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

28 February 2010

Sunday afternoon Flamenco Sketches, reading Annie Proulx eating strawberry icecream, water in a wineglass, watching the wee strong spirits at the feeder outside the window this morning i wept at the color of a lady cardinal.
Last night all but ready to go this hard drawn-out transition and the hint of collapse the word Enough on my lips.  but this morning he brought me reassurance and water and im saved at least for now. 

when the light from the lighthouse turns away, i despair.

after a morning of watching squirrels spicy breakfast with coffee and yogurt a shower Bushwalla and the Pips im good to go.  being off the meds is easier Here, but still it gets wooly and im easily discouraged, the emotional rodeo, the incredibly broken inner child that i realize This is all about.  making this decision, having made any decision at all after thirty-three years on angel-pilot, drove a bulldozer over the rubble of my life.  and now on the bare ground i can build a house, grow a garden.  but the dozer has also exposed the weak raw heart of that abandoned baby girl thats done nothing but play with lighters and knives behind my eyes my whole life.  she is one hot mess (thanks to a.d. for the term).  and theres no excuse now not to get to healing.  which i realize is what This is all about.  neither meds nor mad distractions.  this is The Work.  this is the Conscious Evolution, the Teacher appearing (ive had Great Teachers all my life, and for them i am eternally grateful, but This Teacher is not someone i sit before, This Teacher is the completely wrecked, traumatized and broken essential aspect of me thats been avoided, evaded and ignored for decades waiting for the student to be ready.  waiting for me to be strong enough to Reclaim her.  

I see now This is my Reclaiming.
Blessed Be.

1 comment:

  1. Hey Heidi,
    Glad you found me. The 20th-year reunion is actually this summer; there's a whole Facebook page or team thing about it, easy to find. If you're interested in going I'll keep you posted. (Don't know if I'll go yet.)

    Bead Designs is defunct. Where will I see you next?


Blessed Be.

"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."

"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)