I have been guided to the dark. I have been guided to the early morning. Perhaps it is the cycle of the seasons, the turning globe returning again to the cold—the winter homecoming. It is a time of resilience and grit. It is a time of soft hiding. It is a time of being alone. It is a time of gathering light, feeling gratitude for the light, and singing to the sun in the slim slips of day. A time of candlelight, bread, soup, and fire in the stove. It is a time of deep 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 rocks and trees in the pre-dawn woods. A shadow with shining eyes. A void. A dream. Before the birds and squirrels wake, we walk. It is quiet. My breath, my boots, 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 I won't forget it. 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 looking in the ocean ...
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.
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