Artist – Zula Kenyon
This morning I felt like a cat licking sunlight. I sat in a sliver of light that stretches to the top of the stairs outside my apartment. I can sit there, feeling nice and warm until the sun rises higher and disappears above my rooftop.
I felt I held a prayer inside of me as I walked in the mountains yesterday. A wish I hoped would come true. Sometimes I feel I’m still waiting for myself, for some lost part of myself to come back to me. I want to feel whole, complete and safe. I think I’m still healing and learning to receive, and I often forget that, trying to push something that can’t be pushed and be forced. All the” shoulds” and “have-toes”in my mind actually slows down the process.
Perhaps the mountain remained me of all this. On Sundays, I ask my husband if he wants to drive up up, to the mountain, because it seems it’s the only place I really long for right now. I’m not sure I ever felt like this before. We had a cabin we would visit frequently during my childhood, among rocks and heather, next to a cold, dark lake, but perhaps I took it for granted, the beauty and silence up there.
The mountain feels untouched, closer to the sky. I always think starlight when I go there, even though we walk in the brightness of day. And yesterday was supposed to be a short trip because I said I was feeling tired. But then that beauty of wind and trees, and little streams took hold of me and we walked for three hours.
There were tiny white flowers among the heather. And fields filled with cottongrass (I hope that’s the right name for it). I touched them and remember moments from my childhood when my sister and I would gather those white wool like buds, and put them in a vase in our cabin. My mom said people used to fill their pillows with them.
I stopped sometimes, turned to see the sun through birch trees, to see it glittering in a lake as our path curled around it. We stopped there, stepped out onto a flat rock and filled our water bottles. I sat down, cross-legged, gazing at the mountains where the sun was about to set, very slowly. He takes his time crossing the sky these days.
The light had turned a golden orange when we found our way back to the main road. The fields were drenched in gold. At night I remembered what I had seen and reflected on it a bit, tucking it all away like pearls inside of me.
I told my husband on our walk, as I smiled into the sun, that I felt I had to drink in summer now now, because you never know when winter will return. This might be a very Norwegian mentality ingrained in me. In California, it was the opposite, where I enjoyed winter and spring, which were green and alive, instead of summer where the heat scorched the hills, and everything felt yellow and worn out.
I hope you had a beautiful weekend, and that a beautiful week is ahead of you.
Shared a few pictures on Instagram.
Only a week now until the summer (or winter) solstice.
Albert Lynch (1861)
I’ve observed simple things today. The eagle going round and round above the treetops, crying out. The light and shadows dancing over my keyboard as I write this. An overgrown forest path and a tiny pond among white birch trees almost dried up in the summer sun. During the winter and fall months, when it’s larger, deeper, it makes me think of stories I’ve heard, dark stories of things living in the water, and something glittering like gold.
But right now everything is bright and shining. I still blink my eyes sometimes in wonder at the transformation outside my window. It seems almost like a dream.
Mr owl has been singing outside my window when I go to bed. I fall asleep listening to his hoots. He reminds me that it is truly night time, even though the sky is pale and white, and there is almost no darkness to speak of. The summer solstice is drawing close. Will you celebrate it?
I wanted to share a video that I fell in love with. It has subtitles.
Also, I’m working to put my book From Darkness to Light into paperback. Hope to have that happen soon.
I sat on that little hill overlooking the lake, with my feet bare in the dirt, my skirt trailing over my legs. The sun was just about to set behind the mountains, and the last of its light was in the water below me. The mountains were a mixture of blue and green in the distance. I just sat in silence, looking around me, drawing on some unseen energy to fill up a well inside of me, that felt pretty dried up and empty.
The world was full of a constant music, wind and water and birds.
And the more I looked, the more I noticed things. Tiny black ants crawling down a moss covered tree, the rustle of wind through leaves, a yellow bird that somehow didn’t see me, landing on a branch only a few steps away.
The evening makes me think deeper thoughts. I realize that I really do want to write about the Goddess, but I’m not sure what to say, and I’m also a little afraid. Afraid people might not like it, and that I’ll leave my heart too open and volnurable.
Sometimes I read Christian devotional books, not because I consider myself Christian, but because I would like to be closer to God, and also the Goddess. I would like to feel love, and give up my worries to something much greater than myself. I would like to be guided and carry light inside of me.
