery instead of feather-frosted and defined, and her shape was disappearing, becoming nothing and everything all at the same time.

She could be reshaped, even now, and put in the freezer again to be held stiffly in esteem in a set form, or she can continue her journey of release, and rejoin the broader ocean beneath the earth--the core ocean where all is healed instantly. 

Thawed becomes the world's polarity where tipped out of balance, unable to prepare, only watching in horror and/or amazement as we shift into a new phase. Once frozen, we can thaw, but nothing of the original remains exactly the same--all is changed a little at the very least, transformed by the moments in stasis as life moved on around us. What happens next?

If we have no fear then we simply open and move within the world that has become unfamiliar due to time passing without us like a Sleepy Hollow effect where we awaken so many years later. Who were we then? Who are we now? 

Hearts frozen, then thawed, until it seems all we know is this moment and the past is gone, melted away into the larger field of existence where it was healed without any fanfare or effort on our part, no struggle necessary, indeed without our even knowing. We are returned to the world in a fresh form and move on from this set point. 

The heat is thawing me, melting residual resistance, dripping all the fearful nodules from joints that had been frozen. Thawed, my muscles begin to soften, the cells easily shift and move and take in what I need, releasing what I don't, releasing the crystalline structures of past experiences like sculpted fortresses of ice melting. And with that warmth going so deeply, even my thoughts and beliefs are thawed, becoming more fluid. And when I feel the cold come in before its time, seeking to control the flexible shapes of potential in passages of presence, I spread wide the blinds, open the windows, place the ice sculpture beneath the sun and we are thawed once more.

Cycles. Mysteries.

All life transforms as we move into new ages; will humans journey further? Will we first need to flow into the ocean, the heart-core of Gaia-manifest, the hidden sea where light and dark dance with joy, in partnership, creating waves and waving fronds of new verdant life? 

Thawed, all becomes possible.

_________________________

While the above stream of writing was prompted by the word "thawed" (ClarityWorks daily prompts), I also see its roots in the heat of the desert and across the country, and, further, images that apparently remained from catching bits of shows on PBS yesterday about global warming, polar ice melting, volcanoes around the world, etc. I don't fear the demise of humans, if that is what happens, but the imagery remained with me of how elements in our world transform and are themselves transformed by others through the grace and power of our living planet, our Mother Earth. 

Sail Away

© Photo1921 | Dreamstime.com

Sailing
on a ship of skin
wrapped around bones of bow
and flesh of stern
and a mast of hair
led by the heart of She who is 
mounted firmly in front
guiding and leading
lending Her intuition to 
steering as I spin the wheel
turning into the waves
leaning into the winds that 
carry the scent of wildflowers blooming
on distant shores alive and pulsating with the 
hum and beat of drums deep within the caves
as Her heart beats into the 
earth and water, air and fire of Her Core.


Sail away,
feel the rhythm that pulsates 
into the ocean and up to this ship that 
sails me into world and form.


Sailing . . .
born in a rush that carries me 
down the mountain in the turbulent river
cold and invigorating
to burst into the Light.


Then, a reversal of birth as I 
tuck my head into bent knees and 
feel the world
this 'me'
disappear
until I am once more only the ocean.


Merged, I can see the ship
that sailed me home . . . 


Sailing in the distance
riding gentle waves
floating in peace,
I smile to see it from here
to feel with compassion her curves and angles
her grace when she remains within her element
and from here I can see the colors of courage
that were not apparent when too close
see the reds and purples of her hull
the blues of her mast
the green tints of rails reflecting her union with elementals.


She sails the ocean but without her billowing sheets raised high
she goes nowhere
needing the wind to move her across the vast distances
needing the light of sun and stars to find direction.
As she sails to distant shores
she opens her portholes to the visions of diversity and 
welcomes aboard the skirts and trousers
the babes in swaddled clothing held to mothers' breasts
the golden grains
the sweet fruits
intriguing spices new to her decks of salty brine.
Rainbows walk into her heart and are welcome.


She does not change to become her guests
because then she could not carry them in her heart as they truly are
and she would sink into the depths for not being who she is.
And so she rests in her curved bones and
polished skin and takes on ballast when needed 
so she can remain afloat
remain true to her own construction and 
hand-carved lovingly-endowed Figurehead
leading the way
true to her feminine nature
yet holding with compassion the 
lights of vision that guide her to 
manifest the shores of experience and knowledge 
that have been invited aboard;
the discernment and fire of discovery
the drive to explore rather than drift aimlessly
the rudder of her currents directed by 
whale and sped on by dolphins and
opened to air by the antics of behemoths
spewing and spraying 
and soaring for breathless moments
out of their element and 
sharing the wisdom of becoming and being and doing 
whether it is our nature or not--briefly.


And so she realizes her potential to sail the seas 
and be free and at ease 
upon the unity of divine knowing and allowing and 
creating a reality in which she is perfectly at home 
while still being part of the world, 
part of the word,
the sounds of form, 
as she remains content to sail the oceans, solitary, 
yet treasure her forays into bay and harbor during quiet or storm, 
to experience all then sail away again 
air puffing out her sails in broad gentle curves 
and with easy movements, 
tacking into the wind, 
divining her true course on the broad ocean.


