Words

I miss words. I miss you, too, but it turns out, maybe for the first time ever, I miss words more. When the dove woke me, its soft coo calling through the dark, the waning crescent moon was just above the horizon—in dreamy Pisces no less though that shouldn’t have come as a surprise. The surprise was to find that I still missed words more than you. The ache to reach inside to put longing, to put sensation to voice, to make them real, touchable. As if what is felt in the body is not that; as if what is felt in the body is ethereal, nothing more than a soft cloud blowing in the wind; except that you have to have not left your body to know what's real and what is not. I don't know how to evade the ever-present mind to express what craves light, what yearns for air, what is desperate to be unlocked. The melody of the creek yesterday, the scent of new rain, the first blossom of love. There is that one chord in that one song that flattens itself out when it hits my solar plexus, rippling out in concentric circles like water hit with a stone, undulating, raw, a revolving door sliding open. There was that beautiful dream a week ago. Anima and animus reunited, yin and yang flowing one into the other. Since then, November does what it does, fades to December, though you have not. Nor has the new moon darkness of that first night without you; then the lifetime. You, you know who you are. Me, I had already fled, more alone than ever before, no clue where, even less that I had gone missing. 

Wild Ducks, Wild Life

Mallard Pair at the Creek 

 

Tell me, what is it you plan to do with 

your one wild and precious life? 

~Mary Oliver

Like so many of Mary Oliver's stunning verses, this one is overused and has become almost cliché. But it is well earned, for the power in these lines is astonishing. I know because this innocuous seeming string of words was a gift once that in an instant changed the trajectory of my life. Wild and precious. There they were, two of my very favorite words. What potency they carry strung together like they are, and then the single word dangling at the end, like a carrot, like a beautiful pendant, their object, your life. 

I visit the mallards at the creek. I think about Oliver's lines when I read that mallard means wild duck. Which surprises me and makes me chuckle. If ever there was wildlife that seems less than wild, it might be mallards. But never mind, because there is that word again. I think about the stack of books by my bed, more than half of which carry the word wild in their title. The one on my shelf also with wild in the title that started it all, that got me to swim with wild dolphins. I think about wild woman, the name Clarissa Pinkola Estés has given to the wild feminine, the archetypal, instinctual, divine feminine nature, the birthright of not only women, but every person. Jay Griffith's Wild, which both inspires me and makes me more than a little uncomfortable. Also the audio course I just signed up for with Mirabai Starr, Taking Refuge in the Wild Heart.  

Despite beliefs to the contrary, wild is not wicked or sinful. It is simply that it is not tamed or domesticated; it is natural, as it is, as it is meant to be. Wild has its own mind and will. It is true to its dharma, lets its life unfold as to its own innate design. It does not fold itself up like a pretzel and stuff itself into a box many sizes too small, from which it manages to live its life; also from which it is near impossible to extricate itself. Even when that is what its heart most longs to do. You pick up Estés again and again; you pick up Jay Griffiths. Without realizing it you collect books with wild printed boldly on their spines. You sign up for audio courses you might never listen to. You make it into neither of the books on the nightstand titled Wild Writing. Or is it Writing Wild? It is hours before dawn and dark and I cannot remember which it is. I only know how intoxicating those two words are together. Writing. Wild. And that I want that. Both to receive and to give. 

I think about unwilding. A word that does not exist but should. It should roll easily off the tongues of all of us who have been its casualties. Nature has been unwilded. I have been unwilded. Most women have been unwilded. Or maybe dewilded. Except that makes me think too much of deflowered. Though here I am surprised~ the second definition of deflowered in Mirriam-Webster, after the obvious, is "to take away the prime beauty of." Wow. Domesticated says it, though not specifically enough because it doesn't speak directly to what has been stolen, or at the very least, shrunk, made small; our basic aliveness, our innateness, our fabulous, fierce, passionate, creative, powerful is-ness. Though rewilding is a word, but is related only to plant and non-human animal species; "the planned reintroduction of a plant or animal species into a habitat from which it has disappeared...  in an effort to restore the health of an ecosystem." The idea is right, the scope limited.