Does anyone else yearn for these things?
As I write my novel, I sometimes have to stop and pray, because the words flow much better when I give up control a little bit, and when I ask for help. It feels like I could give my whole life over to her, but it’s harder than I’d imagined it to be. But it feels like everything would be taken care of if I just let go and trusted her.
I’m writing a story about a priestess because I’d like to live a life like that. In total devotion to her. There is something very beautiful in it, and it also feels very familiar to me, like an old memory.
I feel we all have different things that inspire us, that we dream of. I would love to know your thoughts.
Alfred Glendening Jr. (1861 – 1907)
I gathered little moments today, to keep with me. I went for a walk in the sun, in the warm weather and swung down by the lake. I sat at the very edge of the rocks, dipping my toes into the water, watching tiny waves ripple out before me. For a long moment, all I saw was blue and glittering drops of light, that made me almost tremble on the inside, as though it was too much beauty to take in all at once.
I felt too tired to do anything but to fill my vision with water, sometimes turning my head to see the wind in the trees.
The world around me is transformed. It’s hard to believe that winter was ever here. Everything is green and covered in wildflowers.
I also found a bush of lilacs that I hadn’t noticed before. I’m not sure there is a more feminine scent than the scent of lilacs. They’re purple, and smell purple too, very heavy and perfumy. I bury my nose in them and remember a day in my childhood when I picked a small bouquet of them for our living room. I remember feeling very happy and light, as though I carried summer inside of me.
The other day we went to the mountain again. I’m not sure I’ve fully noticed before, that powerful feeling that comes over me when I’m there. Maybe it’s the silence, the cold air, the lack of people. The mountain has a voice, a very powerful voice that makes me feel small and free.
We climbed up a narrow winding path, up up, until we came to a plateau full of sky and blue mountains in the distance. Two small lakes shone like silver below us. Now and then we walked through fields of delicate white flowers, like drops of snow.
Sometimes a bird would cry out, startled by our presence. One time, as we climbed back down to our car, a small brown bird rushed up from a tuft of grass. I stopped, hunched down and looked, finding a beautifully made nest of straw, and five tiny brown eggs. I showed them to my husband, smiling because my dad used to do the same for my sister and me on our way to our cabin in the mountains. I thought it was very magical, the way he knew how to find a nest, showing it to us in a very hushed, gentle way, warning us not to touch the eggs, or else the mother wouldn’t want them anymore.
Little things like this fill me up. I try to enjoy these long summer days. Night doesn’t seem to come anymore, at least not fully. Sometimes I wake up early by birds outside my window or a wasp finding its way into my bedroom.
I’ve been re-reading the Anne of Green Gables books, just because they have so much beauty in them, and makes me feel light hearted. What are you reading these days? Are you enjoying summer? Winter?
Also, I’ve been updating my Instagram again. Please follow me, if you want to 🙂
My husband and I went for a walk in the mountains yesterday. It rained the whole time, and we were all alone among rocks and sky.
The energy shifts up there. The air feels clear and pure and full of starlight. There were still patches of snow clinging to the mountain side, and we filled our bottles by a stream with ice around its edges, that fell from high above us and gathered into a lake further down.
I wondered if I could touch the mountain and get a little of its strength, if I could feel eternity beneath my fingers.
At one point I reached up as though I could touch the sky, push my hands through the clouds. A low mist trailed over the peaks in the distance and I wanted to simply watch it, for a long time. In the very beginning of our hike, there was a waterfall that broke like glass over rocks, sounded like thunder far below me when I stopped to listen. At one point I felt surrounded by water, lakes and rivers and rain. I crouched down and touched the earth, saw the grass and moss and heather, colors of green, dark brown and burnt gold.
So that was my Sunday. It was kind of a surprise trip because we didn’t mean to walk for very long. It was raining after all. But the mountain takes a hold of you and won’t let go until you feel wet and tired and dreamy. I curled up on the couch in the evening with a cup of tea, saw the mist above the treetops outside, a deep blue evening.
In bed, I whispered to the Goddess in my mind, dreams and wishes that I held in my heart, and I remembered it was the full moon, though I could not see it in the sky. It felt like a time for releasing wishes into the night, hoping they’d come back to me, made real and true. One can hope. There is always hope.
I hope you had a lovely weekend.
