NEW MOON
May 19, 2023
April 2, 2020
Weeping
She seeks
She prays
NEW MOON
May 19, 2023
April 2, 2020
Weeping
She seeks
She prays
She conjures and begs
She despairs
At Mystery’s Gate
the Wild Guardian
She learns
is
within her own body
unlocked by love
by spirit medicine
by dream and silence
in the humming language of the other world
trusting implicitly in its presence
Believing with two hears,
one of innocence, one of a craggy old knowing
She steps in
New Moon
April 20, 2023
2020
Meditations, visualizations, lectures and teachings all to help her find the gold in this place of the dark night. To move her beyond the wall she is splayed against, its concrete cold against her cheek. This is a stick up, give me your beloved, your peace of mind and heart, your faith, your future, you can keep the rest.
She knows that’s a lie. What rest? It all goes, everything. Not only that, she is being asked to offer up what little she is grasping onto. Her shredded life saver. She is told that pains center is light, rainbow light. But it’s dark, the path obscured, she hangs suspended in mid air, Bam Ha Ri Ni Sa, Om mani padme …bullshit. No, she retracts that as soon as it enters her mind, flows from her pen. She is a lost woman. She is a lost woman. She is a lost woman. Bam Ha Ri Ni Sa, Om Tara. “Where are you,” she cries. “Where are you?” Who?
Still, she packs her spiritual pipe, smokes a few prayers, loads her bundle with all the medicines she knows, sits on a rock, sits on a pillow, sits on a couch, sits on the ground, sits in the Adirondack chair where he sat that first day home from the hospital. She waits. “Well, what about this,” her impatient mind starts in on her. “No!” She barks. “No. No more fucking strategies.”
Heart twisted in on itself trying to dam a tsunami of tears, she sits at the easel. Picks up the paints, waits. Pale Siena, cerulean, ultramarine, and turquoise blues. Slowly, a woman emerges under her brush moving across the canvas. The face is kind, forgiving, her gaze extending into the woman’s heart through to eternity. Through to how it really is. She keeps painting, draping her in blue robes. This woman stripped down to where Spirit meets the bone. And love.
“Why are you working so hard my dear,” the woman asks, an invitation to surrender nestled in the question. That’s it.
She puts down her brush, crawls through the canvas, sits at the woman in blue’s feet, head in large her lap. Gives up. Now for the first time, truly gives up.
Bone Woman Blog 