Words Fly Free

3flowerswrittenFields of Forever beckon but I look away from those Fields to the garden of Home and breathe in Love. Blessings push up through the compacted soil, the sweat of my beloved’s effort sweetens and amends, filtering out the stark barren expanse so that green is unearthed and new life sprung through hair-like roots, see them wriggling? Three rows of agave curve around a corner, softening the drama and edge of sharpened perception. Little green plants poke up tall, finally in a place to spread their feet wide, spread arms out long and far away. One tree in, two to go, three in a row, all around they fall in line along the wall, to share color, texture, air — breathe in and out, we share life. I stay sane, they grow safely; we are protected and encouraged.

I no longer pretend to be someone I’m not, no longer hide the shadow that is part of my skin, but neither do I let it rule and make all the decisions. Time leans into place and I know an urgency building; I keep at my work, my efforts. It’s not “hard” or “easy” — it has become purpose and something I am meant to do. I don’t know why, I just am. Perhaps it is as simple as keeping me “here on earth,” to love and be loved, to care and be cared for, to provide the arc for someone else’s rainbow purpose and journey.

E.D. #613 (randomly selected) ~ Emily Dickinson Poetry as Portals

They shut me up in Prose — 

As when a little Girl

They put me in the Closet — 

Because they liked me “still” — 

Still! Could themself have peeped

And seen my Brain — go round

They might as wise have lodged a Bird

For Treason — in the Pound

Himself has but to will

And easy as a Star

Abolish his Captivity

And laugh — No more have I 

I, too, grew up with the hobble-phrase “children should be seen, not heard” though home was more often a boisterous household of chatter that by its very noisy nature held my tongue silent and my mind vocal, conversing with the people in books.

pathThe prose of story set me free, though, it didn’t restrict; stories were the adventure into which I happily shut myself, a diversity of experience without needing to leave my closet at all! A joyous adventure through words and worlds, where poetry was the puzzle, the mystery, where I didn’t fit. And now I welcome the freedom to write however I wish to, without limitation – ignoring “do not enter” – because the expectations are nearly invisible. I don’t care if I should write like so-and-so says, because I write like me. I could do the structure well if I chose … sometimes I do … I’d rather flow and when structure leans in the window frame, allow it to set a panel or hang a margin or plant a verb.

Me and my shadow enjoy the closet, the comfort of walls all around that allow few visitors. But prose is not a closet but a castle in the forest that tells me secrets and holds mine in its roots; my closet keeps me “still” but I like the stillness when mind expands and all the birds fly free!

When I am out, walking, connecting with the world, the voices are listening, gathering petals, leaves, acorns, twigs. I am not a captive; to be so is delusion and weakness — my open eyes see possibility to choose a path. The only captivity is imposed by Self — my mind is always free. And so I write. And even set my writing free … in blog, in book. There was a time when I wouldn’t have been able to let the letters fly; no more.

I honor the women who have been part of creating a world, a society I am blessed to live in, where my words can be let out and about. I honor, too, the women whose words are still confined to mind … by writing mine down.

And like these free words, I will travel for as long as I can — another freedom that has been hard for women to own as their right; not to be doled out like a long leash, but to sever the leather strap, the chains. My beloved partner understands that setting me free is the way to love … and why I return to him with love.

My independent spirit, though often terrified and insecure, nevertheless gets up and walks, travels, writes. I have to — when I haven’t, I felt dead. I am nothing yet everything because I am not the outer result but the inner growth that comes from earthing true in manifestation. I know myself in all my fear, pain, sorrow, insecurity, and I breathe in the courage to step into my Self. I breathe in the courage from all those women who lived before me, doing their best to live true. Little steps that might transform into courage. I keep on, believing. The stories I hear and see in my mind and heart, the ones written and unwritten, are powerful ways toward courage — encouragement.

path2For those of us who live in the caves, or at the edge of the valley where sunlight is scarce and shadow abundant, for us to know our nature as worthy and beautiful and powerful — this is a blessing. Not to be taught and restricted to be someone we aren’t but to instead harness our own ability and gifts, darkly elegant, often sensed and felt rather than seen through bright floodlight. We are the night, our actions held forth at dawn and dusk: gray, pastel, deep, soft, slow, quiet.

