Trading Symptoms

Headache says –

I’ll see your spasm and

raise you an ache.

Stomach throws down her cards

in disgust.

Lousy hand – she says.

Well – says Headache.

You had a good run.

Look.

You played:

            griping,

            esophageal spasms,

            throat thickening,

            reflux and

            constipation.

Yeah –she says –

And who knows?

Maybe I still have a trick or two

hiding in the pipes.

Headache cleared the pot.

I’ll take it while I can – he shrugged.

Stomach gurgled a salute

and nodded off.

The Invitation

I’m inviting Persephone back into my life.

She’s been gone for a while.

Either she’s been in the underworld and

I’ve been wandering the earth

(like grieving Demeter on her way to Eleusis),

or I’ve been down below and

she’s been up here with Mom.

Funny.  I’m not sure which.

Anyway, I’m calling her back.

We’ve been invited to guide an expedition.

I can’t do it without her

(not very well, at least).

She really needs a channel,

and I’m willing,

if She so chooses.

Which I hope She does since

I already accepted the job.

What a fiasco it will be

if She doesn’t show.

She doesn’t often let me down, though.

Once or twice I felt abandoned,

left to fend for myself in a

gust of cold wind.

Made a fool of myself.

Once or twice.

You can’t count on the gods

to do what you want,

now can you?

But those old ones,

they need us humans.

They’ve been abandoned, too.

The Lessons of the Elders

The house has been joyfully warmed, and we dare to hope that this long transitional year of moving is coming to a close.  Of course, there are still many challenges.  The house continues to require lots of attention.  I decided last week that the reason why we were having so many issues pop up is not that the house is hating us - it's just showing us all the ways it's been neglected!  The aesthetics were lovingly attended to, but the foundational, structural, nitty gritty aspects of caring for a house built in 1908 had been...well...somewhat postponed.  I do hope we'll still have a little money at the end of this period!  

But we love it here - the house, the neighborhood, our extended family on-site.  We've had four mornings of rainbows, and gorgeous sunsets and sunrises.

What I will be doing (beyond home and family) is still unclear to me.  I am pleased to be working with Jennifer Berezan on next November's big concert, Song for All Beings.  Ever since my trip to Malta with Jennifer and Joan Marler I have wanted to do more work with Jennifer.  Now that I'm in the east bay, it's become possible.

One of the things on my mind lately (and kind of a lot on an ongoing basis) is (no surprise here) aging.  I'm working on this poem.  It doesn't feel totally finished, but I wanted to share it while it's fresh.  The title is the title of this blog post.

In the heart of midlife

I began observing my elders

I wanted to learn how to inhabit 

the final stage of life.

What I saw:

Aging is a process of

distilling down, of

drying, like fruit, into

essential flavors.

And so I found both hope

and a warning.

The warning:

Without work and awareness

an elder ripens into

the essence of her flaws.

If fear or anger or denial dominates,

she risks dying as she has lived.

The hope:

By turning away from oneself and

towards the world, the children, and

those in her sphere of influence,

an elder assumes the power

to bless.

Soon – too soon – the time will come

when my elders are all gone,

(should all pass in order.)

I will no longer be able

to look ahead for guidance

except to the otherworld.

I will be one of the ones

on the leading edge.

Making our way to that cliff

is not optional.

How we traverse it is.

I want to be one of the one who blesses.

I want to be regarded

as a guide of hope.

So I must take my fundamental fears

and hold them up to a forgiving heart

and a generous universe.

I hope to learn how to set myself aside

and become a gift of aging.

A Priestess Speaks

We went to a day with Michael Meade last week.  Michael is someone who never fails to inspire me.  I guess that's no surprise, given that he's a mythologer, storyteller and mystic.  The day was all about genius, which Michael describes as the soul's calling.  A topic I dwell on a lot.  I truly believe that we are all born with a unique set of gifts and talents that need to be given to the world; what Angeles Arrien calls our "original medicine."  Hanging out with Hecate as I have been doing, I am in a period where the call isn't as clear as I wish it would be.  It's okay.  I know I'm in a liminal stage, and the new phase of life will open up as it needs to.  But I have felt it strongly at other times and know how satisfying it is to be inspired and to be moving that inspiration into manifestation.

What I do know is that I need to keep writing every day, and I need to meditate more regularly.  I may have to take up William Stafford's plan of writing a poem every day.  The thing about blogging is that these things may come out here unpolished and unrevised.  Oh, well.  So be it.

This is what came this morning:

It is my calling

to be hollow and empty

as a bamboo reed.

The wind may blow through,

or a song,

or the breath and spirit

of one who dwells

on the other side

of the veil.

I could be a messenger

or a vehicle for love’s rapture.

I could be a voice in the wilderness

or a hawker in the city.

I could be a puppet

or a whirling dervish.

I could be a clown

or a mourner.

My crown opens.

My feet are planted.

My arms rise up.

I must take my desires and my preferences

and stash them away.

Empty.

Hollow.

Come, goddess, come.

The Maze: Reflecting on a SoulCollage® Card

The maze goes on, green and deep.

I am weary of walking its winding way,

Of chasing an elusive blue butterfly.

This body cannot conjure the joy of the journey now.

It is not that I am lost;

I have merely lost sight.

So, I sit, slump, close my eyes, rest.

And the Water Bearer comes.

She comes!

Her benediction rains down on me,

Her raised hand a sign of acceptance.

She does not tell me what or why;

She simply blesses.

I will resume my search.

I may never find the center

And what may or may not reside there.

Like Rilke, I circle

And still have no idea of what I am.

The endeavor is all.

Enough

It’s a little late in the game

for adventure –

she thinks –

stepping down the stone-strewn path.

Her body aches,

Her breath is labored,

Her shoulders tense and high.

She pauses,

inhales deeply,

breathes out a deliberate, slow stream.

There are trees here.

There are hills

and a big sky.

The terrain is not familiar,

but the planet is her own.

She must – she thinks –

learn to feel at home

anywhere on the earth.

No parents now.

No safety.

No guarantees.

But, really and truly,

there never were.

She left Hecate’s torch at the crossroads

for another traveler

in transition.

She has boots on her feet,

a staff in her hand,

and a song to sing

as she goes.

It is – for now - enough.