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I must not forget words
Feb. 28th, 2009 08:51 amBreathless.
I must remember that the way home from the deep spiral into the heart is an uphill path. Silence is my natural state and I surrendered to it in the dark nights of winter. Words are hesitant from disuse. Thoughts are disjointed.
The pace is quickening as the Equinox approaches.
I'd be happy to have a bit of control over the pace. I have been pushed around all week by external forces. I've ended up where I needed to be, but felt as light and powerless as one of last autumn's leaves, buffeted about by the winds of change. These are good winds, but they are strong.
I am looking out into the garden, memorizing the landscape. Tomorrow, it may be covered in snow. It's all part of the natural cycle. Late snows are called 'poor man's manure.' You don't hear that phrase on the sidewalks of New York or the manicured suburban lawns. I carry the meadows and gardens of my past in my heart. I know their language.
I can hear my father's voice echoing my thoughts. There's snow in the mountains, he would say. It was as much an admonition to wear a coat on these changeable pre-spring days as it was an acknowledgement that we must be patient with the season and let it unfold in its own time. Mountains know how to wait, how to be buffeted by the wind but not be consumed by it.
So here I am, tumbled about but trying to feel the rhythm of change and dance to it's tune. I have been given some wonderful companions on the journey, yet I know that we are only together for a time and that the winds are teasing at us, sending us off where we must go. I'm even thinking about the next way-station. It's still in the future, but now I can say six or seven years, when only yesterday it seemed like ten or more. There's time. I don't have to make all the decisions today.
I must remember that the way home from the deep spiral into the heart is an uphill path. Silence is my natural state and I surrendered to it in the dark nights of winter. Words are hesitant from disuse. Thoughts are disjointed.
The pace is quickening as the Equinox approaches.
I'd be happy to have a bit of control over the pace. I have been pushed around all week by external forces. I've ended up where I needed to be, but felt as light and powerless as one of last autumn's leaves, buffeted about by the winds of change. These are good winds, but they are strong.
I am looking out into the garden, memorizing the landscape. Tomorrow, it may be covered in snow. It's all part of the natural cycle. Late snows are called 'poor man's manure.' You don't hear that phrase on the sidewalks of New York or the manicured suburban lawns. I carry the meadows and gardens of my past in my heart. I know their language.
I can hear my father's voice echoing my thoughts. There's snow in the mountains, he would say. It was as much an admonition to wear a coat on these changeable pre-spring days as it was an acknowledgement that we must be patient with the season and let it unfold in its own time. Mountains know how to wait, how to be buffeted by the wind but not be consumed by it.
So here I am, tumbled about but trying to feel the rhythm of change and dance to it's tune. I have been given some wonderful companions on the journey, yet I know that we are only together for a time and that the winds are teasing at us, sending us off where we must go. I'm even thinking about the next way-station. It's still in the future, but now I can say six or seven years, when only yesterday it seemed like ten or more. There's time. I don't have to make all the decisions today.