It began innocently, like Mary Oliver's words, like so many things that alter the ground beneath you. A book found where I am not supposed to be. An all-night flight with nothing to do but smell the plumeria around my neck, wipe away tears that won't stop, and read. Page by page it begins to come alive in me, a glow, a knowing, a recognition, flutters of a wholly impossible out-of-this-world dream seeded against the quiet drone of the engines, planted in darkness while the ocean sleeps below. Over the next five years, more books, nighttime dreams, synchronicities feed and water it until also in darkness it sprouts and grows, timidly at first, a treasured secret, a delicate seedling, but then it breaks wildly out into the light. On its own it is everywhere, it cannot not be, like the morning glory vine ushering forth, growing up and over and around, its tendrils twisting everywhere, its gorgeous blue blossoms rising up, opening sweetly, meeting the world.  

In spite of the fear that had grown exponentially over the years until it was a silent tether that kept me small and close and folded in on myself, a part of me begins to make plans. No matter that I am terrified of the breaking of hard and fast norms, of the conversation, of the ocean, of drowning, of ecstasy, of the unknown, of meeting myself. Especially that, especially the meeting myself part, the wild self that I know is there, that I have touched if only on the rare occasion, but who in spite of everything remarkably refuses to be forgotten. Because between you and me, I'm afraid of what she might want and what it might cost but also the great, the heavy expense of living any longer not having had those things, the freedom, the authenticity, the autonomy, the spontaneity, the wings, the wildness, the joy. 

It is she who will fly alone across the country, alone in a tiny plane to a tiny island to a tiny boat, jump from the back of that boat heart in hand into the vastness of the clear, gorgeous turquoise ocean. Who will for days bliss out while swimming eye to eye, belly to belly, heart to heart with wild dolphins in their wild home; then will rock to sleep radiant, exhausted, each night in the arms of the wild ocean, on our one home, our one wild, precious, beautiful, earth. The long, on-going, circuitous, sometimes difficult, often grief-filled, the now-and-then exhilarating process of restoration, of rewilding having begun. In the wild.

~💗~

Fifteen Years Ago

Christmas Eve. Our train speeds through the countryside north from Marseilles toward Paris. I sit by the window, my husband on the aisle, our daughters behind us with their books and music, their innocent laughter. Outside is a bucolic scene, a vast uncluttered landscape, the occasional cottage and garden, low stone wall, trees, all covered in a thick, gauzy snow-like frost. I cannot take my eyes from the beauty of it, the stillness, the repose, mile after mile as far as the eye can see. Nor can I look from the face reflected in the glass, the one superimposed over the sparkling winter white, the one filled with endless sadness as it watches me watching the world go by.

Paris overflows with Christmas. We have dinner, climb the stairs of the Eiffel Tower, float down the Seine in cold so brutal it forces me back inside the boat. We walk along the river, past the closed booksellers stands. Later we happen upon Notre Dame and enter the vestibule of the packed cathedral, filled with warmth and candlelight and hymns to the glory of God. After, in our hotel, gifts exchanged, I lie awake, waiting not for Santa, but for resolution, for absolution, knowing that here, in the City of Lights, in the most romantic place in the world, in the wet, the gray, the cold, the charm, the beauty, the history, the love, the last vestiges of an already crumbling marriage have finally been swept away. 

Written to a prompt in a group I'm part of. Limit 250 words about a celebration, any kind. 

Oh Holy Week

 

That night, we dreamed the journey

~Joyce Sidman

Here we are at my favorite week of the year. More favorite even than my birthday week which is saying a lot. It's not because it is the week before Christmas, though that plays a part. The true roots of this love predate the church; they grow from the ground of the earth herself, for this is Winter Solstice week. Where I live this is when the cold really arrives, and with it, rain, if we are lucky, and thick fog that blankets the ground, makes ghosts of trees, brings a quiet stillness that is as palpable as it is profound. This year has also brought sunny, baby blue mornings covered in frost and ice. 

I walk the earth as if I have awakened in wonderland and am swept away at its marvelous beauty; the world swaddled like a newborn; the way tiny ice crystals lay on the ground, on dead leaves, on fence tops, on the bowed heads of spent roses. How it sparkles in the sun as though it is actual snow while mist rises up like the thinning veil between the worlds—beckoning. This week is alive, it is melancholy, it is dark, it is joyous, it is precious. I want nothing more than to go out early, revel in it, capture it, and then to hunker down to a fire, a lit candle, my dog on my lap, a soulful book, Loreena McKennitt's A Winter Garden playing on a never-ending loop. 

