Month: February 2017

My promise to Spring

Maybe it is due to the pending solar eclipse, but I have been trying to take a look at some of the shadowy trails in myself – those wisps or lightning stikes that tend to block out the sun of my own light, my true self.

I wrote, in what seems like really another lifetime ago, that fear was running the show and that it was something that I wanted to work on. Save that it most certainly is the same lifetime, because I am still dealing with that exact issue. Granted, life has provided me (and us all) with some fresh material.

But amazingly, importantly, I might be getting to the heart of it (and I chose that word carefully): fear is expressed or conceived in direct relation to my lack of trust – in myself and, sadly, in the universe (or The Powers that Be if you prefer). If I am looking in the mirror and that is the reflection that I see? Well, it is tempting to look away, I can tell you that much. But how can I trust myself if I can’t accept myself first? I get that. So I am digging down in my bones to summon the bravery and courage to lean in, even though I still am looking so dearly for something to hold onto, a structure that seems solid enough to carry my weight. It has to come from within.

I remember being on the plane on my way to the States very nearly one year ago. For some reason, I had a really clear idea that I should get the word “trust” tattooed in the whiteness of my inside wrist. The same blue-grey as my eyes in a sloping but formal cursive. So now, after so much, I have circled back to that very word and it is written, actually, only on the inside, and it is asking for attention. Shine a light, shine an eclipse.

Can I “imagine that life is always right,” as Rilke asks? I have a blissfully good imagination, it is my main source of company at times. That too is in the footfalls of a leap towards trust. Off a cliff of the known into other, certainly, but there is great beauty in it.

And if there is anything where I can unhesitatingly invest my trust, it is in beauty. In Natural Beauty, specifically, that of the universe’s gold dust. So I do.

It is where I will start, or start again (for the hundredth time), while coaxing that voice within me to believe that it is reliable and that I am too. I can grieve whatever experiences of abandonment happened either in childhood or, say, last month, and then move on. It will get there and I am listening. In the meantime, I can make a promise to Spring.


“Dear Spring, I give you my firm intention, to be open and present, to do my best ‘à me liberer’ from outdated beliefs. I will let your beauty guide me to renewal, with trust that all that I am experiencing is or will be for my best. I am so grateful to still be here and turned towards facing. Together, I hope that we can breathe anew. Thank you.”

Trust could become the True North on my inner compass. Growth can spring from even blackened branches.

The words Self-Care and Potential are popping up quite a bit for me right now. Like popcorn. The latter makes me squirm uncomfortably and always has. It sounds like a threat but what if it isn’t and is more of a promise instead? It feels possible, certainly when linked to another “P” word that has been swirling like a hawk: Purpose.


What do these words mean to you? And what promises are you hoping to
make to Spring? No need to share (but by all means do if so inclined or
email them along). It just might be interesting to ask, with the utmost
of kindness, or maybe I am just hoping you will be by my side while I
do. I know that I can trust in that too.

PS. I have a feeling that this is one of those posts that will come
off as sad when it was meant to be anything but. There is so much
positive that is buzzing in me, like the bees around the almond tree
blossoms, announcing a new season.

PPS.  Thank you for stunning me yet again with your overwhelmingly kind responses to my previous post. You give me the courage to publish posts where I feel vulnerable to do so, such as this one!
 

Allow me this

I know
you’ll say
with a pat of
a reassuring hand
“It will come again,
It will.
There will be another.”
And while
you mean well
and I even believe you
this morning
my skin
is longing
to be touched
and lightly,
my lips
to be brushed
with a kiss, sweet
and my eyes
to be held
in a gaze beyond
fondness, stirring
shared.
Allow me this.
For I am open
but missing,
not “him”
more than 
another 
for 
a deep breath
of love’s burning
smoke.

If you would like to hear me reading this poem, you can do so by clicking here.

Beyond ghosts and a wishing past

“We have a surprise for you.”
My friends know me so well and they were brimming with excitement. They lead me through a forest path, uneven. I held onto a gentleman’s arm for stability as slick leaves slipped out from under my feet until we leveled out into a clearing. And there, pilled up bricks and stones took the form of an abandoned church. My jaw dropped.
“But the best part is that we can go in.”
The front doors were only held shut with a wire which the gentleman soon unwound.
We stepped in and the grey of the afternoon was blotted out with a burst of warm pastels. Layers and layers of paint and patina, layers of so many histories. What had been and what was, with a fairly breathy bubble in between. I quickly set my light and raised my camera but my heart was beating so as to shake my hands, awkwardly. But joyfully.
For did it make me a bit sad that so much graffiti covered the walls, the floors? It did but they are stories too of people that who had felt so filled with life in this particular lieu that they had to mark it down. “I was here.” “…slept here…it was very cold.” The unmistakable initials of another Romeo and Juliet, so in love, just at that precise moment. I could feel their presence, still, as well as those who had been married in this space or had baptized their children. Such a panoply.  
Since a while now, I have been especially aware that time is really not as linear or neat as we would like, to shrink it to what is palatable, but rather round and expanding. Nearly breathing, if you are willing to follow me without eye-rolling for such an oddly-named scenario. I was breathing with it, in many directions at once.
We stayed our welcome.
It seemed to take us a bit of time, blinking, to readjust to the forest once we had closed up the church. So much brilliant green, things growing. From across a ravine, I could hear the clank of bells and soon the goats strolled into view, herded by a man who seemed remarkably out of time himself. We watched with something nearing disbelief as he coaxed his crew over a small bridge until the little horned creatures were just there, one nibbling on my camera strap. He was friendly and we exchanged what we could amidst Italian and his local dialect. 
Something about that moment was so perfect and direct that it made me forget all of the ghosts just behind the walls. His smile perhaps. That this is his life, that he is good in it, in his skin. With a final call of “Ciao” and a wave he was up over the hill. The bells and bleats echoed on for a minute or two and then silence, present tense.

How is everyone? 
Thank you for being here. 
Sending much Love and Strength, as always,
Heather