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

27 April 2010

“You know when Robert Johnson said ‘you gotta move’ — I figured that out. It’s like, you’re happily floating through nothing– you know, nothingness.  All of a sudden, a big giant fish, they way I picture it… grabs you and… puts you in a form, and slams you on the face of this veil of tears, and says– You’ve gotta move!"

‘Everything is not enough
Nothing is too much to bear
Where you been is good and gone
All you keep is the getting there.’

rain.  rain and sleep and some kind of cold or just me wanting to hide, to curl the shell of sleep around my tender center, push off from the waking world in my coracle bed away from the shore of a hard restless elsewhere.  ive always undervalued my emotional experience and something isnt letting me anymore.  a lifetime of evasive contortion i begin to stretch away from, the miracle of soul and bone and will illuminating what was forever a shadow troughyard of hungry ghosts.

"My older sister has entire kingdoms inside of her, and some of them are only accessible at certain seasons, in certain kinds of weather. One such melting occurs in summer rain, at midnight, during the vine-green breathing time right before sleep. You have to ask the right question, throw the right rope bridge, to get there—and then bolt across the chasm between you, before the bridge collapses."

while we sleep Mother Nature tats the lace of april leaves and hangs them like fairy lights on the bare branches of trees.  with the rain painting wood a deeper shade the contrast of dark and light is a delight to eyes having subsisted for months on white and grey (despite the sauce of winter sunsets).  everything opens.  the dry seed swells and bursts and tongues of life rise into stronger sunlight, sweeter breeze.  these tiny motes of life in my palm that when exposed to the dark of earth, the wet of rain, the heat of sun, explode from their deceptive chrysalis into fragrant forms bearing food, flowers, fruit.  were it so easy for us to grow into our true natures, to allow with earth and light and water the natural unfolding of our selves.  how thwarted we are in our  growing.  this struggle is a gift, however.  to recognize ourselves as vessels for the journey of our souls, that there is a path, a purpose, an evolution in which to participate, is a blessing and the one for which i am most grateful.

"We are all
made of honey and butter and one of us has a yellow
school bus which we board from time to time
for a field trip that involves riding in circles
and falling asleep, which involves
all of us being ponies in a meadow.
The sea and sky are made of grass.
It can’t last. It lasts."

snow this morning.  dragging my skirt through puddles, socks wet at the heels, wind at my cheeks like november.    this incessant sneezing forces me to miss sunsets and the simple act of being in favor of unconsciousness.  maddening.  i feel shallow as a plate and as bare.  the smell of woodsmoke guides me home to tea and dogs the phone rings and im happy to answer it since youre the only one that knows the numbers to press in their secret order from wherever you are across the valley thinking of me.  o mary oliver give me strength.  infuse my very soul with insatiable hunger for lifeforce and revelation.  while i wallow in gruel purgatory waiting for the words to fall through the top of my head like one would wait for daylight.  but this is just a part of the cycle.  neap tide, exhale, aphelion.

ten for today:

1.  Cowboy
2.  Townes
4.  tea
5. T.
6.  tom tomorrow
7.  dictionaries
8.  sleep
9.  my quiet neighborhood
10.  NPR

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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)