Then I want to freeze time right here. Hold close this feeling of holiness that saturates everything, this tender hand of reverence, this wanting to bow down in devotion, like the roses; a devotee, a disciple, a spellbound lover. This waking dream that holds the gift of darkness, the cherished time of rest, of burrowing and nesting, of inception and incubation, of magic and miracles. Both journey and destination. Where time goes is always the question, always a mystery, but never more so than now, with age plus the pandemic, time has warped itself into an unknown and unrecognizable stranger; its shadow in constant pursuit. In a whisper November becomes December and now here we are, tomorrow is the Solstice. 

Walk through the veil. Embrace it as you would a dearest loved one. Right here, right now in your own heart of hearts; don't miss a moment. Let its loveliness sweep you away, its crystalline elegance; fall headlong into its mystery, its breathless poetry, those late mornings and early nights. Fill yourself, sweet one, for the dark is never long enough; always finite; tomorrow light and darkness meet; light will prevail. 

Dream of the Tundra Swan

~Joyce Sidman

Dusk fell

and the cold came creeping,

came prickling into our hearts.

As we tucked beaks

into feathers and settled for sleep,

our wings knew.

That night, we dreamed the journey:

ice-blue sky and the yodel of flight,

the sun's pale wafer,

the crisp drink of clouds.

We dreamed ourselves so far aloft

that the earth curved beneath us

and nothing sang but

a whistling vee of light.

When we woke, we were covered with snow.

We rose in a billow of white.

Happy Winter Solstice. 

~💗~ 

The Magic of the Sycamore Tree

 Our souls are attracted to what has soul.

~Jean Shinoda Bolen

Around a curve on a fast moving road I take at least once a week is this stunning sycamore tree that I have never, not once noticed until a few days ago. There was something about the setting, about the little fence enclosing it, the way the burnt orange leaves sprawled over the sidewalk and the street, how the ground fog made everything around it recede, bringing its grandness into sharp focus. It took nearly two blocks for the brain zap of the mind catching up with what the eyes had seen and I suddenly hit the brakes, found a place to make a u-turn, and wound my way through a sprawling mostly empty parking lot of a large office building. I walked to the tree and snapped a few pictures, got back in the car and finished my drive home. It wasn't until I was looking at the photos later at home that something about this tree took hold in me and I could not stop thinking about it. 

How much of life is lost this way, in the spaces between what is seen and what is recorded? 

I am a tree lover. In my own small-ish, local way I have tried to protect trees. I have hugged them, sat with my back to them for long periods of time, felt them all the way deep into the earth at the same time I could feel my own firm roots next to them. I have journeyed through them, once to receive my main totem animal, the red-tailed hawk. I have written letters, made phone calls advocating for them. And I have deeply mourned those that have been lost, for a myriad of reasons, including what capitalism calls progress. I am not Julia Butterfly Hill, who lived in a one-hundred-and-eighty-foot tall, fifteen-hundred-year-old redwood tree she named Luna for two years to save it and other old growth trees. But I do seem to form relationships with certain trees almost as though they were loved ones. Jean Shinoda Bolden, author of Like a Tree and many other wonderful books, would definitely say I am a tree person. 

There was the willow tree of my childhood, and the three black walnut trees. The trio of birches outside the home where we raised our daughters. The old growth oaks that had lived who knows how many dozens of years, centuries even, in the cleft where two hills met that were first killed and then bulldozed in order to make a road to a new housing project that would sprawl all over the beautiful hilltops. Everyday going to work I drove by them and everyday brought pain that I did not know what to do with, grief for the violent death of the trees and scrub bushes, the whole little eco system nestled there, for the wildlife that called that little grove home.

There was the hugely sprawling oak that lined the seasonal creek at the park next to where I live now, with two massive trunks, like twins, splitting right at ground level, that went over two years ago in a strong windstorm. I could not bear to go near the park for months on end, the emptiness, the staggering hole, the breach in the canopy of trees hurt too much. She was the first tree I had dared to hug right out in the open in public. Though hug might not be the right word. I would lay my body full-on against her and spread my arms but they barely curved she was so big. It was more like a hold than a hug, and she was the one doing the holding. What I felt in my own body when I did so time and again is indescribable. It was pure energy. As though I was entering the great dark mystery of both tree and earth and I became one with them. 

There was the tree lost a year ago from near my front door that was visible from my living room and bedroom windows. With its red leaves and proliferous dainty pink and white blossoms in spring, its coven of birds daily, doves and house finches, goldfinches and hummingbirds. Sometimes in spring robins and cedar waxwings by the dozens. The occasional red-shouldered hawk. This tree helped me transition out of darkness when I first moved in. She had sustained and nurtured both my daughter and I, but later especially my daughter, whose illness has shrunk her world almost to non existence. 

