The Morning after Woe

AZFairyDusterFor context, this particular Healing Script on the Gaia Path began the day after I completed my final exam at the University of Arizona. The portal was a random Emily Dickinson poem selection, but each stanza was read and reflected upon separately as its own essence over the course of four mornings. Thus, each day consisted of a pre-write (writing before reading the stanza), reflection on the single stanza, and then a free-write using the stanza as a portal.

I’m sharing my process because I find it healthful as well as spiritually fulfilling, and thought that others might as well. This process emphasizes contemplation and free-writing (stream of consciousness) as key to moving away from what is considered correct or proper in our writing; we don’t have to use perfect punctuation or grammar or word order. We can let the words flow or spiral as our feminine intuition invites them to. I think it’s also important to recognize how Divine Feminine energy guides the flow before as well as after random selection of a portal (also called a writing prompt).

The complete poem by Emily Dickinson is:

The Morning after Woe—

’Tis frequently the Way—

Surpasses all that rose before—

For utter Jubilee— 

As Nature did not care—

And piled her Blossoms on—

And further to parade a Joy

Her victim stared upon— 

The Birds declaim their Tunes— 

Pronouncing every word

Like Hammers—Did they know they fell

Like Litanies of Lead—

On here and there — a creature — 

They’d modify the Glee

To fit some Crucifixal Clef — 

Some Key of Calvary — 

_________________

[Pre-write Day 1]

Freedom! Yesterday was my final exam at UA. No more scheduling my days around classes and being in a study haze!

Way back when I took the risk of leaving my secure, steady job to write and do petsitting, way back then—15 years ago last month—I had chosen to step out in faith toward my creativity … to dump the work that was creating a dead thing inside me … and when I did that, Gaia provided for me. I intend to set aside my fears and insecurities, and bring forward the courage and faith of back then.

I recall the vision I experienced during my last massage and the “winged Isis” who appeared, encouraging and inspiring me. I don’t need more education through authoritative channels like schools, editors, tests. Everything I need in order to create is within me and within the words of others who were/are also passionate about writing. It makes sense they would/will be my greatest teachers because our passionate common interest is in the tales, the sharing, the act of being in conversation! My creative counter-balance is not university but rather lies in: a mate/partner who is fully supportive, the animals and nature, and hearth-keeping.

This week I’m not setting a schedule, I’m letting the passage of time itself set the pace while I float in the current. This is a healing space in which to recover, relax, decompress. The decompression is vital as I release the pressure from UA and my self-imposed A-student mentality that I had a very difficult time trying to release. All that remains of my second outbreak of hives are the scabs and dry skin that invite small amounts of itching.

 

The Morning after Woe—

’Tis frequently the Way—

Surpasses all that rose before—

For utter Jubilee— 

Although twas not Woe entirely seen or felt among the intense college courses and the welts of what seemed to be pressurized pins sticking in and out, I give a shout of Jubilation now the Woe is gone behind me at last. I am now to break the fast of creativity and sail the fecund sea into eternity. To ground at hearth and ply the way with piles of peaceful days among the cool dark walls surrounding me once the sun is high, and where my sky is imagination free to fly, there am I!

The celebration overcoming “all that rose before,” though, was not a war or a Woe but simply a passage down a mental expectation where seemingly all must go — no more I, though, not I for the cave bear has cleared the way and held me close so I can smell the soot of thousands of candles lit and extinguished within the contemplative womb. Here is where I belong; to bury myself alive is a gift unremarked upon as treasure yet it is. The way lies clear and cool where I once foolish dared to turn away; oh precious deep, what were my sadnesses unaware, looming, that crowded out the blooming?

Allow the flow to come unhindered as when youthful woman’s reddish trickle did tend the center cleansing all among the taint that was within released. Now no red, no fluid, and yet almightily flowing powerful and sweet is an ocean of undiscovered pearls and shells that luminous are reflecting an inner moon … invisible, sliver, full or empty yet not, illusion recognized. Always a creative presence glowing, flowing …

_________________

[Pre-write Day 2]

Waters within gush forth and new life emerges from the nine months of educational gestation. Pure, clear, dancing in scattered droplets, pouring out of me from womb that once was red and now is green, pink, purple, blue, indigo … the cool clear deep colors of inner rainbow cave-dwelling, calmly knowing this new life as perfect for this moment; not the “perfection” of over-culture but the perfection of nicks and scrapes, stubbed toes and skinned knees every summer of youth from head-in-the-clouds clumsy innocence of imagination flying so high the only way to ground was to fall down into painful reminder that I wasn’t a bird, I couldn’t fly and yet — I can! I did! I do fly! Wild and free in imagination and visions that come into open spaces playing that emerge after release of expectation.