Sail away . . . 

New Release on the Gaia Path

I'm very pleased to share that I have finally published my second collection of contemplative pieces.

Thank you to those of you who have been reading my blog during the past year and half, providing encouragement, appreciation and love. Please know that you have helped me feel a deeper confidence in offering my writing to others, and I'm grateful.

Should you know anyone who might be interested in either of my collections, both are available as printed copies or as ebooks through Lulu.com

Wrinkles

mesquite

Crinkles and creases that hide and reveal. 
Not only do they obscure the full picture but also present some parts of the image in strong relief, vivid and sharp.


The full picture laid out flat is a clear but one-dimensional snap-shot that cannot fully express the journey.


Take that same picture, clasp it between your hands and have at it, wadding it up into a ball until we have to look closely to see the image, parts of it displayed upon the exposed edges while other portions are hidden in the creases. 
Watch as the ball begins to expand on its own, unable to remain compressed because that is not the journey either. 
The journey is in the unfolding, the expansion, the expression gradually of all the colors and shapes always there but revealed more slowly as we observe.
Sharp mountains become worn away over time, the edge softening if we let nature take its course. As the mountains soften, the canyons fill out, spreading and widening, becoming broad and allowing trees to grow, to sink roots. 
Our entire life, the image, is a wadded up ball, a circle of spirit and body beginning the joureny. 
We have within us, as we lay in Her womb, all possibility, we are tightly curled, crumpled, wrinkled, and waiting to grow, to expand. 
If we were to see ourselves clearly, would we see the potential of our journey drawn upon our skin like an artistic masterpiece, all the colors and lines alluding to where we could go and who we might become? 
But the picture is blurry because we are small, compressed, hardly even able at first for our mountains and valleys--our strengths and our softness--to be seen. Our precise vision and gentle curves barely visible until we are born and begin living, expanding. 
Each one of us painted in perfection, and then crumpled into a ball so that we can find our own way, our own expression of love within the world, travel our own path.
I look at the painting of Self, reflecting upon the image. See the saturation of bright colors of family loving and happy on a trip; globs of black here and there when I was gone, had disappeared from sight while struggling just to survive a moment in danger. The dark slashes of deep valley where depression almost consumed me and the bright purple mountain top where I rose up and found my strength through Her wondrous gifts of animals and trees, of beauty and butterflies and blossoms in abundance.
Now in midlife, I can see the painting leveling out a bit, the image more clear through the unfolding, and connections more obvious. See the rough, smudged spots where tears have fallen and flooded the creases and run the colors onto another scene before being dried. A faded garden where too much was revealed to an intense moment that was unexpected. 
The crinkles and creases of my life are being smoothed, softened, as I open to the full image that is me and smiling at the tatters or smudges, the frenzied splotches that are not a taint upon the whole but rather reveal the mystery that is essence. The lines remain upon the image even as it continues to expand revealing a full life, the whole picture. 
The wrinkles are there to enhance the beauty of a creation that has been through all the journey and has survived.

mesquite

I can see the beauty in each line that lingers. And it is more beautiful than a painting untouched or ironed out or re-created to be completely different than how it began. 
The truth of a life well-lived and honored is in the crinkles and creases that remain ... the imperfections that are loved and embraced.

a holiness that dwells and dreams

... Informed by the logic of our creaturely senses, the story gestures toward a great secret: that there’s a blazing luminosity that resides at the heart of the earth. The tale suggests that the salutary goodness of light makes its primary home within the density and darkness of matter. That the transcendent, life-giving radiance that daily reaches down to us from the celestial heights also reaches up to us from far below the ground. That there’s a Holiness that dwells and dreams at the very center of the earth. ~ David Abram, Becoming Animal-An Earthly Cosmology

Nonetheless, the older, more primordial style of prayer sustains a very different stance toward the local terrain than that which resolutely directs itself toward a divinity beyond the world. While the latter feels the sensuous landscape as a finite and restricted realm relative to its transcendent source, the first experiences the sensible world as the source of itself--as a kind of ongoing transcendence wherein each sensible thing is steadily bodying forth its own active creativity and sentience. ~ David Abram, Becoming Animal-An Earthly Cosmology

a little bird

(c) sophia rosenberg, we'moon 2012

a little bird
once told me I could ...
I could do anything be anything
because I am me
no one else like me 
and yet I know she meant
that it was because I am part of all life
connected in a unique way
all forms fit together
and flow as one unit
even when we resist
still we remain connected


a little bird
pure and white
reminds me of truth and trust
on the path
she perches on my shoulder  
whispers in my ear with chirps and song
I recognize
they are the sounds 
of joy and peace
of heartbeat and breath
imagine 
tiny heart fluttering in her chest
quick breath that lifts her 
filling her hollow bones with light


a little bird 
comes to wish me well
encourage and inspire
she and "mister bluebird on my shoulder"
bring me into the wonderful day
I could skip into a cartoon drawing
how vibrant and vivid the moment feels
world an incredible gift


a little bird
thumb-sized
flits and hovers
making its way around orange tree
darting in and out
among gleaming leaves
circling entire tree
briefly touching wood
quickest of pauses
then--
zoom!