Sometimes I want to kneel in the rain, feel it dripping all over me. It’s coming down outside right now, as I write, and I can see it in the birch leaves that sprung out overnight, see it turn the lake silver and dark behind me. I’ve watched the clouds all day, the sun coming and going. I saw them steel grey above the pine trees with tips like shining gold. There’s a chill again, in the air.
There is something about Fridays that gentles me, softens me. Maybe it’s the fall into weekend, or maybe it’s because it’s Her day, the day of the Goddess, and I imagine the golden hair of Freya trailing all the way through it.
And there is chocolate…
Earlier I sat by the lake, caught my breath because there wasn’t even a ripple in it, and it was like a great big mirror. It had clouds and trees and mountains in it. And yesterday there was thunder, hail, lightning. I watched that too, from my rocks, while it was still just a gathering storm.
I’ve been writing every day on my novel. It’s a bit difficult sometimes because I have to try to stay with myself and not run away from everything that comes. I write what I feel and read beautiful books to inspire me.
I’ve been wanting to share more of it with you, little pieces of it, but it still feels too scattered, too fragile, though it’s taking shape. I spent one night dreaming myself into it, keeping myself awake.
I hear the birds now, the rain has eased up a little. I’m wishing you a beautiful weekend.
And if you love beautiful words, especially on a Friday, may I suggest you sign up for a bag of seeds and stars.
They are so fragile, these voices that want to come through. I hear them and close my eyes fro a moment, listening. But sometimes I feel too thin and worn to write them down, and I need more listening, more watching as spring comes out, the world unfurling itself in green and new colors.
I’ve been wandering through quiet spaces, looking for words, light, myself. The Goddess.
I went outside to see if my rocks were there, the flat ones by the lake. And I found them, only half swallowed by the recent rain, and I sat down, hugging my knees, gazing out on the sky and water, the distant mountains. The world felt warm and friendly, alive once more with bees and flowers, green grasses saying and gleaming in the sunlight. A yellow butterfly fluttered over the lake, and I watches waves lap against rocks, leaving wet glittering shapes.
Later I gathered windflowers. There are so many of them now, like white blankets in the fields, and I pick them, love them. They’re my childhood remembered. But there are other flowers too. Dandelion, the first violets along the roadside. I walked in the warmth of the sun, picked green leaves to nibble on, heard the clear song of birds, saw shadows of wings on the road.
These are light days, bright days, the world transformed into green and colors, and the nights are half nights, pale and without stars. In the evening, I look outside and I can still see everything clearly, the world draped in soft blue, the mountains black shapes in the lake.
I walk between windows a lot, between tasks, breathing the air coming in. I feel I’ve been woken from a dream, a dark winter dream, and nothing seems quite real. Everything changed in the blink of an eye.
This is one of those posts I wrote but never shared. Sometimes I write things and then walk away from them, afraid to look at my own words and what I felt. It’s been a strange couple of weeks. I’ve been working on my novel, through the help of Camp Nanowrimo. And when May came things kind of slowed down and the words left for a while. But they’re coming back now. I had long stretches of silence yesterday, that I dared to be in, to immerse myself in nothingness, and I walked in the forest too, sat by the lake.
I want to feel small and unimportant. I feel there would be freedom in that, to just share things without worry, to just be a voice in the world without needing to make anything more out of it.
I listen to my soul today, and everything is quiet around me. I hear the wind knocking on my door, and see it move the trees, the light coming and going, washing over the pale green fields.
I think I see now, that listening was at the heart of me, even as a child, but I did not know it. No one did. I wanted to watch the sky and speak to God and hear things inside of me. But there was no name for this. There were only school and classes and tests, and quizzes that had answers, and no space for dreaming. Though of course I did dream, like all children do, are allowed to do, until they have to grow up.
I think I wanted room for magic, and I watched the stars at night looking for it, walked through the thick pine forest next to our house, climbed the hills. I wanted to follow the guidance of my heart, and let wonder grow within me, but again I did not know that’s what I wanted. No one spoke of these things. Slowly I felt guidance being crushed out of me, the little magic I had as a dreaming child, and I gave up. I just gave up and felt numb and proud, and confused.
