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Spirit, mixed-media on 5"x5" mapel panel, in the shop now, where shipping is free until Dec 13th..
This peaceful creature is wintering away in a calm trance, a sitting prayer of silence and deep connection. Owl wakes us up to the truth, and then cuddles us in his downy feathers to enjoy the dreamlike nature of quiet honesty. Open your heart wide, as Barn Owl's heart-shaped face invites, and discover yourself without limits. Then sleep on it.
With love...
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Well of Grief
Those who will not slip beneath
the still surface on the well of grief
turning downward through its black water
to the place we cannot breathe
will never know the source
from which we drink
the secret water, cold and clear,
nor find in the darkness glimmering
the small round coins
thrown by those who wished for
something else.
-David Whyte
I'm not hanging out with the Swamp Hag again, but this poem reminds me so much of my time with her. Today seemed like a good day to honor her riches, the very last day of the month of November, a month which seems to be gold like the treasure found in her haggy presence.
Have you ever read this book, by the way? I love it so. Starhawk was the very first author I read when I put my feet on this road out loud (The Spiral Dance), and she holds a special Grandmotherly place in my heart.
Reverence comes in and settles down for a comfortable nap inside of my bones these days. When I begin to paint animals, they all want to be white. They all speak to me of connection, family, stillness, divine mediocrity, the quiet quest. It reminds me of what it must be like to be a bear, cuddled up in a cave while awaking now and again to appreciate the snowy landscape outside before circling and falling again into dreamtime.
It's a beautiful time to count blessings and share love, unlike any other. I get very swept up in the giving spirit of this holiday. Each time we read a book featuring a likeness of Santa, I feel choked up. There really is a magic about giving and taking care of others warmly during the cold season. I'm still crying as often as my eyes will leak, keeping the seeds damp underground as they rest.
I've taken to sleeping with two Coyotes, a Silver Fox and the Black Wolf, the latter being a gift I will share about here soon. Sleeping under a pile of dogs has taken me to some lovely country in the dreamtime, again: white with snow and dormancy to rest in and sift through during the silent hours.
Winter is becoming like a religion to me. Come January, it will be much harder to show up joyfully for worship-but for now, I am pleased here in the desert, a soft, thick blanket of downy flakes on my mind.
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What
Do Sad people have in
Common?
It seems
They have all built a shrine
To the past
And often go there
And do a strange wail and
Worship.
What is the beginning of
Happiness?
It is to stop being
so religious
Like
That.
-Hafiz, "Stop Being So Religious"
I love this poem, though I'm a big fan of wailing until the wailing feels complete. And then, that's enough wailing for me about that.
I double clicked out of a photo grab earlier, and erased an entire post on truth. My truth, and what it has felt like to go through the mill and out the other side this year. And all about knowing I'm headed for more grinding in the coming year, as I face more of my own disquieted stirrings- no longer in agreement about keeping still in the dungeon I've exiled them to.
At first I said the familar words and phrases as I looked to my drafts folder to see it missing, "You've got to be kidding me..." and the urge to toss my laptop out the window rose mightily in me, as it does several times per workday. Then a quicker-than-usual surrender came in to sit with me and I walked over to paint and ponder my grief at the words and 45 minutes I'd lost forever. Wailing and worshipping quietly.
I've been painting since then, a series of soft, wintry holiday sentiments who have been swirling in me for months. I love painting in blues and whites...maybe a little ochre. If I ever had a quiet room of my own, I would unconsiously paint it these colors. The winter palettes are my favorite ones to create with.
Returning to this "page", I wonder if all that I said about my truth was worth sharing. I can already feel the energy of '11 coming in loud and clear. At the beginning of this year, I sort of noticed that self-care would be my focus. That this would be a time when I would truly make my health and my time a priority instead of saying yes to everything and wearing myself out, leaving me grouchy and unfulfilled.
I can sense that it opened the doorway to honoring my short life here; it would now seem as though I've climbed out of all of my safe boxes and I am standing right here naked in the rain, with no choice to go back and live among any of the illusions I created for myself. I can tell you that I didn't exactly see this coming.
