afraid of lightning

Photo by Johannes Plenio on Unsplash | sanguine meander

i welcome storms, especially the gentle beginning and inhalation of petrichor, yeah, that shit always winds up in a poem somewhere, for sure… not mine, but somewhere. it’s a great word but it’s one of those words that shows up unsurprisingly, like ‘liminal’ (maybe time to just live on the edge and let that one go).

it smells so good though, in the way that a musty attic full of secrets to unpack also smells good, and also not like that at all. the attic is the smell of time over a span, and petrichor is a smell of the present. their own similarity may be, in the end, that i happen to like both kinds of time.

we once welcomed thunder and lightning when we knew more about it. skygasms of light and electrical discharge, visual shock felt also through the follicles and then the ears, driving the body to spasm. boom. big bang indeed.

now, we cower as the lightning strikes, afraid of a power bigger than we are. it could burn down everything we know and love, this power, even if accompanied by rain. it is never enough now. we are dry to parched, soaking it up as fast as it falls, praying it stays on the land so we can welcome thunder and lightning back into our lives as something to behold without so much terror. it’s no longer a matter of if, but when, yet we stay. such a human thing to do.

fire cycle fire

Photo by Stanislav Kondratiev on Unsplash | sanguine meander

so many thoughts passing through so quickly i’ve forgotten them, having been driven to the present cyclically.

it started with thoughts on how much i enjoy cannabis and a practice often referred to as ‘restorative yoga’ – a deep state deep stretch that realigns my spine in such an organized, methodical way. it’s an ecstatic process of feeling myself from a multitude of perspectives that all boil down to, essentially, three. the mind starts to run and oh yeah, relax your hip and you’ll literally lower down three inches and focus on the breath, bam, you’re back. do that again. but also, feel free to groan because that stretch is so deep it’s like the hand of God digging deep into your glutes and all around your hip sockets…

i mean, for me it is. fuck yeah feel the self-love. can you blame me for loving it this way? feel free to moan. in the end no matter what kind of moan it is, it is the depth of human feeling. i think it all goes to the same place, that deep well of emotion we are, most of us, so capable of. No fantasies of who we are once we’ve all wormholed our way together through a vast array of the dimensions and expressions we are capable of, perhaps even believing at some point that we’ve finally seen it all – and it’s only then that we stop falling, but we also die.

In these deep centrally connective spaces on my body i hold these visions, some of which are true and some of which need a little more space before they can be released, so they can be let out completely, leaving not even a hair behind. gone. full mobility has returned along with ecstatic release.

i spray the room with magic to clear all that has been let go, to bless and send it further on its journey. may it glide its way out the window and fall to the ground. may its decomposition fertilize soil and create space for new growth, new experiences and new ideas.

clearly, i will also bleed soon. i will feed this land.

 

 

 

lordy, let it lie.

Photo by Ahmed zayan on Unsplash | sanguine meander

What i wouldn’t give for something to lean on right now. I’ve given up my bed to guests and I’m sleeping on an air mattress in my office, a cavernous room at the back of the house with a creaky floor that sounds its alarm whenever I move. I think a lot in here though. This is where the serious work really gets done. When I’m not sleeping in it, which is usually, it serves as my office and is also where I do stretch and meditate. The wall-to-wall closet at the end of the room has sliding, mirrored doors, useful for confidence-building or alignment but creepy otherwise. i lived in another house like this here too, a large box with mirrored closet doors throughout the house and a spiral staircase. it was like you could never escape yourself. i mean, i get it, but still…

So here I am on an air mattress in the middle of this larger room. I feel adrift on it.

There is nothing to lean on, so I’m driven to complete this thought ride by the desire to lie down. There’s a point in my cycle that’s pretty rational, and I’m in it. Without something to lean on, this is too hard to do.

I’m more interested in dreaming right now.

that one and this

i felt in her a kindred spirit, one who needed both a buffer from the world and space to observe it.

what kind of love was this, however, in which trust allowed for full creative expression? it was not what i felt i had. it would be the death of us, i was sure, the day i truly came alive again.

some things are worth the suffering. i needed to return to the world and expand again in it. both of us were innocents. we had empty toolboxes.

it’s okay. there is loss there, but loss is okay. there are gifts in it and i welcome gifts. for weeks though, i questioned what kind of person i might be: i was feeling expansive and social and willing to let my guard down and have energetic exchanges. i wanted to know where my grief was. I know better now, though, that really, it depends on the archetype. There are four of these who accompany me on my moon cycle, and I embody one at a time.

Fun stuff, being a woman. We are shapeshifters.

This is an interesting exercise, of once again dedicating focus on my cycle this way while I simultaneously experience deep loss and major transformation, both of which I  welcome as co-pilots on this new journey. Take me where I need to go but if I may be so bold, let’s all put effort into a gentle landing. This is the inward time, where I harvest, and likely my grief is here, waiting for me to take her in and acknowledge her presence. I still do not know but I don’t judge myself for it anymore either, and I no longer worry. We will see each other when we do.