Oh, how we need community!

I bring my dying grandmother a muffin on Mother's Day. 

Oh, what a silly thing to do! 

I give her a bracelet and her mother's painting of wildflowers, too. 

Some of us flutter around sorrow like a hummingbird tapping and touching and taking, while others root down like Catalpa trees, swaying in the breeze of emotional energy. Some of us chat about job and house and stuff, while others gently dig into the gardens of their loved ones, pulling weeds, pressing seeds, and watering brittle soil. Some of us sob. Others belly laugh. Some of us drink. Others eat. Some of us run. Some of us hide. Some of us fight. Some of us freeze. Some of us stand silent and still, waiting for sun and rain and sleep. Some of us gather. Some of us are gathered. All of us grow. Some of us feel torn and frayed and afraid, while others carry thread and needles and yards of cotton cloth for mending and making patches, bandages, blankets, and jackets. Some of us hunger, while others forage and feed and feast. Some of us are joyful and fulfilled and free, while others toil with regret, ruts, and uncertainty.

Oh, how we need community! 

Grandma knew this. She fed us. She gathered us. She stitched hats, blankets, and sweaters for us. She planted flowers, lettuce, and tomatoes. She tended and foraged and feasted. She rested. We remember her floating behind boats in a dark blue bathing suit. We remember her with books, photographs, and music. We remember her clam chowder and letters. We remember her prayers. Eventually, in her eighties, her hands hurt from all her stitching, knitting, writing, gardening, and gathering. And so, she was gathered. She was fed. She rested. Perhaps this is why I brought her food and flowers. 

Family is a patchwork quilt. It is a three-sisters garden. It is an ecosystem. It is healthy when it is diverse - diverse in experience, diverse in opinions, diverse in ages, diverse in need, and diverse in abundance. Community is holy. It connects us like a dewy web, like forest roots, like a hive. It connects us with light and shadow. It connects us with stories. It connects us with love. 

One Wednesday in June, we stand together in her church. We kneel in the pews. We sit side-by-side and sing her beloved songs. Later, we stand beneath a yellow-and-white-striped canopy while a colony of honey bees swirls above us, dancing and communing before leaving together in a spirited sweep.  

Now Grandma can be a colony of bees. She can be the spider or the fern or the tree. She can be the smell of fresh bread or the salt sea breeze. She can be lines of light. She can be a song. She can be a story. She can be butterflies, ladybugs, and blue jays. She can be memory and emotion and energy. She can be a golden thread in the hem of everything.  

The Wild Mother

She misses me, - 

misses my toes on her moss 

misses my legs in her salt sea 

misses my bottom on her stone seats

misses my belly in her breeze 

misses my heart on her mountaintop   

misses my face in her rain and fern and flower.

Perhaps she isn't broken or bleeding,

angry or threatening. Perhaps, simply, 

She misses me, -

misses my wild, open being. 

misses my quiet company.

Gaia

I am the witch at the edge of the woods

I am the woods 

I am the owl in her hand

I am the roots of her bones 

I am the seed of her egg 

I am the sun of her womb 

I am the wolf at her feet 

I am the rose quartz in her eyes

I am the feathers on her fingers 

I am the infinite slips of snake skin 

I am the elephant wrinkles 

I am the hive 

I am the nest

I am the prophecy

I am the song of the whale 

I am the quills of her spine 

I am the trill of the sparrow 

I am the air in her mouth 

I am the fire in her heart

I am the river carving stone 

I am the pine

I am the herd

I am the flock 

I am the tribe 

I am the child 

I am the witch at the edge of the woods

She is the witch at the edge of the woods

She is the woods 

She is the owl in our hand

She is the roots of our bones 

She is the seed of our egg 

She is the sun of our womb 

She is the wolf at our feet 

She is the rose quartz in our eyes

She is the feathers on our fingers 

She is the infinite slips of snake skin 

She is the elephant wrinkles 

She is the hive 

She is the nest

She is the prophecy

She is the song of the whale 

She is the quills of our spine 

She is the trill of the sparrow 

She is the air in our mouth 

She is the fire in our heart

She is the river carving stone 

She is the pine

She is the herd

She is the flock 

She is the tribe 

She is the child 

She is the witch at the edge of the woods

A Vibrant Stitch

It is a vibrant stitch - a hem between the heavens and me. 

Sometimes the cloth here is as crude as burlap. The needle pierces the skin, and the thread snags and tangles. And the more I whine and weep about it, the deeper into the misery I drop, and the further I am from the other side. 