I've taken a shotgun to those constructs made of old wounds, and I remember, each time I begin to put on the old shroud, that it isn't worth it, that it is incongruous with what I've already learned. And I find that I am left with a short-lived ache, and then a wide open life in front of me. And being one who has in the past suffered a mad case of blank-canvas syndrome, I have shot that to pieces as well. And so I don't even have fear of the unknown to cradle me in it's trembling fluff. Even that, so reliable in the past, is a useless string that makes distracting music no more.
I'm feeling it again so strongly this day. In the stillness I sit. No shroud. No protection. No umbrella. No old story to save me or make sense of it all.
In the lack of it, I feel no void, no hunger. I'm just sitting here, enjoying the silence.
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Stand still.
The trees before you and the bushes beside you are not lost.
Wherever you are is a place called Here,
And you must treat it as a powerful stranger,
Must ask permission to know it and be known.
The forest breathes. Listen. It answers,
I have made this place around you,
If you leave it you may come back again saying Here.
No two trees are the same to Raven.
No two branches the same to Wren.
If what a tree or a bush does is lost on you,
You are surely lost. Stand still. The forest knows
Where you are. You must let it find you.
David Wagoner
How has this holiday weekend been like a sacred space around you?
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A very relaxing holiday has come and gone for the Campbell family. I find myself thinking mostly of the sweetest little things...
Naked butts in the tub, splashing and drinking the bathwater
Lime-scented dread gel and two new beads
Mug after mug of hot chocolate
A boy in a tree-decorating trance
A babe strutting in new boots
A giant fire and perfect marshmallow sticks
Sweetgrass incense sticks poked into the ground
Special occasion scotch in sparkly new highballs
Sweet potato casserole that I thought I was over, but as it turns out, I could eat it every day
Mom's perfect cornbread stuffing, which our family calls "dressing"
Brandon's salty unshaven scruff
A book I can finish in one night
Real cream
Family band in the living room every night
A handful of whole nutmegs to be grated into any every dish possible
Dogs inside for the cold nights
Friends who are family
Freshly shaken mason jar butter
Chocolate rimmed lips on children too young to be consuming so much chocolate it leaves rings
Waking up to her new ritual verse, "Peanut butter pretzels! Peanut butter pretzels!"
Grapevines turning yellow
Mail love: gently used books from a faraway bestie
Snow plans
Orange and Patchouli Wild & Free Body Balm
All of my favorite clothes laundered
Tearful teething nights transformed by singing one very old African chant again and again
Hanging with gradeschool girlfriends instead of shopping on Black Friday and impersonating the machine that would call home to alert our parents we'd skipped class
A perfectly balanced checkbook
The sweetest voicemails ever
Precious silence after hours
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Come and sing!
Come and sing in the old way,
Come and make the sun shine
So the corn will grow,
The squash will grow,
The beans will grow.
-Hopi
As Thanksgiving nears, I hear the sounds of practicing around the house. Saying to each other, "What are you grateful for?" and "I will make a card for Jeff, (his violin teacher), because I'm thankful that he teaches me" and "I'm grateful for...um...having YOU".
As I picked out special Belgian beers and Panettone, to eat with the butter he and Paw Paw will be churning, Miles lugged a very tall s'mores kit and a tabletop ping pong set through World Market. His little hands wrapped tightly around the packages, chosen after his usual bedtime, asking, "Can I please have a ginger snap with lemon curd on it when we get home?"
Keeping him out late and plying him with warm chocolate milk is something I was indulgent about, and grateful for.
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Shining Pixie Polly has interviewed me on fear, find it here.
Let's talk some more about what fear is doing to you today. What won't you allow it to do?
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When I opened the fuschia tissue paper, I lifted it up to my nose. I have this funny habit of smelling things I'm falling in love with. I can get a feeling for the home or store they came from. Often this keeps me from washing clothing items for days before I put them on. I tied this baby on straight out of the package after giving it the smell-test. It's scent was of roses- no, better than roses, a rose scented incense that reminded me of Morocco, though I've never been.
