Write now, this pen is a magic wand, brings me into a space of possibility. I let my body relax and discover where imagination wants to travel today. It is warm outside, birds sing and I dream of a summer at home on the farm, with no where to go, no one to be and I can disappear into the creative process of my words.
Still in this moment, as I listen to my hands rubbing against the pages of my journal, I am in the flow of words where I can let go of what is wanted, of all the decisions and expectations, and wonder after the unseen birds perched in the trees.
What new food have found in their forages?
How many nestlings are they nourishing now?
Will they wallow when the nests are empty?
Now understanding arrives on the wings of these questions:
So many losses, such deep felt loss of late, the letting go offering me an intimacy with grief, how the heart attaches, the mind too, the stories I have told about who I am when with others, how my definition of myself are weighted with connection.
And this body, how it holds others, folds smiles and hugs and hours of conversation into itself, breathes with the love of so many and stuntedly exhales in the severing of relationship.
Still, a solitary walk on a gravel and dirt road yields medicinal contemplation, sandaled and wrapped in fleece, the heart knows this landscape,
eight years it has walked this stretch of road;
eight years it has been cradled by these cedars, firs and mossy stones;
eight years it has called this valley surrounded by three mountains in the centre of the island home.