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