The other side is one of surrender, light, and mystery. Always, the fabric from the blessed source of all LOVE is warm, inviting, and vibrating. The needle soars and swims and slips with ease and reverence and joy. It is a tapestry woven with lines of rainbow light. This place is spacious. It is thin, as forgiving as linen, as fine as cotton, as sheer as song and color and fog. The more I lift my attention to the Infinite and invisible, the ethereal!, the longer and wiser and more luminous my threadline, the hem within me, the hem between me and the heavenly!

I am the light.

Sunbeams slant through open sky, slip and seep through fluttering golden leaves, and peek through panes of old glass before settling upon the wide, pine-planked floorboards where I sit in meditation. 

In my soft box of light, I narrate my breathing, In...Out...In...Out... Soon, I am focusing on the breath rather than observing the breath, and before I can slow it down, it becomes like a runaway, run-on sentence, going and going until I am gasping, leaping, tumbling, and landing onto the grassy meadow of my consciousness. 

I let go. 

I become still. 

I breathe. 

Then I pray, Empty me and fill me with light. 

For several minutes, I pray this plea. Empty me and fill me with light. Empty me and fill me with light. Empty me and fill me with light. Empty me and fill me with light. Empty me and fill me with light...

Eventually, within me, I hear, I am the light. 

As these words pour through me, a sunbeam, sudden and bold, bursts through space to shine upon my face. The sunbeam stays with me for a little while, whispering the warm words, I am the light.  I am the light. I am the light. I smile. Yes, the light is within me. The light is me. I have everything I need. I am everything I need. I am the light.

Offering of Song

I have been guided to the dark, to the early morning. Perhaps it is the cycle of the seasons, the turning and returning to the cold—the winter homecoming. Winter is a time of soft hiding, a time of being alone, and a time of gathering light and singing to the slim slips of sun every day. It is a time of candlelight, bread, soup, and stove. It is a time of evolution. A cocoon from the cold.  A wide, warm womb.  

Come! This dog begs me every morning. Let's go and smell and move and breathe and be! He wakes me with a language of licking. He is as black as the land and trees in the pre-dawn woods - a shadow with shining eyes. A void. A dream. Before the squirrels squirm and the birds sing, we walk. It is quiet. My breath, my boots, his pant, his paws, and the early morning traffic from the highway down the hill are all I hear. The animals sleep while the earth radiates her essence like a delicate, invisible glow, a song I can't quite hear but know is there. A joyful, soulful hum. 

Sometimes songs come to me there, arriving in my belly and rising up and out of me.  Simple songs. Looping ones. There is a song about slowing down and one about the ocean. There is another about my sovereignty. I record them on my phone.  Place them there. Just as I might photograph something. So it becomes something I can hold. The act of recording anything tends to imprint it (an idea, image, or tune) deep within me. I suppose these songs are to share. Share with you. Share with myself many years from now.

I place them here as an offering. 

• I went out ...
• freedom
• I went looking in the ocean ...
• slow down
• I can stand on my own ...

Go look into the dark. You may find yourself there. And if you go there often and for long enough, you may also find a song. 

Ten Years Ago

You were born at 7:20 in the morning while a team of silent surgeons stood in the corner of our hospital room, their scalpels sharp and their gloved hands ready to cut you free from me so that you could breathe. I willed you out with every cell of my body and being. It was labor. Then it was bliss. The moment my body carried you to air and then to breast, I felt such relief. The weight of potential sorrow lifted, flew away on the wings of all the angels who had arrived to support us, to save us. Your birth was an ending and a beginning.  

Years later, I learned that you were the invitation for my evolution. 

It's time. Your soul whispered to mine. 

Oh my. This is all so terrifyingly big. Can I do this perfectly? My soul begged. 

Your soul hooted and hollered. HA! Absolutely not! You cannot and will not do this perfectly. And yet, in striving to be exceptional, you will become the person you seek to be. You will NOT be perfect. Neither will I. But the missteps are an earthly requirement. They are the lessons we are here to learn. But don't worry, there will also be plenty of joy and peace. We will take this time to evolve. And this stretching will set us both free. Just like your belly stretched while I slept and swam within you, our souls will stretch and eventually flow and soar.  One day, you will see that motherhood first begins with you. You will learn how to mother yourself with abundant acceptance, patience, and wisdom. You will learn how to find, love, and free your inner child. And in doing so, you will learn how to find, love, and free yourself.