Sunday, March 13, 2016

Calling

Image from Baldwingypsycaravan.com


I’ve taken a few months off of blogging.  Stupid busy I’ve been in an effort to salvage.  Dreams have been swirling; epic and constant – Jungian myth style; Floods, Reflections, Regret, Redemption.  The moon is out there somewhere and I need some time with her. 

So what have I been up to?

My anthropology group has been kept up with and provides excellent fodder for the human condition.  I’ve been graced with the company of a modern day Coven of Witches, I have both taken and passed Reiki Healing One, Deepened my understanding of mediation and the practice of it, soaked up energy at a Buddhist temple, read more than any normal person I know (mind you I don’t know many) and read most of it at the ‘3AM spirit hour’, Discovered that my spirit/totem/guide animal is The fox, Kayaked late into December in some idiotic frigid conditions and just returned to my liquid space this past week, I’m in serious talks with a charter school that is mapping a way for me to teach (finally), I am finding myself in quick sands of fear as I am currently working 3 jobs in an effort to keep the werewolves from the door, I’m in deep recognition of resentment and all its pitfalls.  All in all things are good. 

But I desperately miss writing – on a level I can barely comprehend; the craft of it, the cadence of it, the creation of it, the sin of it, its chaos, its order, its demands, and the shadows it brings to my being.    I have visions of it and fantasies of it.  

Case in point –in my mind’s eye I sit in a gypsy vardo wagon at dawn, solid in that gauzy light between the morning and eternity.  I smell the nubbled wood around me, acrid and dry from its last oiling.  I’m in a field of ancient apple trees long gone to crab.  They are twisted and tortured and knowing trees; the spirits of mist lay low at their bases.  There are white blossoms slowly drifting to the unseen ground here and there.  I wear a loose wool blanket and am skin underneath.  A small slut stove burns with true light and heat, a simple pot boils water for tea.  I have a loose large book of parchment spread before me; words and dribbles of ink.  I have written of a witch at the base of a mountain that plucks the rain from the clouds and feeds a fertile valley below.  Each month the stone witch captures the moon in the dark waters of a wooden bucket and intends things.  Though the apple trees bloom, time here is different and cold weather will come. I ponder if I will finish the story but I both hope and fear it will never see an ending and I’ll have to burn it all so as not to freeze when the snow makes its way back…

Oh but if I could exist awake all the time, I’ve so much to do and far too many responsibilities.  And I work too goddam much.  In the coming months I will be culling things that no longer feed my essence. 


My gypsy wagon is out there somewhere, but for now I carry it inside, I'll find it one day.  

I must believe that.  

Namaste