Her shop is a delight to the senses and I love that she repurposes scraps to make beautiful, expressive, artful clothing. Where you find your favorite feminine swirly skirts?
Batik Gypset skirt, ChopstixWaits.
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Emotional Dryad Seeks Little House in Big Woods
Western to Central location in United States preferred. No electricity required. Must be able to access without 4WD. Secure cottage with bunk for one in treed setting, running water nearby a plus. For writing, painting, soulmining, long walks, maybe more. No leaks please.
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oh this changeover. it became what some have called a grand exit, an exodus.
now, i'm a drama queen by many accounts-as long as no one's getting hurt-and i have to say that i didn't at all realize leaving facebook or joining the discussion about social media was going to cause such a stir. some implied that a person *should* just do it, already, and stop talking about it.
for me, axeing my account on the spot was not the right thing to do. i needed time to connect, to say goodbye, i needed to make the decision to deactivate or delete. did i want to take a break or amputate? and it came down to this-you who take the time to read what i scribble, enjoy what i make-you care to be here. and i care about you, and i learn a lot from our exchanges.
our connection makes me being an artist possible. so again, i say thank you. i am grateful for my life. amen and aho, and cheers for letting go.
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Framed prints have been added to the shop, as well as 4 original paintings. I can frame any of my prints for you, you know.
(Raises eyebrows)
I'll have some wintry, holidayish greeting card packs posting this weekend, as well.
I'm also offering my signature giftwrapping as an add-on to any of your orders for the holidays. The holidays.
The Holidays!
I can't believe they're around the corner. I'm working on my Eleventh Hour Wishlist, which is one of my favorite things to do this time of year. Here are some other fun things happening round the 'sphere:
*Boho wrote about our amazing photo session.
*Em Falconbridge is having a felting workshop online-it looks REAL DELISH, so hurry!
*I'm really proud to share that my partner in crime's cd is available for download at iTunes or cdbaby. It's instrumental and all-occasion, very lively and festive.
*I'm contributing to two books, one to be published in May and the other at the end of 2011, with luck. I'm over the moon about books. They're like little dreams-come-true for so many.
Sing Up the Stars, mixed-media on 6 x 8 maple panel.
Thank you all for your thoughts on my leaving Facebook behind. I've had some cold feet today, but I know that I need a different kind of self-care this season. In order for me to live my best life, I have to make drastic cuts sometimes. If I can use the recreational drug called Facebook in moderation at some point, I may be back. I'm going to see what it feels like to leave it behind.
I'm seeking a kind of reliable vitality in my life right now-some sure things that I can count on to energize me. Right now I'm seeing far too much screen. My desk chair is horribly uncomfortable, too, and I'm thinking it may be the only reason I've moderated my computer time! I think I'm going to have to keep this wretched thing.
I truly do love and care about each of you who take the time to come here and witness my shenanigans and cheer me on. Thank you for all that you do, but especially....thank you for being you.
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I'm trying my Quick Compose option-which I think may be Typepad's attempt to satisfy those of us who aren't (or in my case, soon won't be) using Facebook. I wonder if it will be something that satisfies my drive to connect in warp without writing out an entire diatribe, or if it could be a legtrap that keeps me from doing the things I want to do? This is a test. I repeat. This is only a test.
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I actually had to get out of bed to write this because I feel so light by the pure simplicity of making this decision that I couldn't wait.
I have had so much fun at Facebook. I've LOVED reading everyone's funny posts and seeing amazing photos of you and your children there-having a one stop shop to share my work and see yours in a fraction of the time it would take me to go to each of your blogs or websites, or email you to get an update, or wait for your newsletter to come through.
I have enjoyed reading your recipes, having long threads of ongoing jokes with you, receiving your friend requests and planning dates with you there. I've loved reading your comments about the funny things my children say and do, and I've loved commenting on your posts and videos.
