I’ve been watching the moon grow a bit each day. A new moon shining behind dark clouds.
Last Sunday I sat among winter shadows and winter light. Snow was falling, like ice, making music on the frozen ground. When I continued walking, a white field stretched out before me, and I could feel the cold light going through me, pale as snow. Sometimes I think I love winter light most of all….but that might change come spring. And oh how I long for spring!
I was in love with pink for a while, and still am. But it came into my life very gently, like the moment before dawn. A blush of rose on the horizon. One lonely star looking back at me. It was all I could manage. The softest hint of color. The lightest brush of love against my guarded, and very bruised heart. I like to think it was the healing touch of the Goddess. She still seems to me like the most beautiful, pink and crystal light.
I was so lost. I wasn’t living. I was buried inside of myself. I remember sitting on the train home one night and knowing very well that I wasn’t living my life. I didn’t know how. I was frozen solid. And I was waiting, wondering when….when will I be able to live again?
Now I want joy. That’s a beginning. Before the longing for joy wasn’t even there. Now I want it very much. I want freedom. More color in my life. I remember how light I felt as a child. How easily laughter bubbled up from my stomach. Now my body is aching and hurting from some strange tension I can’t seem to release. But as I look deeper I see a murkiness, like a dark lake that I haven’t looked into before. Another layer of my past.
And writing is my lifeline out of those murky waters. Out of myself.
Her soul seemed to have fallen asleep in that vast, silent landscape. She drew a deep breath, feeling a glimmer of a peace that surprised her. For a moment she could not remember her grief. The mountain had such an overpowering voice, that all else seemed to fall silent in its presence. Several places she rode past small black lakes that reflected the sky, the shifting clouds. She would stop for a moment, staring into them, their mirror-like surface, seeing her own reflection. A pale wide-eyed girl, blurring around the edges as a wind brushed past. She felt she was looking at a ghost. Or a very old memory. (From the book I’m working on. Maybe:)
I’m waiting for rain, and the sky is waiting also. And there is a cold gust of wind sometimes, and light. It keeps shifting. I’m starting to enjoy living in the heart of a small town. At first, I wanted to hide away, but now I rather enjoy watching life happening around me. To be in the ebb and flow of the day, people coming and going. And spring is lovely. There are so many colors, so many flowering trees. The snow is almost gone from the mountains. Winter seems far away now, and yet I remember walking through slush and rain, and dark days, early evenings, almost as though it was yesterday.
Behind the fence behind the bakery next to our apartment, there’s a small orchard of white flowering trees and one bright red one. I like pausing a little as I walk, to look into that slightly secret garden.
And there’s a tree on my way back from the shops that hug the side of a building. I’ve been watching it slowly turning green after winter, and now has white flowers, like lace spread over its branches.
Beautiful things sometimes hurt me a little, if I don’t share them.
Have I mentioned that I get up to the sound of church bells? A sweet chime lets me know that it’s 7 am, followed by an insistent ringing that I’m guessing means it’s time to get up. I’m not sure. But I get up anyway. And the sun is already spread across the mountains, the river, so it feels right to start my day.
It’s Easter week, and I feel sleepy. The days feel sleepy. I want to buy a chocolate egg, just because it reminds me of my childhood. Easter feels like pastel colors.
I’ve gone for walks and seen the moon like a white ghost in the sky. A fading memory of the night before. Sometimes I don’t see her at all, but feel her light on me. Even during the day. A full moon, a pink moon they call her. It makes me think of that pink, flowering tree I sometimes walk by. That smells sugary sweet even from a distance.
Really, I just want to close my eyes, curl up and rest. It’s raining now.
How are you?
I write and write, go somewhere, I don’t know where, and then I look up and so much time has passed. It’s like I’ve stepped into another realm and out again. Time passes so quickly, the way it does when you’re asleep, dreaming. And I’m like no no…a little more time, please. I’m not ready to face the rest of the day, to step out of dreaming. But doing this, I also feel I’m practicing listening. So I try to listen during the rest of my day as well and see if I can settle into that core of something inside of me. A truth that balances me.
I could go into my writing space and not come out all day. Yesterday I shared a tender tidbit of something that came to me, on Instagram. I wanted to let you know that I’m working on a book, but I feel rather shy about it. I’m holding it close to my chest, and yet I also want to share more. Maybe slowly, step by step I will be a little braver.
In the early evening, as the sun sets, I go for a walk and I’m breathing in new life. Beauty. The world is brimming with new colors, and flowering trees I didn’t think I’d see again after moving from California. Pink magnolia trees that blossom with all their heart. It looks like a heart to me. A heart that doesn’t hold back, spreading all its beauty openly into the world.
And I walk by the crystal clear river and see the sun in it. I stop and look into the water. I walk down a few stone steps and sit on a stone bench and just listen to the flow of water, watching sunlight playing across its surface. The sun setting in the distances, slipping now and then behind dark gray clouds.
Sometimes when I go grocery shopping I take a long way back, just so I can cross over the river and see flowers in people’s gardens. The other day it kept raining, with the sun pushing through eventually. And I stood beneath a birch tree with tender new leaves, the sky gathering like a small storm behind it. But there was light also, falling over it. And the wonder of it stopped me in my tracks. I could only stare and feel wrapped in some strange, magic cloak.
Wishing you a happy Friday. A beautiful weekend.
I’m drinking tea, at a cafe in the city, warm chai tea with chocolate, until I’m warm again, after sitting in the park, in the white sun and cold. But there were flowers, white ones, blue ones, and a great seagull on top of a black statue, pigeons looking for treasures beneath my bench.
I tried to find words there, but they eluded me and still don’t want to come, only glimpses here and there, traces of something. I wonder what I can do to make them come, but when I ask all I get is love and trust, so I try to listen and drink my chai, look out the window. I search for beauty on the internet, words of others, pictures that touch me, rose and wind and pearls. And then back to my own words, which scare me, so I look away. It feels like I’m dancing around the edges of something, slowly circling closer to a place where I can write. It’s almost always like this.
A touch of magic
The other day I saw a squirrel, as I was sitting in the forest. It scurried up very close to me, this tiny red thing with a white belly, and I sat like a statue, afraid to move, to do anything that might scare her away. I’ve never seen one so close before, because they’re usually shy, hiding in their trees. Not like the ones in California, which were big and gray and everywhere.
The last place we stayed was in a beautiful, old victorian building. It wasn’t as fancy as it sounds, though, but I still loved it. It was a bit worn down, that grand old thing, a white building that just rocked slowly when there was an earthquake. We lived on the second floor, and I when I first saw it I prayed that we would get to rent it because it had a wide windowsill to sit in, the kind I’ve dreamed of since I was a child. One of those you could sleep on if you wanted to, and look at the stars, dream away.
The apartment also had a closed up fireplace, and I placed flowers on top of it, and sat on my windowsill, looking down through the branches of a large tree, down to the street below.
A squirrel lived there, among the leaves, and it talked a lot, seemed to have a lot to say, chattered at nothing in particular.
This tiny red one did the same, scurried up the tree behind me, and talked as it did, so I left, feeling perhaps I was upsetting it. Still, there was a bit of magic in the encounter.
What is the most magical creature you’ve met in the wild? Or would love to meet?