Snow in the spring

Spring is supposed to be here

full of green, and warm showers.

The rain this morning had me worried

but the weather report soothed my fears.

47 degrees by the afternoon! Or

something like that.

So I left for work.

But the rain continued

and it hovered around 30 all afternoon.

My heart was wrung out,

the consistency of wet jeans, and

full of worry for you both.

For even though you have a shelter,

you refuse to use it.

Is it the sound the rain makes

on the metal roof?

Or do you feel full of your

wild ancestors, with nothing

but trees and cunning to

protect them from the elements?

I came home to find you shivering

and quite miserable.

As I fed you hay to

jump-start your own

internal warming abilities,

my heart shivered too,

bemoaning that there was

nothing else I could do.

Then an idea floated through my head

Did one of you send it?

I brought out a towel

so I could rub down your bodies.

Another idea tumbled through

my mind.

And I put a towel in the drier.

Racing back out to you

I draped it over your back.

And you,

you  stopped eating

and lifted your head.

Eyes softened, and we stood together.

One, a shivering horse and

the other, a woman trying to

dredge up some mothering instincts.

And I wished that

someone would drape

a warm towel

over my shivering heart.

But I suppose you did that

when you radiated your appreciation

for the time I took to

warm your body.

I hold hope that tomorrow

will be gentler.

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This one’s for the broken-hearted

This one’s for the broken-hearted.  This one’s for the ones whose beating hearts have been bruised and shaken and left for dead, yet still kept on beating.  This one’s for those whose path is narrow and twisted and dark, and for those who don’t even know they are lost.  This one’s for you.  This one’s for the ones whose trembly knees have barely kept them standing, shaking all the harder while you stare, wide-eyed and desperate, at this wild and mixed-up hurting world.  Your strong elbows (holding your bent head, heavy with desperation) which currently are soaked in your tears.  Every gut-wrenching sob fills you with a tangible electricity and leads you down into your innermost sanctum. There’s a deep pool down there, lapis lazuli and unimaginably deep, disguised and shimmery, but definitely (infinitely) there for those with eyes to see and hearts to interpret.  Capable of healing your deepest wounds and reviving even the faintest of souls. Let the wisdom of the pool show you the way home.

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An ode to a barn cat

This world can be so cruel.  Some lives are harder than others, but there is blessed ignorance to distract from the cruelty.  Who will weep for an unknown cat, taken by the predators that roam the adjacent woods? There are so many other seemingly more important things to bear our tears and weigh down our shoulders.  But I will weep for the unknown, those of short and insignificant existence.

The subject of this essay is a tattered, long-coated stray-cum-barn cat.  I named her Persephone, and she was a nuisance, a stray, to anyone but me.  To me, she would shyly approach and beg to be rubbed.  I would occasionally get a meow of greeting out of her, though she gave voice only rarely.  She slowly integrated into the cat ‘herd’, but was always a loner.  Before lowering her guard enough to let me welcome her to the house, she was ragged and pregnant, giving birth last February to 2 misshapen stillborn kittens.  I don’t care what species you are; many animals are ingrained with a sense of duty and affection toward their offspring, and to not have that come to fruition can cause heartbreak across the species barrier.

It took months, but Persephone eventually came to trust me, and while she maintained the inbred fear of nearly everything, she opened up to my affections quite beautifully.  She blossomed in a way I can wistfully appreciate, because I saw her struggle to overcome her fear every day in a way we can only hope to achieve.  She would run away nearly every time I opened the door, but in the end, her love and desire to be touched overpowered her fear and she would run up to me to rub on my legs and let me pet her as long as we both needed.  She never offered to bite or scratch (except the time I took her to the vet to prevent anymore unfortunate pregnancies).

I may be the only being alive that feels sorrow at her passing, but I write this essay in ode to her short existence.persephone

Persephone, may you know no more fear.

**Update:  Persephone was found 6 days later locked in the garage.  We don’t really go in there in the wintertime, so her presence in there went unnoticed.  She is alive and well, and continuing to blossom in her charming, skittish way.  I thought about removing this post, but a slight superstition has me believing that if I take this post off, something really will happen.  Don’t begrudge me a few superstitions🙂

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You break with Love

There comes a time when you must let it all break, let it all out.  Our bodies, our minds, can only hold so much.  Dear one, you are full to the brim with passion, lust, and desire for life.  And we can hold so much, and let our passions keep us so strong for so long.  However, the illusion that we must remain steadfast throughout our whole lives, with everything that envelopes us, is just that, an illusion.  When the time is right, pain comes through like whiplash, and even as I see you break, so too do I see you, in a wholeness all its own, contain all the pieces to be used again when you are ready for re-building.

You may not understand what it is that causes you to break.  You may feel your passion burn you red-hot, and your wound is a Holy one.  You may rage, and ravage, and snap and growl.  You may moan, and keen and wail.  You may silently withdraw until your own red-hot soul comes to cauterize the wound.  When your soul does come, She’ll bring Holy water to bathe your ragged bits.  She’ll tenderly mold all those pieces you’ve been holding onto, white-knuckled, back together.  She’ll open your most tender areas and show you how tenderness is a blessing and a healer.

So hold on through the heartbreak. The ups and the downs and the times when everything hurts so bad that you can’t remember why you’re here. Settle yourself into the sacredness of those moments. When the tears slow and your shaking stops, when your vision clears and your pain subsides, you will see that you are whole (again and as always) and your once muffled heart will beat clearly again. The rhythm of your heartbeats will regain its steadfast nature and will once again push you onward, gently allowing you to fall in tune with the tempo of the earth. Allow that sweet, lulling tempo to pull you in and hold you, and then slowly let you go so that you may learn and grow from your experiences.