I've had a whirlwind love affair with you all through Facebook and Twitter. But I have to tell you I'm so excited to delete my account, so that I can get on with living my life in the way I feel strongly pulled to do so.
At first, I balked at myself because this time of year doesn't make the best sense to pull out of a gigantic conversation where I can sell you my artwork for holiday gifts and tell you all about my newest Etsy listings. But as I began the conversation with myself, I literally became giddy with all of the things I envisioned I could do with my time instead of...networking and connecting in warp time.
Facebook and, less so, Twitter, so innocent and sweet in the beginning, have become a major time suck for me. I commented to this defector yesterday, when I read her announcement that she was leaving: "What a great idea! One set of social media claws will release their hold on you!" Note that I didn't really put it together that I could unleash myself just as easily.
Shortly thereafter I wondered, if that's what it really feels like, then what the hell am I still doing on here?! And the answer for me was a fear of being disconnected from many of you. Because social media is so quick and easy, I didn't want to be forgotten by you, and I didn't want to forget to check in with you. Which I will, because I suffer multitasking induced A.D.D. and can't even remember to get my coffee out of the microwave for the fifth time if I'm doing something as complex as say, staring at the countertop. Facebook is one more thing to juggle.
I have to trust that those who enjoy what I have to share will come around to this soul kitchen.
I am letting go of my fear of being without Facebook. It feels very freeing...
When I began blogging 5+ years ago, it was such a novelty. And then a backlash happened, just as I see now with social media. Bloggers disabled comments because there were distasteful words being broadcasted, quiet wars were being waged with other bloggers against rival gangs, some were getting too attached to how many comments were being left for them, and how much traffic they were receiving. It was too much for them.
I didn't really have that experience with blogging, but I'm having it with Facebook. It's happening again, just as it does with most things-the pleasurefest peaks and then...the crash.
During my ecstatic moment of realizing that I needn't wait until the end of the year to cut the cord- I needn't have other options in place for people to "find me" and "friend me" other than what I already have going-Etsy and this blog, basically-I had wild visions.
Wild visions of playing outside with my children and swinging them "Higher, higher!", taking more pictures and sitting somewhat attentively without my smartphone flashing me to let me know someone had FB'd me in some way. I saw a slow motion movie playing in my mind of hitting the delete key on my account and running outside to play with my patchwork skirt flying up in the air on the way out. I saw myself interested in cooking dinner again-actual meals with various items on our plates. I saw me looking at my husband when he's talking to me. I saw fewer reasons to check my email while I'm working hard doing the work I love to do.
Facebook isn't on the hook for my spousal or culinary neglect, I wouldn't dare blame that on anyone else, but here's the deal: my mind thinks in "facebook-ese" now, and friends, that is simply too much real estate being taken up in there, which I would like to use for other enterprises.
So I say to you Facebook and Twitter, farewell. I've had some of the best memories and met some sweet, kindred souls at your virtual house party. Being there was never a mistake, and I have no regrets about my time spent there-I've learned so much about what works for me by showing up to the party in my best dress, ready to grab a glass and flit about.
My hope is that if you enjoyed connecting with me there, you'll visit me here and stay in touch through my blog and shop.
Thank you all for understanding, and thank you, Marisa, for shining a flashlight on a subject that became instantly illuminated the moment I read your words.
Meet me in the field of dandelions where we can really get to know each other, face to face and heart to heart. I would love to share some time with you that way.
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Can you even digest in one reading how profound he was? I never can. Whenever I'm feeling lost, confused, alone or down, I turn to him. And he rescues me from my own distorted thinking. Do you think he knew that his words would reach so far into the future's hearts?
WHERE EVERYTHING IS MUSIC
Don't worry about saving these songs!
And if one of our instruments breaks,
it doesn't matter.
We have fallen into the place
where everything is music.
The strumming and the flute notes
rise into the atmostphere,
and even if the whole world's harp
should burn up, there will still be
hidden instruments playing.
So the candle flickers and goes out.
We have a piece of flint, and a spark.
This singing art is sea foam.
The graceful movements come from a pearl
somewhere on the ocean floor.
