“Longing, we say, because desire is full
of endless distances.”

09 April 2009



change will come. the changes im looking for in myself. its two steps forward, one back. keep going. im flying solo, i dont have the feather-bed of close friends to buoy and buffer, cajole and correct. im a hedgewitch, a solitary. ive never yet found my niche, my place, my family. ive never yet been invited to join in a circle of hearts for any occasion, occult or mundane. im comfortable on the outside but the craving for communal fires is fierce sometimes. im okay on the outside. im acclimated to the terrain. but sometimes when the footing gets slippery id love a hand to hold, an eye to meet. honestly, im resigned to loneliness this lifetime. i used to think it was because i was broken. now i dont assume to understand. im on the outside and ive got the vast inner landscape of myself to wander and im paying some karmic price and its a sad suffering only sometimes. mostly the peace and quiet are more than welcome. but sometimes i think how interesting it would be to feel at home in the presence of man. to make connections, make friends. i dont think its toolate, i just think its doubtful. and im learning to be okay with it, okay in not-just-resigned way...nattering about self-imposed alienation...



spring. something dug deeply in my garden bower, disemboweling any hopes of early sproutlings. even the peas seemed to have rotted in their shallow graves. so we begin again. hope lies at the bottom of the box. the bleeding heart sends up its asparagus shoots, the lambs ear is rampant already. i tell myself it looked like this last year, that april breeds lilac from the bare ground. that the hyacinth is only now emerging like an alien emissary from the bulb underworld. that these things take time. in zone 5. it all needs tilling over again anyway.



nasturtium rocketing toward the light. some tomato, parsley up in droves, broccoli looking just like broccoli does out of the egg. the forms are becoming familiar. the iris returning, knifing up through the neglect. the comfrey run roughshod into early winter sod springing up like a lost dog, chipper and overall pleased, a new day. i keep mama cat fed, keep her happy hormones up and making milk for the little panteras who havent even opened their eyes to the world. names are contemplated.

3 comments:

  1. Suzie DeGrasse11 April, 2009

    This may not be what you want to hear, but apparently almost everyone feels solitary and alone. This invitation into a group of hearts you speak of, I know it not either, but have longed for it, but it never happens. Or maybe it does, maybe it has, maybe we are. It just didn't happen like we thought, and so missed seeing it, like the gorilla in the classroom...it isn't "supposed" to be there so it isn't "recognized".

    ReplyDelete
  2. Anonymous11 April, 2009

    oh i completely understand that were all alone. ive just never felt at ease among people, like a lot of other people seem to be. most people seem to have this great fear of being alone, but for me its the only time i feel like i can breathe. that said, i keep wishing id found someone, or a group of someones that i can be at ease around, and i dont feel like a toxic invader around. this lonliness only emerges when im forced to spend an extended amount of time around a group of people, like ive done lately at work. but youre right about not seeing what isnt supposed to be there.

    ReplyDelete
  3. Debrina15 April, 2009

    My group of hearts exist in my dreamtime - I am blessed to have them visit me at night occassionally. They are a very spiritual group, some are buddhists, some are pagan, some are Jewish. They come to me and say hello and I always remember them long after I have awoken. Blessed be my dear friend. we are never really alone...

    ReplyDelete

Blessed Be.

Subscribe to: Post Comments (Atom)
"And if the question were asked: What is more real, the mundane or the sublime? most would hesitate before they gave an answer. On the one side, details: say, the aftermath of a breakfast, dirty chipped plates in the sink, their rims encrusted with egg yolk. Against this, the unnameable: small aching heart with boasts, what can you know? Outside the cage of everything we ever heard or saw, beyond, outside, above, there lies the real, hiding as long as we shall live, there stretch and trail the millions of names of God burning across the eons. When all through this our end will come before we even know the names of us.

For many the egg yolk prevails." -L.M.

"Love many things, for therein lies the true strength, and whosoever loves much performs much, and can accomplish much, and what is done in love is done well." -V.V.G.

"The perfection of the Absolute where all Becoming stops and pure Being, immutable, timeless, unchanging, hangs forever like a ripe peach upon the bough." -E.A.

"...and the whole incident was incredibly frazzling and angst-rod and filled almost a whole mead notebook and is here recounted in only its barest psycho-skeletal outline." -D.F.W.

"At the top of the mountain, we are all snow leopards." -H.S.T.

"Only when we are no longer afraid do we begin to live." -D.T.
"Cometh a voice: My children, hear; From the crowded street and the close-packed mart I call you back with my message clear, back to my lap and my loving heart. Long have ye left me, journeying on by range and river and grassy plain, to the teeming towns where the rest have gone - come back, come back to my arms again. So shall ye lose the foolish needs that gnaw your souls; and my touch shall serve to heal the fretted nerve. Treading the turf that ye once loved well, instead of the stones of the city's street, ye shall hear nor din nor drunken yell, but the wind that croons in the ripening wheat. I that am old have seen long since ruin of palaces made with hands for the soldier-king and the priest and prince whose cities crumble in desert sands. But still the furrow in many a clime yields softly under the ploughman's feet; still there is seeding and harvest time, and the wind still croons in the ripening wheat. The works of man are but little worth; for a time they stand, for a space endure; but turn once more to your mother - Earth, my gifts are gracious, my works are sure. Instead of the strife and pain I give you peace, with its blessing sweet. Come back, come back to my arms again, for the wind still croons in the ripening wheat."
-John Sandes, The Earth-Mother (excerpt, 1918)