What changed was that new books came into my life, and a nudge whispering, what if there is magic? What if there is more? And I learned about dreams, astral projection, the Goddess. I learned to listen, slowly, painfully. Perhaps I could sit with my heart and hear what it was telling me. And it was like learning an old language all over again. My mind did not like it, rebelled against it, and now I’m learning faith.
I’ve been writing quite a bit on my novel. Lately, the day has been in the way, and I wait for darkness, like my soul sighs in relief when it wraps its cloak around me, and there are bits of magic that I can more easily reach, bits of starlight, moonlight to spin into story.
I feel writing is courage, because I put my heart out there for people to read, for people to turn away if they want to. And yet now I feel I have no choice. I have to write because I started and now I cannot stop. I’ve been very silent for a long time, and now I have to speak what I can, through writing.
I’ve been looking at the guilt I feel when I share something. And I see that I was taught to be very small, quiet, like a mouse. But mostly just a good girl. I was taught not to ask for what I wanted, but to be sweet and kind, and secretly hope that it would be given to me. Being loud and wild was met with frowns and a steel like quiet.
My childhood home was bright and happy, but quiet. We shared love, but not tears or anger, and never raised voices. Though this has changed a bit over the years.
We all have things to remember from our childhood, beautiful things, and things to learn from. It’s just interesting to look back and see how it shaped me, and that there is a reason for the way I am now, and that often how we act on the outside is not what we are on the inside. And being married to someone quite opposite to myself in many ways, has taught me a lot too.
Just reflections this morning, pouring things out onto paper as I drink my tea now grown cold, watch the bright birch trees and dark pine forest, seeing the light changing from one second to the next.
I would love to know your thoughts. What have you learned from looking back at your childhood? What comes to you now?
I stood on the rocks today, by the lake, watching the sky, seeing it darken around the edges. Lights dimming as though slowly being switched off, as clouds stretched closer, and the water grew black around me.
I could not move. I had not meant to stay out very long, but I could not leave that sky. I watched it, heard rain start to fall behind me, felt the first drop of it on my skin, and still I stayed. I don’t mind getting wet, not when I’m close to home. And it was one of those moments that I wanted to be in the middle of, like in the heart of a storm, though there was no wind, only silence and a darkness inching closer. But there was light also, golden glints of it between the clouds.
I sat down. Waited for the rain. But it did not come, instead, I felt hail, heard it sing through the trees before it reached me. And it did not sting. It was a strange thing to sit in the middle of a hail shower, that felt soft, almost like snow. It filled the hood of my coat, and got in my hair, and I tipped my head back to stare into its silver thick stream. Gradually it stopped, and the lights turned back on, the sky a thick sleepy grey. So I got up, brushed white, soft stones from my coat and climbed up the hill, to the road leading home.
I feel at times I’m still walking through winter, even with flowers coming up everywhere, and new leaves sprouting on trees. The air is so cold, and the nights still breathing ice through my window. I do hope it will warm up, that it won’t be a cold summer like last year.
My husband and I went for a hike through the forest last Sunday, and I watched the sky then too. We came to a clearing with a dirt road and houses, and I saw how dark it was, beautiful, powerful, brewing a storm above grey apple trees. And it hailed, and I heard a crack of thunder, shaking the sky.
I feel the world breaking open, and earlier on my walk today, I imagined the Goddess tipping a pot of gold through the cracks in the clouds, making flowers and colors spread over fields and grass. I felt like sitting down, mouse still in the grass, watching clouds roll past me, getting lost in them. Sometimes I feel them swallowing me up, as though my spirit is not on the ground, but in the sky, and I feel their rain and light, the power they gather on their journey across the world.
Do you feel the sky speaking to you?
Light is returning, so I stand by my window in the early morning when the birds are singing to moonlight, and the sky is not dark, not bright, but somewhere in-between. The whole world is blue and shining, and I can feel dawn creeping closer, closer. It comes quickly now, so I grasp this moment with both hands, a moment of magic, two worlds intersecting, when standing by my window is standing between night and day. And I can see the trees, the lake, the mountains slip into brightness.
It’s strange how when the sky is no longer blue, but white, a touch of gold on the horizon, the birds fall silent. It’s as though they were only singing to wake the sun, or call down the moon. There is a stretch of quiet around sunrise, and then the day starts, the magic breaks and all is bright and normal again. The birds are just birds, happy song filled things, of air and feathers, and not mystical beings of the night, of the in-between, singing through dimensions.