Poems reach up like spindrift and the edge
of driftwood along the beach, wanting!
They derive
from a slow and powerful root
that we can't see.
Stop the words now.
Open the window in the center of your chest,
and let the spirits fly in and out.
-rumi
photo by denise andrade
(I am opening the window in the center of my chest...to let the spirits fly in and out. I'll tell you how that goes.)
photo by denise andrade
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Weeping Woman, 1937.
Need I even note his holy name? He's my favorite, you know.
I've been feeling dried up like a forgotten old raisin under a carseat cushion. Needing hydration, rain, emotions. Somewhere between the summer madness and the committing to of next year's plans, I've forgotten to stay connected to some vital aspects of my own feelings. And here I thought I'd been so good about loving them up and down. The reality is that I hold a lot of space for others to have feelings, read: little ones, clung to my leg like static, who erupt into tears about fifty times each in a day. And friends who trust me enough to shed tears in my ear. I envy all of you.
I get to and need to cry, too. How could I forget this?
Tonight I melted down but good, and sadly, it came at the cost of yelling at Miles while he putzed endlessly, picking at his dinner. A meal that the rest of us unsurprisingly weren't having. I gave him a consequence I had to shortly thereafter recant on, and once cleaned up between he and I, I retired to check in with myself about how shitty it all felt and how awful I made him feel.
It wasn't easy to connect. I knew there was a well of emotions ready to come up out of hiding, but I had to conjure, dig, lie down for, and cajole. I just store it up so that it forgets what it's like to come out as tears. As frustration, no problem, I'm topped up on hair trigger frustration these days.
Once they began to flow, I marched out into the living room, blankie around shoulders and cried right in front of the children and B, instead of hiding my feelings away and trying to appear like the one who has it together- the one they can trust and lean into when they feel sad. Very sensitive Miles has said to me since he was very little that he doesn't like to see or hear me cry. When I do, he bursts into tears. Tonight, he was fine and gave me a little kiss at one point. To think of how long I've been adjusting for him, so I wouldn't have to investigate that or deal with what it meant. It reenacts the policy of not crying in my childhood, lest I be given "something to cry about." Wouldn't want that.
Tonight's tears felt very cleansing and like a mini spa for my soul.
Twice this week, I've heard feedback from two women close to me that I give, but I don't allow myself to receive. I'm turning it over, at first a bit reluctantly, because there's a whole family story there that I can't deny. It's out of balance, to say the least. And holding space for my own emotions is something even I reject the notion of. To allow myself the gift of tears is to acknowledge that there is space available in the cosmos for them. They're not in anybody's way. I'm not in anybody's way.
I do not have to be The Strong One. The Big Sister. The Oldest Child. The Old Soul. And all of those things disguised as lacking in human vulnerabilities.
So this monthly moon week, I'm bringing on the tears! I'm going to cry about everything that makes me sad until I no longer feel like crying. I'm going out to buy Kleenex tomorrow and I intend on using it.
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Fungus in Memphis, TN.
I'm puttering around in my studio tonight, in one of my trances I fall into when I'm playing with a new medium. I'm using this process of layering and layering on, something I find fun and useful when I paint. I like to start with a lot of layers, it seems to help put me into the oblivious buzzed out state I like to be in when I get to the more tangible subjects within the piece.
What I noticed about all of this layering on is that sometimes I like to take it off in the end. Rip it, sand it, reduce it back down, but not exactly as it was when I began.
It reminded me of us. Humans. Our condition.
We download layers of data while we experience our relationships, our environments, our choices that do or do not work out in the end. And then, after a time, we enter a phase of reduction. Of clearing the clutter. Evaluating. Distilling.
Refining.
We can never return to the way we were before the additive process started. Neither would we want to, I suppose. Those very things we cleared out, that were becoming stagnant and loitersome as they hung around beyond usefulness, are rich in beauty, too, like humus on a forest floor.
