February 20th, 2023
April 30, 2020
She blackens the canvas, Mars Black, the god of war. She isn’t at war, is she? At war with what is, at war with grief, a world turned upside down and now again by an unseen messenger? Who stops us in our insane movement. So many dying. She is in the high risk group. No kidding.
She enjoys slathering the paint, blocking out the light, the surface, inviting image, color to emerge. Or she thinks, might she simply crawl into the canvas and curl up, wrap the holy darkness around herself and wait for illumination to enter her heart? Hidden in plain sight she could rest. From thought, from the ache of longing for her Beloved, for her life.
She sits. The painter picks up the brush dipped it into cobalt and cerulean blue. A bowl emerges under her hands. A bowl moving with waves of color, sea moving under cloud and sun. Inside it’s mystery, the woman’s smoldering longing ignites, flaming up, sending sparks into the star-lit sky.
A large, black, turquoise robed woman appears. Star Woman? The Woman Who Fell from the Sky? She is falling. She cradles the bowl in her generous lap, in the keeping of her large hands. Her mouth a bellows, stirring the flames, embers fly.
The painter sits back. A voice speaks to her, telling her the story of the Night Sea Cauldron, the alchemical womb of the Night Sky Woman. Inside the bowl is her shattered heart, she tells the painter, and all the dead she owns. Alchemical memory, remembering them into presence. Remembering them into her life. Remembering them into the web of her being. All beings.
The woman imagines herself curled inside the bowl, surrendering finally to the Spirits of life, of death, surrendering to what has always called her. Star light flies through the night sky, cascading sparks of light fall from Star Woman’s halo. Not a nice neat halo, but an exploding snaking trail of lights, of life.
The painter sits back in her chair, remembering that star light reaches us millennia after the star body has died. Her heart lifts, their light reaches us, lifts us up. The Old Ones are there, a trail of stars to follow, to navigate the rocky seas of her life. The milky way, the road of spirits. Her tight fisted heart opens, grabs a hold of her ribs, climbing, climbing, rib by rib, melting spilling from her eyes, raining into the night sea cauldron.