outdoors

For mindlovesmisery’s Sunday writing prompt: gift.

My sister and I were blessed by the gift of connection to outdoors. To forest, lake, field, desert, prairie. I sleep better in a tent on the warm earth than any house, ever. When the world is too much with me, or the news is too awful, or a patient dies of ovarian cancer and is younger than me….

…..I walk on the beach, in the forest, in my neighborhood. I sing back to the birds. I speak chickadee well enough that they perch on a branch close by and sing back. Or argue, perhaps. Swinging on a branch.

Outdoors is my church, my solace, my love, my connection with the earth, with nature, with the Beloved. Air, water, fire, earth, wood…. home is outdoors.

 

 

 

pig in blankets

For mindlovesmisery’s Heeding Haiku catch reality: With a nasty cold, I have to be off from work for long enough that I won’t cough talking and get pneumonia again. But the work piles up…

pig in blankets

virus swollen drain
balance, rest while paper piles
return to work soon

You noticed the pig in the blankets..but did you notice the other?

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Miss Boa likes the blankets. A purring comfort for me.

Stepping out

For Mindlovesmisery’s Sunday Writing Prompt: “Take a walk“. Writing from another’s point of view.

Stepping out

We’re trying to get our steps in today. Mother thinks we’re too high too much and wants us to practice being more grounded. Silly mum, but we’re trying to humor her. Down to the beach, no shoes, keeping track. Step counters, we’ll walk all day…

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Ooooo, what has my sis got? I am heading over. Dang! She ate it already! I don’t see anything in the water. Bit murky here.

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Wait, but who is that? We agreed to walk, but if that one comes this way! No way! I am out of here.

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Rats, mum is still watching. She’s got her fierce look on, don’t mess with her.

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And look, people! And those awful four legs. It’s not that I’m scared, mind you, but their mouths give me the creeps. All those stalagmites in there. No smoothness and their faces have all those expressions!

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And there goes dad, heading by, checking on us. Jeez.

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Ok, ok, we’ll walk.

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containment in ceremony

This is for Taleweaver #147 – What brings you joy?

My minister talks about containment in ceremony.

That the ceremony can be a container for us to handle our worst selves and our best selves safely.

The Catholic mass is an example, particularly when it was in Latin. That it takes us through horror and suffering and death and then resurrection. This past weekend we performed the Mozart Requiem, from grief through joy.

My minister says that Western Civilization has lost the container for spirituality in the churches and instead holds the sacred in a love relationship. He says that the projection of one’s best self on the loved one can then flip into the projection of one’s worst, if we are not careful. We are attracted to people who have some of the aspects that we hide in our unconscious, so these are activated and projected. We magnify the talents and the beauty and wisdom of the love object. They are not real. True love is when we can slowly withdraw the projection and see the actual person who is there and then really love them.

I am taking a class where we are reading The Maiden Tsar. I am thinking of the chicken feet that Baba Yaga’s house stands on. We say that a person is chicken when they are afraid and won’t go forward, a coward. So Baba Yaga’s house on chicken feet: it is a house of fear, fear alive, terrifying. And what do we find in this most frightening place? We find that that our culture has most devalued: an old woman, not beautiful, not fertile. And she cares nothing for logic. In order to meet her challenge and not be destroyed, we must use our intuition, not our logic. No linear thinking, but a respect for magic and for humor.

I am thinking of the grandmother theory, that women have a dramatic menopause because they are the tribal memory. They have to survive the famine, raise the grandchildren, remember where there might be food, remember tricks and things forgotten. A useful man may remain fertile for the tribe, but a useful woman loses hers, because she is now a walking repository of knowledge. And western civilization has denigrated and ignored her: so she lives in the house with chicken feet.

My children are now adults but they do not have children yet. I am a practicing grandmother though. I am living alone for the first time in 28 years. I practice on other people’s children. A two year old loves my house: there is a stick dragon in the closet that roars if you press his throat. There are toys that he can’t take home. “That is mine. You may play with it while you are visiting.” I put a towel on the floor and get the espresso set out. I have never made espresso. He sits on the towel and pours water from the coffee pot until the cup overflows, the saucer overflows, the towel is soaked. He looks up at me, holding the coffee pot. “More?” I say. He hands it to me and I fill it with water again. His mother is surprised that he is wet from head to toe when she picks him up. By then the towel is cleared, the coffee set is drying, and he and I share a glance, our secrets safe. Until the next visit.