 

As Nature did not care—

And piled her Blossoms on—

And further to parade a Joy

Her victim stared upon— 

Gaia in Her greater overview and under-view beyond the veil that is beyond the pale meager lens of human ego … Gaia shall “pile her Blossoms on.” No matter our petty frustrations or Woe, She does not stop, she pours forth new beginnings, creating beauty and transformation. The parade of love and beautiful diversity ever present if only we gaze out of this fragile shell to see truth among the trees and stars, for here is freedom, not the bars we weld upon our lives. We are not victim except in our own pity of self and circumstance, for Joy is the parade before and behind lest we become too enamored of mind and construct we’ve carved into our own flesh. Look there! Flowers bloom on heads of green with holes clean through yet still standing, dancing in the winds though I cannot see them sway, as they pretend to be still.

No winter rest, no cool repast, for studies held me burning fast inside, stoking a fire to keep the mind aflame with sparks connecting fuses that could show the way into each next day of memorizing and learning and pressurized cooking until like a pot of beans I exploded splattering redness all over skin, revealed as false, not my place, no need. My place is among the solitary space of inner classroom where wisdom teaches fullness and flow and flowering night-blooms.

I nearly fell victim of Woe who refuses to see her own parade. Only the wild winds demanding growth of wings under which to lift me up offered a gift irresistible … realization is not always obvious, disguised in a desire to please that looks like a pretty cloak, but becomes heavy as it turns to steel chains that must be shrugged off before I am tossed away into the dungeon which is then far harder to escape than the heavy cloak.

I see my own parade and it is beautiful! Diverse and unique, with prancing dogs and purring cats, loving knight who spreads his cloak upon the mud so I have a choice to walk clean or get dirty … he leaves it to me to choose.

_________________

[Pre-write Day 3]

What happens immediately before the words appear on the page when writing in a stream of consciousness caught up in the flow that emerges without restriction by a mind that puts everything in precise form? The letters are form and yet there are times when the marks which appear are symbols unknown harkening back to hieroglyphs or even petroglyphs untranslatable because there is an essence rather than a structure because the marks were simply a piece of the mental image for a concept or object? When I make these strange marks, they are left to themselves like an abstract artist’s twin; I feel a message but I cannot transcribe it or define it. It just is. When I am thinking, the marks won’t come; they only show themselves in the absence of direction or control. They are shy and timid nocturnals in a world of bold bright commentary in a language nearly everyone knows but may not fully understand.

 

The Birds declaim their Tunes— 

Pronouncing every word

Like Hammers—Did they know they fell

Like Litanies of Lead—

The difference of song is also the variance of writing, of flowing out along with the essence of the words to share a tale more in the feel than the sentence structure. Similar to how we falsely sing yet wise birds know the harsh dissonance and see through a falsity that cannot claim itself as one among the crowd for all are deaf to the cries of song and birds fly far away to avoid the tainted tunes. We humans decry ourselves and hide behind the popular song because of fear or ignorance when courage holds herself out strong-handed for us to clasp if only we take hold in humility among Nature’s signs so very clear among the raiments of the momentary stillness.

Words falling, pouring a glow upon and through even when we may not have a clue as to the passage of our own self through the cleft of the earth, dug before us and waiting with calm rectangular visage. We hear what we want to hear and even the most glorious melody can fall like lead onto those deaf to Joy that lies in the Background of every momentary weakness, each fall from Grace, each smile through innocence lost.

Even now, I see all the doors and windows that creaked open or flew wide until I stepped or climbed outside the walls I’d built around my house of Joy, my womb of continual creation. I remember creating a new life more than once, more than twice, from ashes in this life—and likely in previous ones—for it is all familiar so I know the path well and it becomes easier each time with pauses in between as a steady tree sublime in its vision witnessing the struggle and then off I go again to try and grow in this human form.

