Belonging

One of the things I love about SoulCollage® is how the images you put together take on a significance you don't comprehend until you sit with them for a while.  I made this card yesterday (sorry for the crooked iPhone shot - couldn't figure out how to straighten it):

I actually began with the women in the background.  I had no idea this foreground image was even going onto the card.  Even when I spoke from the images with my group, I didn't really understand the card until I  began writing this morning to try to gain more clarity.  I let both the women in black and the woman in the spider web dress speak.  This is what they said.  First, the one in black on the right (the one I started with):

" I am one who walks the course, the route, the path laid out for me by my ancestors, my culture, my world.  The work is hard, but it is sacred, and I have company; I do not do it alone, and this is crucial.  If I do not isolate myself, if I remember that the work is sacred and for the community and the children, my garment becomes a comforting wrap of belonging.  Black gives me a sense of anonymity if I choose to be anonymous. I am one of many.  It is also an acknowledgement of grief, for women's work is full of grief.  We know that the work is vital and at the core of things, even if men have demeaned it.  We have had to assign our own value to it.  So, we stand tall and carry the burden in golden and silver pots.  We understand its worth and our own."

And then, the woman in foreground:

"I am one who weaves the web of life, wears it as an extension of my body, and dances the dance of life in it.  Webs are beautiful, fragile and patterned to be inclusive.  Each life occupies a node, a juncture, and all are part.  I protect and hover over the world, seeing the beauty, the pain, the sorrow.  The dance is one of joy and acknowledgement.  It is also a message to those embodied to do what I do - dance the joy, the pain, the sorrow, and dance with the joy, the pain, the sorrow.  See and know that you are not alone.  The women tread a difficult path, but they do so with grace.  What they bear is golden.  This card's name is Belonging."

I even gave the background a voice, which I don't remember ever doing before:

"We are the ones who are rock, memory and the snowy high peaks of rarified air.  We hold much beauty, terror and trepidation.  We are now in the sunset time, reflecting the red hues of the dying light.  It is a liminal time, a time between, just as life is liminal, a time between leaving the Mystery and entering the Mystery,  Even we will leave, in time, though we endure for much longer than you.  Your lives are brief.  Make the most of them."

So grateful for this process - it's so much fun, so easy to be creative, and goes so deep.

(I am very grateful to the artists whose images we use to deepen our own awareness.)

I Wear My Mother's Clothes

Another Day of the Dead grief ritual over.  So much beauty, so much tenderness.  We truly became the "sudden community" Michael Meade talks about.  It's a lot of work, putting this thing on.  Most years I have to get over some dread and resistance of my own to do it.  Not so much this year.  I'm not sure why, but maybe it was partly my desire to honor and grieve for my friend Leona.

Barry always says, "Well, we've justified our existence for another year" when this ritual is over.

When I went to get dressed for the day, I grabbed a black outfit that had belonged to my mother.  Pretty fitting, to wear something of hers for Day of the Dead.  Here's a poem that's come out of it:

I Wear My Mother’s Clothes

When my mother died,

my sister and I removed

the two gold bracelets from

her weeping arms and

put them on each other.

Later, we divided up

her jewelry, and took

some items of

her clothing.

I am 5’8” tall.

Mom was at least

six inches shorter.

You might think her clothes

would never fit me.

Well, they did.

Her full-length pants

became my capris,

her width became

my length.

Those first weeks,

I wore her outfits

almost every day.

I did not plan to do this.

When I would go to my closet,

these were the clothes

that came to my hand.

I felt some comfort

surrounding my body

with what had

touched hers.

Even now,

thirteen years later,

I wear those clothes

from time to time.

When I take them off

their hangers,

I think of her and smile.

I still miss her touch and

the sound of her voice, but

even this fading bit of contact

fills my heart with love
and gratitude.

