Rare snow this day– normally too warm for such phenomena.
Blood flows at last from my darkened places,
auspices of Winter’s night. Long travels.
Cramps loosen. We are not yet to the Land of Spring,
and I am not too eager for light’s exhausting dominion.
We know we sleep deeper still, time slows to observe inwardly
the Soul’s guiding lantern.
Footprints mark a path outside my small burrow;
Who comes to visit me now from you, Darkened Woods,
who are most beautiful.
The Lord’s beasts may visit our dreaming
and will lead us unto snow’s contemplations,
and to the heart’s spark of candle’d delighting,
and to the Visitor who is the face of the good night
Whose footprints draw nearer now
to my aching door.
Gentle J. Pine
Further journaled thoughts today:
Being sensitive is no joke: it means hearing every different type of music your apartment neighbors are playing and therein hearing and feeling precisely every different personality in physical proximity closely around you. It means being painfully intolerant of the smallest insincerity or manipulative lie when it would be easier to not feel or care, or to conspire therewith. Fatigue and Depression hound these good hearts of the Sensitive; it is nothing to mock and everything to respect. A Soul Guide, a Holy Teacher, a Truth Teller, an Underworld Guide, a true Elder, a Mentor to the Heart: all these are the ones whose baseline hyper awareness is ultimately empowered into a rare gift to The World. They learn to concentrate their gift into deep power and truth, without being overwhelmed by the massive, life-giving intensity within.
This is what they look like.
Great World, Great Soul whom I love,
I run into your arms
without perfect words, a mind-full
but never quite perfect words
recited by mortals, save birds.
Where, my love, are your hands?
Your hands that will hold us?
I sit in the rain and the snow,
meditating, finding you there.
Surely you are more clearly seen
by the hoofed ones, and by the creatures
of feather and fur.
They do not spend their lives in worry of grief.
Be at peace, heart of fire.
This human anguish– fall now into the arms
of the dark earth, the surest of all loves.
Photo by Rob Bye on Unsplash
This is winter in Cascadia.
Oceans gather, lift and drop.
Trailing backward to stand on a rocky beach
with pebbles for eyes, waving cedar
while the pain of love
pounces your throat–
all rise now to the sea-jungle
rowing into the sound, the great waves
going long ways with singing canoes
by the ferns for a memory;
“Wood, stone, feather and bone,
roaring of the ocean, guide us home/
Wolf and raven, Wolf and raven,
in my soul, in my soul…”
Someone I love
has made a fire on the sand,
hand-drill and tinder-bundle
carried close to the heart
in mist-wool on the skin
of our people, our passage.
Dawn climbs rosy-cheeked and panting
home on wind-feathered faces–
on the shore.
image source: public domain
I dreamt that Linne Doran and Mosswood Hollow froze over in a new mini ice age. Everybody at Lake Margaret’s modest elevation had to flee down the hill because the ice came so quickly. It was an enchanted kind of ice, brought on by some untrustworthy spirits, and mysterious beasts now ruled the new winter wonderland. We have never seen their tracks before. At the bottom of the hill in Duvall town it was summer, with broadleaf trees all blooming green and blue sky, and the Mosswood refugees lived in a great big painted hobbit hole made of snaking roots. Herbs and flowers covered the garden, and a river ran through it. Our friends, Meatball and Weasel, got to run the place, mostly, when the real wizards weren’t home.
image: Creative Commons CC0