Then there are the hundred plus redwoods that line the west side of the complex where I live that have been failing for years; each year they grow more brown than green; each year more sparse. If ever there was a love affair with trees, it would be with these gorgeous, gentle giants. So great is the pain, and the fact that they are not insular, that they are a microcosm of the loss and pain evident everywhere on our planet, our home, that it's hard to write or talk about them. Sorrow. Grief. Fear. None of it covers the whole of the feeling of unbearable loss, of powerlessness. Except to say this. Grief is love. Without love there would be nothing to grieve. And it is that love that can hold us through the grief, sustain us through the sorrow, through all that is already here, all that is coming. Fierce, consuming love. 

I returned to the sycamore tree the next morning and the next, the last time just before a powerful storm was to come through that I knew would strip her of many of her leaves. Each time my awe grew, each time I saw a new part of her, a new aspect to her is-ness, her being-ness. The large hole on one side of the trunk at the ground, large enough for a small child to fit into. The smaller holes on the other sides. The exquisite coloring and patterning of the bark. The chaos when looking up through her canopy. The mere size of the five-pointed leaves. How different she appears in sunlight, in fog, in wind. Not to mention all that is invisible and also just as real; not to mention the soul of her. 

Depending on the cultivar, the sycamore can be stately, like this one or others I've seen in nature that grow wild and unruly, with limbs twisting and turning in surprising directions, sometimes growing straight out like long, long arms, other times resting in quiet repose on the ground, as though part of the tree has collapsed though it hasn't. It is simply its habit of growth. To see these dotted on a landscape is something to behold. 

The sycamore was sacred to the ancient Egyptians. They like low lying areas, where streams or water flows or gathers. In Nature-Speak, Ted Andrews writes that the appearance of a sycamore often means there is nourishment about. They are gift bearers, gifts both large and small. 

He writes: 

        

                  The sycamore awakens the feminine energies of intuition,

                  beauty and nourishment all around us. It can open us to

                  the energies of love and Nature and all their magnificent

                  aspects. The sycamore will augment all connections to

                  Nature, and its appearance in our life encourages us to

                  draw upon the realm of Nature for health, abundance

                  and inspiration.

        

What a magnanimous Midwinter gift. 

~💗~

The Magic of Midwinter

Female California Quail 

Melancholy were the sounds on a winter's night.

~Virginia Woolf

In the old times, in the old languages, before the church absconded with and revised what came before, December and January were the time of the Yule, the time of the feasts and celebrations, the honoring of Midwinter, the sacred darkness and the return of the light. It is by far my favorite time of year, when I can feel deep inside the holiness, the profound mystical mystery that we are part of. It is also my most difficult time of year. Not only my current circumstances that keep me homebound during the holidays, but the anniversaries of losses that these months hold. One minute I am immersed in the sanctity of the time, the next, a shadow passes, a scent, a sound, a memory, and I am plunged into darkness. 

Last week in therapy a remarkable seeing occurred, an epiphany, when I told my therapist that I did not want to lose this precious time to grief, to despair again this year. It's not that I want to override these difficult emotions, or, more importantly, the parts of me that feel them, the ones that have been traumatized, that are in pain, that have been exiled or excluded or discarded, that feel so utterly alone. It's that I want to make space for it all, to allow all that wants or needs to be here to be included in the precious landscape of this time, that is more precious because of the richness of all parts, of all emotions. This time of year is, after all, a celebration of both dark and light.

When our session ended, when we said goodbye and I closed my laptop I knew only that I had stumbled onto what I wanted to happen, what I hoped would be, but not how this might come about, how I might actively show up in a new way. I began to think about my great love of nature. The way it sustains me. I think about the fact that midwinter is all about nature, about the turning of our earth, about quiet, stillness, rest, endings, and also, of course, beginnings. I cannot control what I feel in any given moment, in fact, the work of healing is all about allowing and honoring, welcoming, making a home for everything. The idea is not to resist anything, change anything, just to actively invite something else in as well. 