The Stages of Cronedom

We're starting to plan this year's Day of the Dead ritual, and boy, does it seem like the community needs it this year!  Between the fires, the drought, climate change, the crazy state of the world (and this presidential election insanity) and the endless stream of school shootings, not to mention personal  losses and griefs, reasons for needing a grief ritual abound.  So, consider coming if laying down some of the heaviness and burden of grief you're carrying would be of benefit to you.

The season's inward focus and the rapid approach of the year's end brought a poem this morning.  Oh,  I just can't seem to help but be immersed in mortality issues these days.  In my morning pages, I wound up musing about our elder years.  It's becoming clear to me that "old age" isn't just one concise period toward the end of life.  There are stages that I, at least, am moving through.  So, here it is... as usual, a little raw and most likely in need of revision (that's what I love about blogging - you get to experiment without feeling as though it has to be perfect).

First, you are a novice elder.

Monthly bleeding finally ends,

bringing both relief

and sadness.

If you are lucky,

you receive a crone initiation

and a welcoming.

You begin to look at older friends

in a new way.

You study how they move,

how they rest,

how they persist in their arts.

Then, you move into

early cronehood.

You stop coloring your hair.

You grandparent.

If you are lucky,

you retire from your day job.

Because you live within youth culture,

you become invisible to many.

You wince at your image in the mirror,

hating the new lines etched

into your face and your sagging skin.

Then, you exhale deeply

and promise yourself to

accept it all.

Next, you surprise yourself

by finding that there is a

middle-elder phase.

You begin to identify yourself

as old.  Sometimes.

Inherent weaknesses in the body

begin to clarify themselves

into symptoms.

It is easy to get lost 

and discouraged now.

You realize that you will never

go backpacking again.

You visit your acupuncturist and

chiropractor.  Often.

If you are even a little wise,

you turn inward and to

whatever gods or spirits

call you.

You allow your gifts

to flow unobstructed.

You care less and less

what people think of you.

You begin to lose 

(or lose more) people.

You understand how much grief

there will be from now on.

You wonder how you can

bless and serve the young.

Later, you move into

true old age.

Not having arrived there yet,

I cannot speak of it

with any authority.

I suspect that the work 

will be to learn more

about  acceptance and

about staying open-hearted,

should I reach this  stage.

That opening to the life-force

and also the death-force

will be what is required.

I hope that I live long enough

to hold all things –

to love my beloveds -

to bless the youngers –

and to meld into the earth.

In the Time of the Mysteries

The season turns, the days grow shorter, and I feel myself turning inwards as Persephone descends to the underworld.  It's funny how quickly it can happen.  Last week we had the hottest weather of the summer; this week is feeling like Fall.   (And may the blessed rains that are just barely beginning to sprinkle come and soothe this parched and fire-ravaged California earth.)

This is the time of year when the Eleusinian Mysteries were celebrated for several thousand years in Greece - initiation rites honoring Demeter and Persephone.

Last June, I made a promise to write four poems to Persephone this year.  Here's my second (still not happy with the first - I'm working on it).

There are a lot of poems where kindness is the theme.  I think of Naomi Shihab Nye's, for instance.  I'm just beginning to understand what treating myself with kindness really means.  Is that odd, at this late stage of the game?  I think to myself, "Well, duh," but that response demonstrates exactly the point - how easy it is to slip into self-talk that's anything but kind.

Here's the poem.  To you, Persephone!

The Way Through

Head tilted back,

Gaze lifted to the heavens -

The posture, in and of itself,

Causes spirits to rise.

But the One I honor

Is not in those realms above.

All the stories tell us

That She reigns below.

Under the earth?  

Not only that, but also

Beneath the surface

Of one’s own being -

The deep place which is

Hard to remember, hard to find,

Hard to acknowledge,

Hard to face.

The pulls of the surface world

Are strong and compelling.

Ascent into light is

A magnetic draw.

But following this goddess

Means agreeing to go into

Dark and buried places.

There is no escaping it.

I muse, is there no way

to both rise and descend? 

Are spirit glory and soul wisdom

Mutually exclusive?

