Category: Morning Meander

They wore long, blowing dresses (linen?) like Edwardian ladies and their picnic blanket was spread just so.

There were two baskets, large, brought full of good things like pies and wine. The grass was soft. There were other people, but they were secondary, no matter how I tried to make them equal.

They picnicked in their sunny meadow beside a small brook. The sparkling water traveled from there down to stream and river and finally to the sea, but in a leisurely manner.

Across the brook, a woods and a cabin. I have no idea why the door was red. The cabin, however, was my hermitage. Still and perfect and unmarred by the worldly though it was very much of the world in the woods.

I wore purple and carried my own basket to share, about to step onto the bridge of stones across the brook. Or not to. The plan was set, but the footstep had not yet been taken.

I like carrying out a few things at a time to burn. Little fires daily seem to be much more my style than letting things accumulate.

Now I believe.

Prayers and patience and practice
and talking in images
and words
and deeds
and heart and mind.

Keep preparing the ground with stories and good works
and music for singing
and music for dancing.

Let the storm come,
hold tight to the companions,
hold tight to Freedom.

And today, with every fiber of my being,
I believe.

She is alive.

Right there.

In the mirror.

I had not seen Perseus before,
but tonight is cloudless and free of human light-clutter:
I see him, stalking the Camelopard, reaching for Andromeda.

I can see by his reaching
and by Pegasus’ leap
where she falls.

More stories, please.

Just a little at a time.
My words changing just a little at a time.
The rhythm of day and night changing just a little at a time.

And yet by trades the size of these, we men and women die.

(hat tip to Emily Dickinson)

I can imagine a hundred acts of courage which might have been the seed of your story.
I will keep trying to tell them.

For now, we beg you to fill your agents on Earth with Justice, Mercy, Lovingkindness, Strength. Heal this rift between the ideal and the terrible acts and the fear and frustration. Remind each of our officers of peace who they can be.

And bring them safely home.

There is a beautiful young oak come to visit,
reaching for the sun,
so very deep of root,
crowned with wisdom and patience,
changing with autumn’s grace,
waiting with winter’s still,
growing with spring’s future,
reigning with summer’s kindness.

I went out into the world this weekend,
greeting and cherishing lovely people
(and some banal strangers, truth to tell);
now I am exhausted by the exercise

and I greet and cherish the meadow birds and sunrise and ground fog and morning dogs with triple the delight, having been with the other kind of company.

I am more and more convinced that this life is mine, is best for me, is sweetest.
At least for now, I say to the naysayers. My chiropractor is one of these, so worried that I’m in quiet and peace and alone time.

Alone but not lonely, that was the goal months ago.

Now I know that, for me, the way past loneliness is to be alone.

It’s warm and windy out, like a distant hurricane.
Moon is lightning up edges of clouds
and fine, fine rain falls thickly.

Sgiob likes this rain,
sits out in it,
feeling the wind in her fur,
dreaming of snow.

My thanks forever to Verlyn Flieger who, when asked to be our Lady of the Lake and send us on quests, instead wished us aventures.

She has given us permission, even exhorted us, to have escapades and to end in peace and plenty.

Just going to enjoy the ride now.
Try to, anyway.

Do not doubt that tears are prayer,
that laundry is prayer,
that calling a friend for help is prayer.

Watch how a tree prays: trailing branchlets through the wind,
and sinking down, down, down to nameless sources,
and reaching up, up, up to nearly eternal Source.

Watch how a dog prays: playing when it’s time to play,
and sleeping in the sun when it’s time to sleep in the sun,
and cuddling up for connection and expression of love.

Lilies, field, allusions.

Back to center.

Be the prayer.
Then breathe.
Be still.
Amen.

Awake, I am glad of the stars’ light.

Sometimes I choose to work with four elements,
Sometimes three,
or seven
or five
or one hundred eighteen
or thirteen.

This is why we each get to write our own book,
call it a journal,
book of Shadows,
recipe book,
memoir,
grimoire,
poetry blog.

And I’ll read yours and you’ll read mine
and we’ll carry away what is also true for ourselves,
leaving the rest.

There’s a bird out there — it’s 4am, dark as pitch, but there’s a bird out there —
which makes a chipping noise like it ought to be a morning bird.
You do you, bird.
I’ll learn what I can from you.