This process of refining can happen all on it's own, just as those decaying leaves break down on the earth. It's not something I have to think my way through much anymore, the answers about what is working have just seemed to come...painlessly. Just as the grass grows on its own, I'd say the forest floor of personal growth matures and decays on its own, too. What a relief.
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Sitting in a shadow (literally this time) at about 4pm today, I felt the time change and winter's onset sink into my bones. I remembered a friend telling me last week that the change of seasons really affects her, that she needs sunshine to find the motivation to get up and move about in an inspired way. I have a lot of friends who also feel like this, and I, too, have felt varying emotions with changes in the weather. Many of my New England relations have such very long and stark winters, I can't blame them for casting spells to bring the blossoms forth to enjoy for a few stinking months before it all begins again. How do you people do it?
I digress.
I thought a lot about productivity today, and it's seductive ("If you did me, you could check me off of your list.....") appeal. I am industrious by nature, so finishing something makes me feel reeeeeal good. Like so many lessons, I've had to make myself to sit still and allow the seasons to imprint upon me. You know, just to kick myself in the hindquarters some more. Slowing down and taking notice of details is easier than when I'm busy making hay as the sun shines, so I really don't mind the challenge. The details are what inspire me to birth new ideas, but I have to create space to notice them sometimes. Nuts.
If I set up my environment as I did today, tea on the nightstand, laptop on the lapdesk, chicken pot pie in my hands, legs snuggled under the sheets as the dark clouds threatened the sky, I can create the kind of being still (ish) that I enjoy when this season approaches.
Brandon took the kids to a birthday party and the house was unusually quiet. At one point, I pushed everything aside and closed my eyes in a mini-retreat. I popped awake with an idea or two, so I scratched them into my notebook in the half-light and dozed back out. It felt luxurious to be alone with an idea and not feel that fire to race into my studio and try to figure out how to execute it. To just lie there dreamily with it and let it tell me it's story in it's own voice.
Allowing, ahem! ALLOWING the season to direct me and discovering again that at this time of year it's okay to hang up my hat of movement once in a while left me...cozy. I think of my grandmother, abuzz in her garden all summer, then winding down to make sausage quietly in the kitchen as the seasons changed. I can see her sitting down in her chair under a lamp and sewing on a piece of a quilt.
It's as if the bright masculine sun retires for a while, and the darker feminine energies get a chance to come out and play. I enjoy the shift that plays out like this in so many different aspects of life. It felt almost ceremonious to cozy down like a Fox in my den with my tail around my nose, dreaming up the things that will itch to be manifested... next season.
Will you share about your coziest, comfiest, winter space? What does it smell like? What brings you comfort? What does it give you permission for?
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This word, "shelter" has been coming up a lot lately. I'm drawn to it for all it possesses that is cozy, voluntarily protective, like a little dwelling in the forest with a writing table and a tiny chair inside, and no electronics whatsoever.
The bunk has a soft, but not squishy mattress on a small wooden frame. On top of the woodstove sits a floral kettle that brings a tease of color to an otherwise soft and woody single room. The blankie is velvety and my grand aunt's faded quilt lays over the end of the bed, inviting naps at any time of day. Firewood and pinecones are piled up outside the window, and my old truck sits in the driveway alone, to be seen by no one for days.
Shelter, for me, is a ritual of solitude. When my ears go quiet and my senses cease to be repeatedly shocked by the stimulus and reactivity of my day, I rest. Even if I'm not exactly resting, my wiring is at rest. Vitality can also be found in silence, a teaching that keeps seeking me out.
I'd take a few things to this cabin called Shelter with me: Honeybush tea for morning and ground coffee + the french press for the afternoon. A coldbox with cream, bread, cheese, wine, cakes, water, olives. Dad's venison jerky, canned trout, some Walt Whitman, tall furry boots, birdseed, a warm ears hat, medicine shawl, Coyote, my notebook, a tin for collecting small forest floor goodies and feathers, a tiny vase, thick yarn and bamboo needles, fuzzy socks, a way to make fire.
Tell me what you'd bring to this tiny haven far from civilized noise...
