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

13 August 2010

Letters from the Outside, #8



Carrots, corn, beets and beans. Ate strawberries and broccoli out in the garden, waiting for that one really red slicing tomato to be ripe, the yellow pear tomatoes getting yellow. My lavender plants are getting old, and I dont have the personality to tend them toward their best each season, so I may replace them next spring. The humidity gets to everything. Lavender and sage love a dry heat. Humidity (like extreme cold or altitude) is an environmental state that requires specific traits developed and inherited over time to endure successfully, and thrive. This is not a tropical region. Any equator in my blood would be found in the first few sentences of my genetic story. My grandfather was born in Siberia. I see how even the stalwart iris swords are rusting, I worry for my pumpkin patch, the white death that carried off my cucumbers. My echinacea always look shabby, and I think its japanese beetles. The rudbeckia is a profusion of health and happiness, and with the mexican marigold, tulsi, tithonia, a few select and extraordinary tomato plants and the chard, gives off the desired sense of wholeness, wellness, Life.



Went up the waterfall off the county road, had a little fire in the backyard watching bats and the big dipper, today it rains. I wash the sheets and cook a peach in butter til its pie without the frame. My friend sent me a letter and it was like a lifesaver buoy thing thrown from a coastguard helicopter to me in the middle of the atlantic at four a.m.
I have been putting off looking for my Don Juans Reckless Daughter joni mitchell cd but I think todays the day, since I cant get it off grooveshark. In the meantime I listen to early live recordings of Townes van Zandt.
The gully was so beautiful it was hard to see. And I was on way too high alert to absorb it. There was something guarding something there. Ill take Cowboy and the boys there and it will be wonderful. Well all get to the waterfall, in that small high-walled space, and it will be a beginning. These last seven months or so have been evolutionary for me. Granted, its two forward and one back, but I definitely have the feeling of bustin' out of trenchtown. Cowboys been amazing, patient and loving, and he has space now for me.  Folks in general are weirded out, but if they cant access their own compassion and fragility it would be hard to relate to them anyway. And I have a harder time these days being superficial, and a deeper desire to be real. Ive discovered a few people I can be real with. And the more real I get, the harder it becomes for me to deny my worth, my right to dream. And maybe letting myself really want something will inspire me to work for it. To accept that I have effort of worth to put forward. Since I made that one choice when I was a very little girl ive never put much effort into anything. No dreams, no disappointments. Never living in accordance with my true soul, my honest heart. When something came close to being true I chased it with vengeance. If it was toxic, I drew it to me. And I cant get a second chance on past choices, but I can reclaim my time here for whats true and beautiful and in accordance with this Quest of Clarity and Liberation.


These are the ideals, at least. And stretching toward these ideals will only make me stronger.
I may not get to where im going, this time around, but I can start getting there.


Had my first tomato sandwich yesterday. With black coffee. Outstanding. Weird garden year this year everybody says, and I certainly agree. Everything small and two weeks early. I cant keep up with the beans. Today is the first day in a long time theres been any real rain. All the dogs are a little bonkers today and I cant figure out why. Squirrely and intensely smelling the air. 

I consult the Oracle, get Precious. To me it is a house, a temple, crowned with the moon. It is the Wheels of the World and we are honed into empty space. My Home. Next Resistance, The Rusted Chain. Everything thats kept me bound to stones thrown this lifetime ago. Power Source. A wheat field, and in that wheat field a woman who finds the Very Central Sun within her and breaks those rusted chains. These are my resonances, as the Oracle says. Naïve exaggeration of self importance restricting the flow; surrender to the living earth and be transformed the Oracle says. The Oracle says, dont be afraid.

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"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)