And so, the cycle goes on.  You’ll rise, and fall, and rise again.  The sensual nature of the Universe will caress you inside and out, and always keep you safe.  You belong to this world, and this world belongs to you.  Don’t ever forget.

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Where ecstasy meets uncertainty

The ache is real, in a way that life never really is.

I hardly understand why it all happens the way it does.  I am a servant to the way it all comes together, not really knowing what happens, or why or how.

The certainty of life eludes me, and I notice, with a wry smile, how the laws of attraction wriggle their way into my life, settling in with a soft sigh.

Every time I think it will be different, that I can do it right this time, I see the forefinger of the Universe waggle in front of my face, and I find my way into the heart of a book whose author proclaims something about energy and how our creative minds create things without us even really knowing it.  Or something similar with which I am unable to connect at that single painful moment when I am hurting the most.

Inevitably, I find myself closing the book with a sigh, and my heart contracts painfully as I glance at the solidity of the world around me.  Hard tree trunks give way to soft soil, invisible winds tell me that nothing I read carries any weight in the deep, indigo inner parts of my body.

By day, I stand in front of multiple bodies sitting in a classroom, preaching at them all the things we must do to save this earth. Inside, though, I know that nothing really matters. The full weight of the convictions I blow into their ears, like fairie dust, only boomerang right back to me, as if to say I have it all wrong.

Every day I hear the same lines, surround myself with the same truths, those velvety truths that I am sure mean no real harm (even though someone, or something, is always harmed). Oh, nothing is really meant at all. Truth keeps finding ways of making itself known, and must often sneak its way through the minds and hearts of human beings. What boldness, what clever manipulations weave themselves through eyes and ears and hearts.  Those soft hearts, oft forgotten by those who carry them.  Soft bodies, dented by the weight of lifelines unfolding, and bent under the weight of lives unlived and unrealized.

So tell me, just what am I supposed to do with it all?  I have no place to tuck all the truths of the world into.  I can’t just open my heart as if it were an accordion, and expand it with loving, yet hard-edged truth.  No, I suppose I myself must fold myself into the spaces of these truths. I must try to fit myself between the corners of redemption and release,  or find the small opening where  ecstasy meets uncertainty.  Here, here is where I shall stay until the time when it all falls away.  For sometimes, the safest place is where you least expect it.

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An Understanding

Tonight, I have reached an understanding.  I have finally understood the phrase, ‘home is where the heart is’.  In fact, I saw my heart in physical form, and even heard some of its elusive whispers.  I saw it in my horse (who happens to be the physical manifestation of a part of my soul), as he burrowed his head into my chest.  I saw my heart in him as we stood silently breathing together, my head pressed into his cheek, his whiskers tickling my chin.   I saw it in my ever-present barn cat companion, Camille (Camilla-bean) as she trotted up meowing her affection, ready to accompany us on an evening stroll through the pasture and woods.

I heard the whispers of my heart in the not-too-distant cricket chorus, playing an evening serenade.  I heard it in the breath of my horse, and the lowing of the neighbor’s cows.  I felt the peace of my heart in the chilly late summer air, and the feel of grass and soil beneath bare feet.  I felt the joy of my heart in the head-to-tail petting of the cats, and the soft warmth of the horses necks.

I will carry this understanding with me, tucked into the spaces between breath and heart, to be saved for a day when joy and peace are far from me.

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Down the Rabbit Hole of Thought

Muses are a funny thing.  They come, they go, they flit, they tease.  Sometimes staying for awhile, more often than not (in my case anyway), they leave a soft impression on my heart before dashing off somewhere else.  Tonight’s muse encouraged me to write with absolutely no agenda.  To let ‘er rip.  And so I write, watching the cursor move across my screen, waiting to see where She desires me to go.  And where does She always take me? Into the heart of love.  Love like brandy, searing across throat and stomach, warming me from the inside.  Love like fire, snapping and crackling and caressing the night sky. Love like lemonade, tart and crisp and utterly refreshing.  To this, I always return.  Not knowing the how or why or the where of it.  But just knowing that Love resides in the most unlikely of places.  Love can come to me in the guise of heartbreak (which inevitably shows up in the middle of the night), but heartbreak must be explored with caution.

Heartbreak for our species, for our planet.  Heartbreak for the growing pains, pains we all must undertake.  My heart bleeds, my heart cries, my heart bows down to the Divine plan that pulses ever onward with each collective beat of the heart of the Universe.  Every instance where sorrow finds its way to the core of me, it tears me down.  Always at night, when my defenses are worn down from exhaustion.  When I am at my most vulnerable.

Vulnerability, the state of being open, empty, hesitant, and wary.  Few dare to admit to their vulnerability, because to be seen as ‘weak’ is to be seen as a failure.  Who wants to be thought of as a failure?  But, truly, the weak shall inherit the earth.  For in that weakened state, we invite truth and grace to make an appearance, if you can hold that vulnerability in any awareness at all.  Vulnerability is a wound, and when you are unaware of your wounds, if you do not tend to them, you may let in infection instead of graceful healing.

But holding your wounds in awareness allows you to control how and when they heal. Awareness opens your wounds up to Love, and so we come full circle.  For it is either Love or Fear which reside in your body.  Can both be held in equilibrium?  I do not know.  But I’ll tell you where to start- by being aware.  Remain vigilant, and the secrets of your Self will be revealed to you.

It’s interesting down which path of thought a muse can take you.

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