Mabon writings

Dreaming of the dead and the not yet born

I am a gatherer of bones
Who finds stories and tries to remember them,

I have some of yours
Kept close

and now you’re gone from this world
and you were gone
For me
Long before that –
but I cannot remember why.

Sometimes it feels
like floating
Or flying
Or falling

but sometimes power comes
from giving in
or leaving behind.

Now I am afraid
but my fear and the
ever present eventual goodbye
make the creating feel more vital

and so on a day when the
anger is all
encompassing

I imagine them nearby
walking barefoot over rocks
and dipping toes
into cold water

listening and
waiting
patiently
for her turn.

And when I think I am alone
driving through the dark,
that I am the only one,

I remember that we are never the only ones

so when it is time to step away
I turn my back quickly
and even that
small movement
begins to bring relief.

 

Needles

The slow death of winter
comes

and though I try to remain distant
I cannot help but hope

so I lean in with a hard yes
working diligently at what I can control
and releasing what I can’t.

And when the only answer
is I just don’t know,
try to realize that
this is our beginning.

Speak it out loud,
and then
go outside
to play in the snow.

Maybe that is the first step,
to let out a wild and authentic laugh
as I sled down the long hill of our snow
covered backyard as the moon rises

and maybe clarity in something easy
will help bring the rest of the world into alignment,
back into the light.

Maybe we will reject these rules
and decide to make new ones,

maybe we throw away those old maps
realizing finally that we can make our own.

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in procress – ebb and flow

Ebb and flow

Remember there is
beauty in roundness
and bounty

in a body
that has been indulged,
that has produced life.

The forest does not fast
the ocean would not turn away
a child who is hungry

there is space enough and all are welcome.

I am a record keeper,
a memory keeper
with no memory.

So I try to record
in ink and silver
and hunks of bone

But chances of success
are slim.

So we mend what we can
and let go of what we can’t

and for God’s sake stop buying
to try to fill the void.

I dream
but cling so tightly
to what’s real, always
so afraid to lose my
grip.

I believe in plenty
but I am not good
at sharing.

I crave stillness
but I am not still.

I am the ebb and the flow.

I breathe deep
and teach my daughter
to do the same.

Her frustration
is hard for me to bear,
but I bear it.

I change
though I constantly
resist changing.

I do not wait to use what is cherished
I do not wait
I dive in

I am the optimist
who will not die,
who cannot sleep.

I want to be light
But the heaviness
Remains.

The need to soften
is a pattern
repeated a
million times
in my weaving.

Thursday morning

Stuck inside on the only nice day in week
longingly looking at the window
feeling both trapped and glad
at the same time.

Barley understanding myself
I am happy there is no one here
to try to explain it too.

I don’t know what I want.
I want both.
I want neither.
I want it all.
Whatever that means.

I don’t even know what it means.

So I go back to looking out the window.

Closer

We go into the wilderness
to find a wilder version of ourselves,
to release her out into the world.

We look, trying to see everything
between the curves and the edges,
how it blends together and fades.
We circle back, again and again,
each time getting just a little
closer to the center.

The sounds of the ocean and
the windswept pines belong together.

We desire. We demand. We rage.
We are quiet when we should speak.
We shed layers. Grow. Surrender. Leave behind.
We die and come alive again.

We dance wildly in an empty room
trying to enjoy instead of endure.
We live together on our separate planets.
We arrive again and again.

My body was made for this.

Closer

We go into the wilderness
to find a wilder version of ourselves,
to release her out into the world.

We look, trying to see everything
between the curves and the edges,
how it blends together and fades.
We circle back, again and again,
each time getting just a little
closer to the center.

The sounds of the ocean and
the windswept pines belong together.

We desire. We demand. We rage.
We are quiet when we should speak.
We shed layers. Grow. Surrender. Leave behind.
We die and come alive again.

We dance wildly in an empty room
trying to enjoy instead of endure.
We live together on our separate planets.
We arrive again and again.

My body was made for this.

eating an orange

I eat an orange
and look at the rain
fall outside my second
story window onto
the streets and
sidewalks below
as my body begins to
reproduce the blood
that the doctor has
just taken from me.

Sometimes
it seems,
a body takes over.

The mind becomes
less important and
precious thoughts
are harder
to formulate
or care about.

Needs are basic
and primal and
we learn to listen
to the wisdom of
our bodies.

A bit of juice
dribbles down
my finger and
as I lick it up
I am reminded
that we are all
just animals
full of instinct.

I close my eyes
and feel the world
begin to change
its course
according to the
movements of my toes
and the pads
of my fingertips.