I can, for example, pick up my camera each morning, no matter how I am feeling. I can leave my house before my daughter is up, if even for a few minutes. I can go in search of a leaf, a twig, a branch, a tree, a bird, a seedpod, an acorn, the rising sun, the valley fog, the hills. And who knows what might want to reveal itself. The cold might wholly invigorate me. I might one morning find myself buffeted by winds, watching overwhelmed with gratefulness as storm clouds roll in, feel fat drops on my head. I might watch in wonder as leaves are whipped from trees and roll down the slick street like colorful dancers. Or the singular golden leaf floating slowing, daintily, buoyed by air, by grace as she returns to earth. 

There might be ice lining the trail, sparkling like diamonds in the sun's rays. A red-tailed hawk calling out from a dying redwood. Steam rising like old-world mist up from steep canyons. A falcon, a robin, a scrub jay, a multitude of sparrows and rock pigeons and wild turkeys. Or the most incredibly little, soft birds, birds not seen before, not identified, all over a tall blooming bush, chattering, eating seeds, demanding my full and rapt attention. Or. I might stand and stare at a large, tangled, bare of leaves California buckeye bush, just stare, when suddenly the image of a quail emerges on the ground beneath it, camouflaged so well I almost missed her, I did miss her, in fact, it is almost as though she decided to allow me to see her, to become visible to me. One of my very favorite birds, more so because of their shyness, their aloofness, and the rarity of being able to see them, much less catch a clear photograph. Tears come. Her presence, her gentle, wizened face touches me deeply. I search for others. They are family-oriented birds and most always seen in large groups called coveys. But she is alone. I wonder still about why; wonder if this is something we have in common, wonder if she is okay. 

I am, somehow, more alive with my camera in hand. I am more tuned to my surroundings. I see more in general and notice more detail, texture, color, scenery that would otherwise be missed. Scenes are indelibly marked on me. It is meditation. My mind disappears, it empties out so that my whole being can be present, can be filled with beauty, with awe, with marvel. These midwinter mornings are not for typical art making which is what I normally do with my camera. The glorious rose here, the incredible lavender there, the perfect snap of the bird, art lenses, rich, heady blues and pinks, endeavoring to create the finest images I can make. 

The intention these midwinter mornings is not art making per se so much as recording the beauty of nature for its the own sake, its own art and creation, recognizing the perfection inherent in its very being, and making a record of these mornings that can continue to hold me. The broken, crinkled leaf. The young golden-red hawk bathing in the morning light staring out from the dying tree. The spent perennial disappearing as it moves back into the rich fullness of the dark earth. Nature alive as she fades into the season. It is about reverence and devotion, receiving and giving back, loving and being loved in return. No matter how I am feeling. Even if I have been washed away in the great tide of sorrow, the solace of nature remains.

I have been astounded to read more than once recently that the earth feels our footsteps and knows our presence upon her. That trees, for example, recognize our unique beings, and that we are missed when we are no longer there. It feels like pure fantasy, the same way that the idea of a creator knowing every single hair on our heads seems like utter nonsense. But what if~  What if the spirit of earth does discern and remember each of us and our spirits? What if the world soul, the anima mundi, does indeed recognize our own souls? What if we are not separate, but one? What if we are felt, known, appreciated, loved even? What if we are communing on a level that is utterly invisible and also, staggeringly real. The very idea takes my breath away. The great and divine mystery revealing herself. 

There is magic here in Midwinter. When boundaries soften, become like the mist rising up in the icy morning. Like the veil when approaching the isle of Avalon. When divine darkness holds us tenderly as it prepares to give birth to light. Bringing epiphanies, possibilities, seeing, knowing, and above all the sacred, that invisible something, the firmament that surrounds and infuses everything, the connective tissue that holds it, the thread that weaves it all together, all of creation, every single pebble, each leaf, each cell; feathers, hair, wings, every being, each mood, from joy to sorrow, all of life. 

~💗~

Going Forward

The fact of going forward creates a path.

~Kathleen Dean Moore

Monday Thanksgiving week. Outside these sweet Bonica roses are still blooming prolifically, looking better now than they did in high summer when the hot sun bleaches them almost to white. More robust even than spring, when they are so eager to grow and bloom that their blossoms are small and too many, unwieldy, needing corralling with stakes and string. Right now they are perfect. 

This image was taken with the Lensbaby Sweet 50. I've rediscovered my Lensbaby lenses. They've sat collecting dust since mid-spring when I had this idea that they weren't good enough for a certain project I had in mind. But with fall leaves begging to be more artfully captured, I dusted them off and here we are. They are amazing lenses. And their motto, See In A New Way. I love the way they turn the ordinary into the extraordinary, the way they expose things we cannot see with the naked eye, cannot even imagine, the unpredictability of the blur and bokeh, the way they either work or do not. How they represent life that way.  

