Etheric

ETHERIC

Activate, move! Directions barely registered
in that middle place between worlds;
life in the ethers more familiar, more desirable
than this constant adjusting; bold when she
should choose circumspection; equally
withdrawn when action seems desirable,
imperative even, in the face of those who wait,
feigning patience as though expecting something,
anything, while she remains frozen inside,
tears rolling down pale cheeks, filling roles
chosen by others so that she might survive
the duration of some unknown tenure;

When finally it arrives, that inner direction spills
in surges, haltingly familiar as once-bluster,
then streaming forth clear as spring water,
filling chasms in the incomplete puzzle
form she inhabits, firming up pathways once
simply perceived, interstitial patterns, linked codes
scattered randomly in pitch dark possibilities;

Some say a path is chosen, while others claim
destiny guides, yet in the end (which is likewise
a beginning), one is motivated by forces
only barely understood much less named;
so a deity arises to fill that void, our human need
to attribute, a magic mirror to ask and receive,
and all is well and right; sense is restored, proper
place and timing imbued with meaning,
while mystery, in all its splendor, endures.

not like Mona Lisa

who seems too pious for the picking
and more like Vermeer’s Girl,
something suggested only
as if she knows she’s goddess,
while the other is bent toward God;

I am not one of those who
harbors yearning for the unresponsive,
though I understand the predilection.
Still, to whet one’s appetite
for what’s authentic conjures
in one another the deities
of which we speak, asking more
of what lies dormant within;
and even then, we dally.

Ah, to awaken the most wondrous spirit,
to imagine the fullness of existence
and embrace eternity in this moment.
To do this with another.
We are ecstatic in the dance,
we are living the dream.

 

 

In Lak’ech or Random Thoughts on the Day

I am he as you are he as you are me and we are all together. ~ John Lennon

What is it to be a woman? The soft curve of tender lips pressed to the fragrant cheek of a child; the hard bend of iron will that rises up to defend her in the absence of Father. I cannot change the core of what I am to suit another, though behaviors and perspectives remain open to modification as my capacity for understanding and tolerance of human foibles increases.

I do not possess a mean or harmful intention that lingers beyond an initial distaste for ignorance. Still, I’ve not lived nearly sixty years on this rolling, wild planet to deny what experience has conveyed. I’ve not been cowed and belittled; threatened and dismissed only to seethe and suffer in silence. Like Hans Christian Andersen’s Little Mermaid, my voice rises like bubbles percolating to the surface where we all must live our lives. No Ursula has the power to permanently take it from us, though sometimes it seems like it requires everything we’ve got to hold onto it; to birth it into being.

There is so very much to say, share and experience. So many words to arrange, songs to sing when no one else is listening – tunes and lyrics that cycle endlessly through the head, numerous as tiny fish pivoting in unison, forming clouds under the surface of the ocean. It is in these depths that I feel most at home, for I am no surface skimmer. Days of dumbing down to please others are decades behind me, never to return.

I want my experience to mean something to others. I want theirs to be honest and to mean something, in return. I want my beautiful offspring to know a full and rich life, a better future. Perhaps this is what all parents desire, insofar as they recognize the true nature of their intent. My own intentions rise like sap from my roots, from my soul: I want women to discover the quiet power of their gender. I want peace and harmony among men. And most of all, perhaps, I wish for understanding of differences, cultures, perspectives, backgrounds. Diversity lends sparkle to the mundane, although it seems to elicit fear from those who might benefit from it the most.

What would happen if we could break down the walls of fear that separate us?

In Lak’ech: I am another yourself.

Blessings on the day.

Frantic

It’s all I can do these days to write, never mind read. I long for a few hours to catch up on reading posts from my little WordPress community. Meanwhile, a stack of nine books graces my night table, and I’ve not gotten through half the first in two months’ time. Life seems fast-tracked somehow, and it’s cold comfort to know I’m not alone. My daughter mentioned yesterday that most of the planets are in fire or air – not much earth or water to ground one. Though it might explain what follows:

Yesterday blasted over the horizon, urged into frantic through the simple act of attempting to Call Forward from my digital home phone to my Android. Suddenly four cell phones on two continents froze up and, three hours and a wiped system later, we were back online. That’s the short version. Meanwhile, the appointment an hour and a half’s drive from home was set back, not to mention an entire day, along with my sanity. I was actually reduced to asking the earnest young woman at the cell service to hold a moment while I screamed. Which I then commenced to do, feeling a bit foolish and not the least bit relieved.

Up until then, it felt as though my heart would burst, the stress was that intense – despite gulping air like a landed fish. Trying mightily to grab some ground and visualize my feet on Mother Earth, my efforts at moving forward seemed distorted, like wading through thick molasses. Meanwhile my husband, painting at the house we’re moving into in two days (our second major move in two months’ time), had no idea the gas company was fortuitously arriving anytime to set tanks and install service; had no concept of an overwrought partner attempting to reach him to inform  him there was no way to confirm movers or communicate with customers. Enough. I’m sure you have your own version of the same story as pertains to your own life. Once again, I am sure I’m not alone in this.

A friend told me recently that, according to the Mayan calendar, this is the end of times – meaning, in part, that the earth – tilted ever so slightly on her axis since time’s inception, for all we know – will soon reach a maximum tilt, to oversimplify a theory. Then she will begin correcting course by tilting ‘back.’ Time feels crunched, as if we have not nearly enough of it. And it’s exciting to live in these days, for ends always fertilize the seeds of potential for new beginnings.

Does this mean that the increasing chaos of the past few years will begin to quell, leaving us room to breathe and stretch out mentally – to gather our wits and pace ourselves?

One can only hope.

 

RED

is the color of today, of summer

sunset streaked across a

foreboding sky, of my

kinky hair, of

blood, the

pumping verve of the

human heart –

 

Red is poetic, indignant, the

hue bleeding through

eyelids while

blinking at the sun,

red –

 

seeping through bell-bottom

white, in the seventh grade when

Woman replaced the lost

childhood within.

 

Well-red depicting

exertion, exhaustion,

excitement; well

loved –

Red, not brunette.

 

Definitely

not

blonde.

 

Red, not white or blue.

Red, not the

primary color, but

burgundy

merlot

vitality and

vigor, simply:

 

Red.