We are hard to picture, difficult to photograph or identify clearly…

Eternal night is a welcome friend that we hold at arm’s length, touching often, yearning for that kiss but knowing the sweetness of divine union must wait a little longer — for now, there is one more word, one more walk, one more loving embrace by an understanding physical partner. We live fully present, each moment a choice to be here now.

A Solitary Dancing Slipper

To admire the strong, the sturdy, the confident who grace the vast expanse of our experience and do not even notice when their time has past — is a wonder. Many flock to such a unique and gifted soul that does not hesitate to raise her face, high, chin tilted; tis her nature not her desire that carries her through that life, where mine is short or subtle cry escapes. She could no more be me, than I her, and if dwelling in her true nature she holds no bold proclamation of being “better than” for she bears a tremendous responsibility to all those who seek her out and beg of her essence in excessive quantities. To bee and butterfly she is Queen and her mantle could weigh heavily if she were not at ease in her own individuality, born to this, her duty, her vocation.

I do not want this, though I admire her qualities … her beauty, abundance, sweetness, praises sung to her that vibrate across the land. Look how long she has to live! Look how much she has to give! Devoted to those who bow in her presence as they redeem their devotions from her stores of energy.

Yes, she may grow earlier, stand stronger, give more, spread, be admired by all, living longer, and feel no defeat when felled in her own time. Yet, honest and praiseworthy though she may be, would be a shame if were no diversity.

singleLadySlipperSo let her spread in obvious profusion, and I in my hidden glen, a single stem of green wearing a pink slipper, shall dance unseen in dappled dim day and mellow moonlight while the air carries my essence, the rain and dew linger in my cup that allows a few in need to drink, a brief interlude I stand here swaying and then just as softly sink into the humus for another long, sweet sleep, thankful that a devotee held a chalice into which the unique essence of this moment and me could seep. I am become immortal, outside the bounds of time and space when in Gaia’s Grace, and known as both separate and One. Feel into Her — now. Do not wait, for my time, my nature, may not be the longest stranding or hardiest or sweetest, but I am vital if only to offer a solitary sip to a weary traveler in a hidden forest.

The poetry portal by Emily that led me into the above was:  Continue reading

Transformative Alchemy

CatalinaStateParkA traditional Pagan invocation that has been edited and adapted through the years has most often aligned Fire with Spirit as: By the Fire of Her Bright Spirit.

Since moving to the Sonoran Desert, I’ve been seeking other words aside from Spirit that resonate with my personal sense of Gaia’s Fire. Living in the desert is a unique opportunity to become more familiar with Fire, more familiar than I ever desired to be, and this closeness continues to work within me as a sometimes unnerving or overwhelming changeability.

Spirit is all the elements of Air, Fire, Water, Earth, and including Ether/Space. Spirit is Shakti; Spirit is everything we sense and do and are that is manifested through Soul Journey. Fire is another element in our Biospheric journey that metamorphoses, transmutes; it is not only the light but also the invisible firing of neurons and the digestion of food and experiences. Fire is our chemical processing; it is often a mysterious force but still elemental, not solely Spirit. All the elements are Spirit, are derived from and infused with Spirit, and to align Fire as Spirit’s representative feels out of context in my prayer to Mother Earth.

And so, for now, I feel more aligned with shifting my language toward this metamorphic energy that is Gaia’s element of Fire:

By the Air which is Her Breath

By the Fire of Her Transformative Alchemy

By the Waters of Her Living Womb

By the Earth which is Her Body

We are One

As Above, So Below

As Within, So Without

 

Hummingbird

From Ms. Emily ~ a Poetry Portal …

Screen Shot 2014-06-19 at 1.48.05 PM

I taste a liquor never brewed — 

From Tankards scooped in Pearl — 

Not all the Vats upon the Rhine

Yield such an Alcohol!

