Star Woman Painting

February 20th, 2023
New Moon

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.

Wild Love

New Moon, January 21, 2023
July 2019

This woman speaks to coyote, they gather around her in her dreams. Or they used to until she became bereft and forgot about them.  But they did not forget her, loyal, they are her Spirit pack.  Her wails of grief call them to her, they circle and sniff her hands, the Alpha female opens her jaws, wide, sinking her teeth into the tattered robe the woman wears, this woman who is clearly lost.  No senses to lead her.  Coyote pulls her to a clearing in the forest, the woman thinks will she tear my flesh, sink her teeth into my aging neck, sever my jugular.  Her hope rides on this possibility, a mercy killing.  What better way to die and die she wants to.

Coyote leaps up, the woman’s breath catches as two large paws pin her against the tree.  They fall into each other, entering the dark pools of the other’s eyes.  Coyote knows the woman is easy prey, willing prey.  Offering herself to the other world she goes limp.   Waiting.  Light streams through the trees, fanning itself out into arcs of light, like a blessing the woman cannot see. 

Sunrise and still they stand, cicadas sing, acorns fall and still they dance this dance of predator, prey, this dance of souls, this dance of destiny.  Falling into each other deeper and deeper, the wild coyote, the woman wild with grief,  their energies reach for each other, their kinship established. 

Do Coyotes eat their own, the woman wonders.  Coyote grins.  The woman’s hands grow fur, her feet grow fur, her hair is blown back in a sudden and powerful wind.  Her dead mates and pups swim before her eyes,  Coyote has decided.  She blows into the woman’s mangled heart, the trees sway, acorns pelt the ground, the woman resists, Coyote persists.  Debris flies around these two, dead skin, rotten flesh, blood form a whirlwind obscuring them, making of them a dustup, obscuring their features.  Just winds’ creation, nothing more.

The dust settles, coyote looks into the woman’s eyes still, wind travels on, Coyote pants from the effort to expose the bare earth of the woman’s heart, a heart broken of fault lines, chasms that shatter hope, and limbs, chasms that eat a life or transform it.  Or perhaps the eating of the life is the way.  The woman doesn’t know, Coyote does.  But she’s not telling.

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