I've also left this space languishing. Another misguided idea that it had to be left behind in order to do something bigger, something "better." It's been over a year now since I left, though I've popped in occasionally. Then I logged on a few days ago, and immediately, habitually, fingers moved on the keyboard of themselves; a little housekeeping here, some updating there, a wee bit of editing on my last post. Before I knew it I was deep in creating a new banner (I know, it's blurry... trying to figure that out). The feeling of coming home swept over me; energy and enthusiasm filled me. How I've missed this space, that uses my creative energy in a wholly unique way.

In this year away I've written almost 50,000 words. A small book I am told. Not that it matters. The writing is all over the place. Lacking coherency or theme, and something more that I cannot put my finger on. Likely many things more. It's true that I have been learning to write in a whole new way. Like Lensbaby's See In A New Way. That learning, I am also told, and now know intimately, is not like climbing a hill, but more like scaling a near vertical mountain. The same as when I bought my new camera equipment and day after day, month after month I failed again and again. But then one day~  

It is safe to say that I am as confused about writing as ever. And also, that I love what I have been learning. And so love the writers I have found that have helped me on this path, with their glorious words, their amazing journeys. It has been a great challenge that has also felt invigorating, sometimes quite satisfying, once or twice euphoric. But unlike my camera, it is a much longer process. Unlike with photography, which mostly bypasses the mind, I don't know quite what exactly is wanting to be created. Though what I do know is that it was a mistake to leave this space behind. I need the energy that it brings me in order to keep going, learning, experimenting on the other. 

It's shocking to write that this is Thanksgiving week. I have tried to put it out of my mind. My favorite holiday of the year. Not because of its origins, which are shameful, but because it is a warm, cozy day with few expectations other than gathering together with loved ones. But those bucolic days ended with my older daughter's chronic illness and then doubled down with covid. We stay home alone, she and I, partly because she is unable, but mostly because the world is no longer a safe place for her. The same on Christmas day. Christmas on Zoom with my beloved five-year-old granddaughter whom I am over the moon for is just not the same. I know that we are not alone in lives disrupted, in aloneness. Sadness is not mitigated because others suffer too. It grows it larger; where it morphs, one hopes, to compassion, both inner and outer; to empathy. 

Though this year there is a little kernel of joy hidden within this season. My younger daughter is expecting another baby right around summer solstice. The coming year will be one of dreams, of imagining, of possibilities. She is clear that she wants me there. I am clear I want to be there. But how to get to them, almost three hours away in the mountains, when the baby is born. And after, regularly so new Baby and I can bond in the way that my granddaughter and I have. How to continue to care for my older daughter, who is homebound, always at risk of severe setbacks. How to keep us safe from covid. How to not have to abandon one daughter for the other. Again and again. How to not fall into the deep, familiar, dark well of sorrow, of stress, of fear. 

I have been shocked at how quickly shifts have happened. The way overnight these conundrums went from seemingly impossible to there must be a way, we will find a way, I will be there. Internal movement that will pave the way for the external. It is not so different really than photography and from writing. It is one exposure, one word and sentence, one moment and day at a time, one foot after the other. I had no idea how I would learn to take better photos anymore than I have any idea how I will continue to learn the craft of writing in a way that I dream of. Or how to know exactly how it will all work out that I will be there, in June, to meet this new, already precious family member, currently the size of a prune, but a baby shaped prune, arms, legs, feet no longer webbed; facial features recognizable, organs beginning to develop. And be with my granddaughter as she, as we all navigate the beautiful and challenging changes that will rock her little world. 

This morning when I opened my curtains to the dark, pre-dawn sky there was the tiny crescent moon rising, a sliver of glowing light curving upwards as though in a tender, benevolent smile. I surprised myself by smiling back. It was involuntary; I can't help myself when it comes to the moon. There is nothing to do but move forward. Cleave a path that is both unseen and unknown, follow the heart's longings and knowings. Already ideas are arriving, thoughts, epiphanies, gifts from some unknown source showing up. Bits of light. Some blur coming into focus. Already there is seeing in a new way, gentle discussions begun, love assured all around; a peace and calm that I honestly didn't know I was capable of in this sometimes torturous, emotion-laden landscape.