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.