 

Inebriate of Air — am I — 

And Debauchee of Dew — 

Reeling — thro endless summer days — 

From inns of Molten Blue –

 

When “Landlords” turn the drunken Bee

Out of the Foxglove’s door — 

When Butterflies — renounce their “drams” — 

I shall but drink the more!

 

Till Seraphs swing their snowy Hats — 

And Saints — to windows run — 

To see the little Tippler

Leaning against the — Sun —  

 

~ Emily Dickinson (#214 Johnson)

 

——————-and here is where I’m led … Continue reading

Countless Butterfly

© Kerry

© Kerry

from Ms. Emily ~ Poetry As Portal …

A science — so the Savants say,

“Comparative Anatomy” — 

By which a single bone — 

Is made a secret to unfold

Of some rare tenant of the mold,

Else perished in the stone — 

So to the eye prospective led,

This meekest flower of the mead

Upon a winter’s day,

Stands representative in gold

Of Rose and Lily, manifold,

And countless Butterfly! 

~~ Emily Dickinson (#100 Johnson)

___________________ and the portal led me …

Dig and root around, among body, earth and plant we find all secrets soon sharing their mystery little by bit and under the watchful moon, it is here our wandering eyes do behold as we follow into the chance moment; not by the science are we led but by heart of Gaia sink into Her bed and we then see the secrets without the need to scrape, uncover, rather here are bones, fragments of the story once whole and living. Here are the flowers in the grove of that one under ground wherein lies the skeleton draped in former glory we try to preserve … do we really want to learn the secret of life? We turn away from the mystery of death except that of body and hide the evidence in a box buried alone with a headstone marked and careful attention paid to disguise the way to secrets held ensouled.

Excavation, archeology — unearthing, exposing, revealing how the world works on a physical level — some may see this as finding the solution to the puzzle but I agree with others who feel that explanation is not the same as description … so while our sciences may describe the function, they cannot explain the mystery of how and why it all comes together, for reductionism, the relating to a single “bone” to think we can solve the riddle of walking is no more effective than thinking we know the story by reading about a single character’s leg, for without the interaction of body and communion there is no story. We can describe the components or aspects that comprise the character — or bone — but that doesn’t explain the activity that can go in a zillion directions.

I may go out and pick up a stone that glimmers in the shining sun but when I bring it into the house the darker nuance clouds the gleam until the stone is not what it seemed while lying on the ground where it was all surrounded by its friends who led it to the very end of hoof and claw and feather strange and on the air was winged things that picked it up and flung it down — a different spot — it traveled on.

A juicer lets the liquid flow but halts the pulp from going on and casts aside the fiber thick until the juice is thin and slick into the body one will go, without the other, separate now. Down to the essence, down to the dense, not of material but of presence, without the bulk we thin and slim and ghostly become in our material world, where once we held the flag and now the mind begins to lag behind the journey of friend and foe because there is no place to go when all is same and nothing new and overwhelm a constant companion.

Rest. Sleep. Fall into the deep and let go into Nature.

Amber

Amber : goddess, resin, animal ?

DSC03990_3She is the fiery sap that has cooled yet retains a fluid vibration. Saraswati. Her colors are white and yellow-gold: the yellow of saffron, of golden rays, of creative spark, and, to me, she is the energy of amber’s golden flow that has paused to be seen and held like the flow of thoughts and soul into words that can be held and shared. She is Goddess of knowledge, learning, and creativity, and much more. Through her birthing waters, She is also Goddess of intuition, which combined with knowledge emerges as wisdom. She is the ultimate Creatrix releasing visionary flow into our world of form through our souls and yet the emanation is in all directions at the same instant. She is the wisdom-in-presence that is our taproot and branches at the same time.