“No!” She says. 

“The way of the life dream

Is to go deep and to rise,

To dwell and thrive

“In the paradox.

Come to the Dark One, 

And find the light.  After all,

I am the one who travels

"Between all the worlds.

 And one more thing –

the trickiest task of all -

Kindness must be the way through.

“To others, yes,

But above all, to yourself.

When you learn this,

You will truly find your way.”

 

My SoulCollage® card of Persephone

Wings

          In memory of Leona Tockey and Fay Distiller 

          I never saw wings on a person before.  Never even knew we had them.  And then I went to visit my friend who was dying.  Out of the corner of my eye I glimpsed a gentle waving motion and something delicate and ethereal emerging out of her back.  By keeping my focus soft and my head moving from side to side, I could see that there were actually two configurations, one on each side of her body.  They were translucent, many-colored, segmented and beautiful.  They were large, I realized, but incomplete, unfinished. The furthest edges were fuzzy and faded away, but they grew as I watched; bits were joining onto the ends. 

            They appeared to be wings that were in the process of growing, but not by pushing out fully formed from the shoulder blades; they were being added onto at the tips. 

            I realized at that moment that my friend’s death would come when her wings were complete.  It would not be long.

            From then on, I have been able to see people’s wings, emerging from their backs.  The wings’ stages of development are completely independent of an individual’s age. But no matter the size, they are all beautiful and unique.

            I have since come to understand that a person’s wings are invisible to most people because they belong to the soul, which is also invisible, and whose true home is in the otherworld.  Every now and then someone’s vision opens up or refines itself in some unknown and unknowable way, and that person can see the wings.  Why, and why me, I have no idea.

            Apparently, the work of the soul in this world is growing these wings.  The soul then uses the wings to fly back into the otherworld at the end of the person’s life, and to display the beauty and particularity of this incarnation when it gets there. 

            Some babies have mostly-formed wings right away, and these beings are not in the world for long.  There is a simplicity and loveliness to these wings, and also a great sadness in witnessing them.  Seeing wings means discovering those who are close to leaving; their nearly complete wings give it away. 

            Every act of soul-making adds to one’s wings. Manifesting purpose, bringing beauty, being of service, giving life, overcoming obstacles – all of these things bring bits and blazes of color to the wings.   Even negative and harmful acts add to one’s wings.  These segments often appear dark or smoky. 

            A person’s history could be read in his or her wings, if only one knew how. 

            Interestingly, I cannot see my own wings, nor the wings of those closest to me.  I’m glad for that.  It would not be fitting or helpful to foretell the death of one’s mate or child.  I wouldn’t want to know, though I am curious by nature.  Of course, I do think about my own, though.  Sometimes I wonder,  “Would do anything differently if I knew how much time I had left?”

Goddess Figurines

We're getting ready for another Rumi's Caravan tonight, part of Bolo's new album release celebration.  I was thinking this morning about one of Rumi's most famous poems, Love Dogs.  I've always questioned what it says - how is one's longing actually the connection to spirit?  I didn't exactly come up with an answer, but while writing and looking up at my goddess figures, I did come up with a poem that leans in that direction.  Here's a picture of some of the figurines (and yes, I really did schlep them and more home from Greece in my suitcase), and the poem.

Goddess Figurines

It is all

right here

before me.

The figurines –

goddesses or priestesses,

            from Crete,

            from Eleusis,

            from Mycenae,

bird-headed, or

crowned with snakes, cats, diadems –

all with arms raised –

            in prayer,

            in praise,

            in supplication,

            in blessing.

I carried them all

home from Greece

wrapped in clothing and paper,

nestled in my carry-on bag,

not a one broken

or hurt.

For fifteen years

they have stood

on my altars,

on my writing table,

eyes wide open,

gazing at me.

It is only now

that I grasp

the message 

of their stance:

Lift your arms,

they say.

Your connection

to spirit begins

with your own effort.

Lift your arms.