Oregon eclipse 2017

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In process – messages to myself

For weeks
I have been living
Inside a large ball of grief

Where pleasure and pain
And sleep and dreams
Seem to mix together
and its difficult to
tell top from bottom

And its many sources
Turn into one unintelligible beast

I have no words for it
Only a big dark hole in my insides
Full of dread and anger
And hopeless sadness
and so much fear
and I want someone to tell me
yes this is horrible
But it will get better
You will not always have this hole
It will fill with something better
Eventually

Just wait
Just slow down
Hold still
Let arms wrap around you
Let voices reach you
Just be still
And see if it feels any different
When you are quiet
If you can see another side
Or hear a bird calling
Brining you to another possible path
There are so many possibilities
Dear one
So many ways you cannot yet see

Maybe take a walk
Go up a hill and see how it looks from above
Change your vantage point
Breath the clean air
Speak to the trees, the ancient ones
With so much wisdom for us
Speak to them and then be still
And see if they speak back

Just try.
Even if it feels useless.
And when you don’t know who you can trust
And you doubt your own insides
Trust the trees and the ferns and the mushrooms
And all those ancient growing things
That belong to the earth
She is our mother and will not steer you wrong.

in process

In the fall time
when the harvest comes
and the air turns cool
And I am left alone

I become both angry and afraid
In demand
Pulled and pushed and prodded and needed

But then a routine emerges
We grow accustomed

And then
I feel powerful
Capable
Independent

sometimes feel s like the end of the world
And sometimes feels all together manageable,

We are such moody creatures
We women,

We bribe and we plead
With ourselves
And these small creatures
Who surround us

We move as if one hand is tied behind our backs
We accomplish
Against all odds.
We feel so very alone.

Its not that we have to make all the hard decisions
Its that all decisions are now hard.

we know enough to allow the struggle

We love our small tyrants

We wait for rain,
For puddles and splashing

Wait for dark
For the moonrise
Which we watch in awe together,
Her love for the moon is something I did not teach
She came to it on her own
Or was born with it perhaps
Innate
As some things are.

We regrow

We harvest
We eat
And dig
And dry
And try to make things last for as long as possible

We bring the colors of the outside in

We peel and plan for next year

We are in a place that is strange
Unfinished,
Because truthfully every place is strange and unfinished

We each feel a full rainbow of emotion
Forgetting in the moment that they are each a gift

Forgetting the feeling of going years without the release of a good solid cry
Without so many portions of a truthful life

And truthfully we cannot be powerfully anything
Without being truthful

Loudly truthful
Irritatingly truthful.

I wonder often why so many others can do it
So much better than me

Forgetting that perception is a liar
Always taking us down impossible paths

But I will try to instead
Declare my truths loudly
And in that declaration
Hope that I am heard

I will remember that
decomposition brings fertility
and so release what is dark and thick
And smells like life

prepare the ground around us
So it is full of richness from
the selves that we let fall away

solstice notes

How we honor the sun

We make a fire to burn what is no longer needed
We eat berries fed by the sun
Their sweetness is full of the energy of her light
We provide water to what we’ve planted
Which they drink up gradually

She runs through droplets
Falling joyfully into green grass
And marches barefooted through thickets
And under trees

We surrender to the water
Let it wash over skin
Sink in

Float
Listen
And then
Light the fire.

poetry in process

Bones on the brain

The whole house is sleeping
I am sleepy too
but sleep felt like a waste of precious time
so I am here
Glassey eyed,
sketching skulls.

We cut through bones
Yesterday evening in the dark
On the front porch.
He held the pruners
And I held the baby
While her and I
Watched his strength
Cut through

Now I have bones on the brain.

I think both
of their strength
and fragility

Remembering how easily
my own have broken

The other day a woman showed me how
The inside of a human skull
Has a pattern on it that looks just like
A leaf pressed into silver

In the crisp air and quiet
Of an empty room in the early morning
It seems quite natural,
That each should be
inside the other.