a little bird
woke up with me
together we watched 
the sunrise in our hearts
warming the flowers of new ideas
until they open to create a garden
infinite color texture love
dream or real?


a little bird
sings and all life listens
notes carried upon downy feathers
up into the air
across field and canyon and forest 
and lakes great enough to be oceans
crystal notes resonate
within our cells
bring message of love and possibility
we answer
singing back in rivers of creativity 
that flow from brush and pen and fingers and lips red 
with the blood of life connecting us all in woven threads


a little bird
once told me I was worthy
found beauty in my charred soul
from which the seed cracked open
a tear falling raised this flower into the light
he inspired
through passionate living of
his own truth
saw an ancient spark deep within me
tiny lumen of soul-love
revealed by artist's eyes and hands long ago
touched my soul
I blossomed


a little bird
falls from the sky
time stops as I cradle the fragile moment
cupping my hands to hold its blessing
of light so quickly come and gone
yet knowing it will come again
returning always
in a million beams of 
rainbow curves
sparkling droplets
winsome giggles of inspiration


a little bird
calls and I follow her voice
into the words
down the path to the waterfall
bathe in her essence
as she pours over me
we transform in this moment 
together
changing like quicksilver
we flow down the mountain and then 
lift onto the current of wind 
that offered us a ride 
she goes right
I go left
then we are One again


a little bird
drinks from the fountain of youth
knows the infinite wisdom
the present moment
is our soul's journey
forms fade and are born
dust of the desert becomes
fairy magic 
sprinkled over all who sleep
calling us to awaken


a little bird
pecks my cheek
sweetest of kisses
tilts her head
winks
flies away
higher
into the ethereal expanse 
of cosmic consciousness


a little bird
voice always near
notes strong and clear


_____________________
writing prompt image from We'Moon 2012, image (c) Sophia Rosenberg 2006

waves of wind

A photo reminds me of walks through woods lined with tall pine trees standing straight and wise. They are with me still in my heart and I can feel their protection when I close my eyes in stillness. For ten years in a womb of rebirth I was gestating within Gaia. Soft, moist, strong, solid, calm, easy, slow, mellow. I knew this, felt Her and all became clear--the elements, the elementals, the resonance of all life in various blends. Pure perfection every one.
And now, the winds, the air, the warmth of sun and desert, the cool clear nights--all opposite in the extreme and yet I lift my face into the winds and inhale so deeply I am floating like a balloon across the expanse of all moments at once.

As the breeze passes by, she waits with patience for new clothes, for a fresh coat of colors of desert wildflowers and indigo dusking and a tan once more of nut-brown skin. Spirit Woman of the Garden, she travelled from Missouri to Maine to Arizona and yet where did she begin? I think here, her southwestern roots embedded within the concrete that shapes her graceful image. She has come home and I feel her smile widen just a bit, the energy she carries is peaceful and spreads throughout our yard, a serene xeriscape in which I see the vibrating threads of connection that were once long and tangled now creating the simple web of Oneness with their cohesive closeness once more. 
They all stand so firm upon the land, these desert beings, the winds racing around them as if they were obstacles on a course of infinity. See the spirals and figure-eights left in the wake of the zephyrs? The wind does not blow straight across the land down here but rather curves around the mountains, and twists among the cactus, agave and yucca, then flows over the heads and up into the sunlight streaming strong and bright. I sit among these beings of light in their uniforms of plant and rock and earth and we call out to each other, feeling and loving our mystery among the world, sharing our magical awareness to celebrate the diversity of the Divine. We breathe in and out together as One.
Her breath cools the heat within me that still rises in cycles at times and I am grateful for the lull upon my cells, the stillness of the flash for a moment that then settles and calms. Moving to the desert while still in the midst of transition might not have been wise and yet somehow it feels right--like Fate's hand was guiding, weaving Her own tapestry of transition around me so that our energies could merge into a beautiful rebirth. 

Spirit Woman's peaceful gaze calms the tempest, she is a drishti that calls me home to Gaia. 
Gaia is the Siren of my Soul that opens my eyes to new possibilities and to blessed return. For return is coming always closer, and is welcome when it appears, the little deaths along the way that herald and open and precede this form's ultimate demise. See how they prepare the way so that Fear does not put a blindfold upon my eyes?
Ahhh ... feel the free-flowing ocean of air upon the waves of energy that rise from all life? Soothing and invigorating all at the same time in her Oneness.
The brim of my hat shields my eyes from the glare of sun that is not hot for now because wind cools with her breath. Wild and sassy, she dances and caresses. At the top of her inhale, a pause, and heat awakens upon my skin, quickly followed by a gusty exhale that rapidly cools whatever heat had been building. Waves of wind, cascading or churning, lifting and falling, laughing and teasing as she quenches my thirst and cools the burn in ways only imagined in once-upon-a-time. 
She fills and empties and transforms as I continue the journey of life.