It is no wonder that tales say Saraswati became Word; She is the Gayatri Mantra. She also moves through and beyond us by virtue of language, lyrics, our expressions of thriving. We are not meant to hoard what we have learned, but to share it with all who seek, and Saraswati reveals that Her wisdom is in us no matter what age or circumstance. We assimilate knowledge from the moment we enter the world (or even in our mothers’ watery wombs!) and we also carry in our cells the intuition of knowing, therefore we are all potentially wise and have opportunities to share this with others in our own unique ways, subtle or overt. Yes, Saraswati is Goddess of knowledge and learning — I’ve experienced first-hand Her power to help me during my final test at KSA — and I love learning for the pure joy of learning. But if and when I want to share what I’ve learned, I intend to say grace and honor Saraswati’s influence in sharing knowledge entwined with intuition to emerge as wisdom.

I don’t know if there is any ancient relationship between amber resin and Saraswati, but my intuition whispers that there is a deep vibrational connection. My logical brain first made the connection through “color” when I was wondering what gems are associated with Saraswati. And when I saw the glow of my amber resin, it was as if I just knew they were resonant — at least they are for me and, after all, isn’t that part of opening to intuition? Making our own connections? Realizing our own unique truths and not relying exclusively upon external sources of what is true for someone else? Saraswati touches me with physical intimacy when I wear amber, and this is Her reminder to open to intuition, the instinct of the soul.

AmberDreamI first met Saraswati, though, not through amber resin or Her Goddess archetype, but by the grace of the gentle soul that was my Amber-in-Collie-form, named, as it happens, Amber Dream. Together, we learned obedience exercises, but from many years of love and mistakes, Amber also tried to teach me the wisdom of seeing and knowing her nature as well as my own. We often struggled in classes because we were both naturally “soft” yet all the teachers I met took a very “hard,” disciplined, and unyielding approach to training. Nearly three decades ago, I lacked confidence, and I didn’t know myself well enough at that time to stand firm in my nature and in Amber’s nature. We endured the hardened phase of amber without treasuring the pliable, flowing phase at the beginning of amber’s creation. There is wisdom, however, in realizing — before she passed — the journey of both union and individuation that she and I had experienced together. Thank you, my dear sweet Amber.

We are blessed in the magnificent diversity bestowed upon us, the diversity that allows us to experience the Divine in such a variety of forms.

Never Alone

We are never alone … feel into the essence of Ms. Emily

© Kerry

© Kerry

Alone, I cannot be —  

For Hosts—do visit me—

Recordless Company—

Who baffle Key—

 

They have no Robes, nor Names—

No Almanacs—nor Climes—

But general Homes

Like Gnomes—

 

Their Coming, may be known

By Couriers within—

Their going—is not—

For they’ve never gone— 

 ~~~ Emily Dickinson

Thoughts, ideas, imagination, the scurrying of monkey-mind so that I am never alone and envision heart as home, cells as dens, body and soul as One in hosting the Divine without a separation where I could not find for here is all the possibility moving inside and coming out to say “hello” upon the pages white with lines to be filled by mind conjoined into heart space.

Do not fear for we are always here in Oneness.

From the corner of my eyes I see me in the shadows waiting to emerge, and I do! Host to my own desires and thoughts that play upon the page, never alone. In poem or story, prose or myth, we are memories resurfacing and the collective that shimmies down a lightening bolt to rocket along my spine radiating outward in all directions. Or seeping in from startled clouds that shed their sweat on balmy days and leave a rainbow in the arch of my foot so that when I walk the endless colors of flowers are the soft petals on my path. Never alone, held away by no key or barrier, and why would I want me or thee to be?

The dangerous ones are welcomed into the circle by a fondness for the healing of disembodied souls of self and many … surrounded by friends of fur and feather, flora abundant, spirits pluming into my room from the window peeking open with a tiny grin to welcome inside the night air … don’t despair of loneliness for having been there I now squint into the darkness and stars rise high into velvet sky of lunar lumen holding a ball, a free for all of voice and song that play within my mind and slide up and down the waterfall in impossible directions simultaneous.

Am I crazy? So be it!

Did Emily see the fairy world? Did she see the subtle energy fields and shapes beyond the veil of illusion of form? Was she visited by them as well as by inner voice? Wouldn’t it be funny if everyone thought she was using metaphor to describe “real life” when she was actually using external “symbols” to describe an inner and/or parallel reality just as valid? I smile with unknowing …