More witchyness. That's not so much a New Year's resolution as it is a recommitment to life. To all the wondrous, strange, twisting strands of it: mornings of inky pens and a few yoga movements to greet the sun that's still on its way over the Cascades, mediations on and off the cushion, sweeping the floor while the turntable spins Joan Baez or Childbirth, womb massages, drifting in and out of dreams. Asking questions.
What's blocking me and what is the way forward to finish the first draft of my book?
What's blocking me and what is the way forward to finish the first draft of my book?
The eel reminds me I am a warrior and this is warrior work of wisdom. The bows tell me to discard what is no longer serviceable, and that the fire and sparks are still alive even when I let go of old habits. And the green woman, well damn. She's the sovereign female archetype and the first person I'm meeting as I walk through the threshold.
I climbed back into bed, partly because I was a touch hungover and partly because I was curious about intention. Is asking a question a way to open a door?
I stood on a bridge over a ravine cut by a river, reaching for a big yellow balloon. My son was on a train nearby, waiting for me. My fingers tugged at the string. The balloon was heavy and had a pull; that it floated and drifted seemed impossible. It snagged in one of the steel trestles and I yanked. The train began to move and I yelled, "Wait!" and all the passengers yelled, "Wait!" and the conductor slowed but started again toward the high bridge. I had to choose: the balloon or the train with my son.
I let go and ran. Hopped into the moving train. As it passed by the balloon, I heard people murmur -- was I going to try again and reach out for it? I smiled at the balloon, at its silly rounded shape lodged between pieces of steel, and looked forward.
I climbed back into bed, partly because I was a touch hungover and partly because I was curious about intention. Is asking a question a way to open a door?
I stood on a bridge over a ravine cut by a river, reaching for a big yellow balloon. My son was on a train nearby, waiting for me. My fingers tugged at the string. The balloon was heavy and had a pull; that it floated and drifted seemed impossible. It snagged in one of the steel trestles and I yanked. The train began to move and I yelled, "Wait!" and all the passengers yelled, "Wait!" and the conductor slowed but started again toward the high bridge. I had to choose: the balloon or the train with my son.
I let go and ran. Hopped into the moving train. As it passed by the balloon, I heard people murmur -- was I going to try again and reach out for it? I smiled at the balloon, at its silly rounded shape lodged between pieces of steel, and looked forward.