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Today is the one year anniversary of the day we put Blue down here on our own property. Her four month run with aggressive bladder cancer had taken over. I think of her every day and I cherish the gifts she brought, and the teachings that really sank in after she crossed over. She taught me so much about being wild, as she was a street stray from south-central Los Angeles.
She came to us wounded and afraid, and we figured out how, in ten years, to become each other's best friends. When I write those words, "wounded and afraid", tears come bursting out of my eyes. I saw how strong and confident she became with some nurturing that she could count on. As I've learned to do this for myself, I see it in me, too. Even in her last weeks, she gently asserted her boundaries in what would be her final acts of self-care.
I also see it in friends who are nursing their own wounds, and family members who are discovering that they have everything they need to be satisfied contained within them. Like a beautiful and magical seed, just waiting for the conscious breath to bring the Self alive and into the light.
Just like Blue. When she shined, which was every day after the one in which she began to trust us, it came out of her pores, her laughing smiles, her joyful gallop through the woods. It was infectious, of course.
I'm gathering supplies for a simple ceremony to honor her life:
White sage for smudging ourselves
A handful of Lavender buds because we rubbed it into her fur as she passed last year
A jar of birdseed, our offering to the East, the direction of new beginnings
A drum and rattle to vibrate with the sacred Earth that holds us all while we are here
My necklace which reads "trust" on the front and "always" on the back, because it comforts me in all matters, including grief
Ceremony helps me transition into a new place of being with my feelings or to celebrate a passage for myself or someone dear. What I'm wanting today is to honor my friend, to share that process with my children, and to connect with the Earth and all life as this season transitions, too.
If you feel like sharing, please tell me how you use ceremony or ritual to bring vitality to your experiences.
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Samhain has proven to be a very medicinal day. Early this morning as I was leaving for preschool, I dumped out my tea (I tried), in order to replace it with coffee and saw a suspicious dark spot in the bottom of my mug. Supposing it was a blob of french-press grounds residue from the last coffee I'd had in there, I inspected haphazardly. Something glinted a bit, just as I was dumping the half and half in the bottom of the cup. Hmmm. Further inspection revealed that it was a dried and smashed earwig that had certainly had a worse day than I was having, and perhaps, also, a spin through the dishwasher hadn't helped his plight. I gave it a swish with some tap water and my fingers and repoured the creamer, coffee and ran out. What did it all mean? Earlier this year, Lauren had a similar experience when she kept sucking them up with her yerba mate through the bombilla straw.
I've had a hard shielded bug on my desk for a few days now. When I'm creating, he comes crawling up onto my drawings and hangs out. I don't mind having her (or him) around as long as they aren't harrassing me! His shield reminds me of a medicine shield-and after all of this talk about not needing any protection, in walks Pentatomoidea with its sucking mouthparts and defensive stink glands. I'm glad I've not made him angry. I see you, bud, and I'm happily stripped down right now; I accept your protection so I don't have to wear the war shield myself. Gracias.
Tonight the veil is thin between realms, of the living, and of those who have crossed. While I was scanning the drawing above earlier this evening, I made a copy of it to shrink it smaller and when I popped back into the main screen, a photo I'd scanned of my recently-passed Grandfather was layered over the top of my drawing. Click, back into it-it was Medicine Deer. Click out, Grandpa. So curious. It took closing the program and reopening it to resolve the issue.
What I'm taking away from all of this is, for one, the new work that's coming forth has an Elders quality to it. The wisdom is trying valiantly to come through. The Council is ready to be seen and heard and I'm ready to co-create and allow the messages to come through. I'm releasing any apprehension attached to sharing these expressive and powerful totems. I'm showing up in the weather to show the parts of my inner life that have been previously cocooned up safely.
If the Insect realm is about the divine feminine qualities of metamorphosis, that explains some of the profound shifts I've been experiencing in the past four to five months.
I'm shining my light, with the help of my guides and ancestors and...you. Yes, of course you. We reflect each other's brightness, and infuse one another with courage. It warms us, each one of us. It's all around us.
Do you feel it?
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