Harmonics shrill and heavy fall until the oceans beat them into oneness with their life of merging/emerging onto shore once more and the tiny bones of hollow flute lift them high into winged sky of clarity, lift voices of realization and awe away from the woe of victims who delude themselves and others that it’s always been this way. Foolish ones! It is this way through choice and nothing else. What songs I sing are my heart-strings plucked by soul in cadence to what I hear … and what do I hear? Joy or Woe? Is the resonance that plays before from emergence one of Joy or Grief? Joy or Fear? Love or Despair? Truly all among the songs on air is the song of Joy and only muffled ear drums translate it as something other than creativity or infinite possibility. Hold my hands upon my heart and feel the song of Joy start emerging … loud, soft, clear, tufted wings envelop me and we fly together among valley, cave, mountain streams, and free … sing free! Leave the false tunes behind, their own way they will find for I cannot force them to soar with me.

_________________

[Pre-write Day 4]

Drums, beats, rhythmic pulse of sound and blood; finally feeling the Joy of return; return to the dogs and home and my beloved mate. More and calmer space within which to interact. During college, it wasn’t only the pressure of class that disrupted endocrine flow but the lack of solitary introspection to the degree I now need, as I always felt pushed rather than being under my own steam. Now I feel inner and outer dance, rhythm, synchronize! One day low-key, the next is a burst of sparkling champagne, and both are right! A gift! One I intend to celebrate consciously now. I am so very blessed and hold the chalice of gratitude to my parched lips, sipping, quenching my thirst even as my toes tap and hips sway. Inanna! Rise!

Baby in my lap, we are innocent children of Gaia and She holds us all in Her lap when we pause, walk, sing, dance, listen, pray.

A string drapes itself at the edge of my world and I slide down the side of here and now into a presence that is bliss … let go! Fall into the cool pool of aqua agua, sink into the depths of indigo wherein sparkle sapphires and diamonds of watery fireflies who swim below and can only be seen when we rest easily, still, in the darkness, in the mud of silky texture smoothing flushed skin that changed as I sank from red to pink to white to ethereal pale blue.

 

On here and there — a creature — 

They’d modify the Glee

To fit some Crucifixal Clef — 

Some Key of Calvary — 

The songs of the over-culture are left behind to sacrifice some other soul not yet aware as I race away from their confining tempo, freeing my mind and heart to become One with Creation and not a part of the false idols of societal norms in perfect-pitch.

My wings are full and dry as I flee the most recent nest that was built inside a cage surrounding me so slowly that I didn’t suspect until the bars were complete and the door was swinging closed ever so slowly hoping to capture me unaware. Thank Gaia for singing me awake through the messengers of creatures and companions and mate who were stalwart support on my journey out of the over-culture’s concretizing system. “Don’t put my soul inside there!” Joy releases me to fly free of the mental braces and bonds. Whether disguised as education or religion, I cannot conform or my wings will be clipped and my voice silenced with rules and the expectations of those who have no idea who I am or what my purpose is. Maybe I’m not sure either but I am at least free to seek. My song is unique as are all our voices and we only have to open up and “sing out, Louise!”

LISTEN. Listen to my own voice singing the Joy that is within me, the Joy that is the whole feminine world bursting out of cages and jails and dungeons, wherever they have been held in unconscious chains of velvet or silk with cloth wrapped so tightly around they are mummified yet still walking inch-by-inch in a delusion of life. Listen … what is inside? What is calling? What is keeping a rhythm within our pulses? Do we need to pick up the pace or slow it down? Let’s pull the veil away from our mouths and sing! Strip to skin and naked soul and reveal Joy to ourselves, the Joy that has no wrappings of pretension, see the role for what it is, hear the falsetto. Are we singing our own songs?

Women, sing! Listen to your voice, really hear it, and sing, not in the marching tune of the masculine construct going forth in straight lines and competing steps of precision, but in the feminine belly dance of soul! Sing and dance your voice, your body, your truth, your JOY!

Even among women’s groups, the voice may be a masculine overlay, a mimic as if we are the doll of the ventriloquist … we think it is our voice, but it is just the masculine distortion, a patriarchal power that has infiltrated and is disguised to fool us and the audience because no one is really listening, they’re just hoping to be entertained to pass the time. Step away, dance away, fall away onto the ground if you have to, but … move away from the hand grasping your spine restricting you from your own song and dance. You won’t be inanimate if you move away from that hand … you will become a real woman, able to then wisely use the masculine energies when you want to by choice rather than being under their control.

Listen. Listen with heart and soul and body … is it our voice, our flight-path, our song and dance? We have to free our voices and wings over and over … or I do … because they become bound or caged so very easily.

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