A she bear that was missing seasons and transitions for too long is coming out of a long sleep. Ready to say goodbye to betrayal and accept the mourning that took as long as it took. It is a time to create and inhabit environments of liveliness.
My preference is for no more poison arrows, nor tomato jesters that spread unkindness. I would not throw tomatoes at anyone. I am the sentinel of my own grasses, and wildflowers. Safe to blossom, with breath as a shield from torments of mind and terrible words that have been spoken.
Gorgeous sunbeams. I wish to ride along a bright ray that spills me into the ocean blue where there is the freedom of waves and tides, and pools of indigo. This place where hurts can be washed and tears are no different than the salty sea. Lungs will turn to gills and limbs can become like dancing seaweed receiving all that is needed.
Did the verses of old auto-correct while hibernating? When asked the question of how I feel about the body that I reside within, there was an old script. And there was also a new one. Which to choose? The one that condemns or the one that is strange and accepting? In a somewhat elementary reply, I like me was an answer. I heard the words coming out with acceptance of beauty. Hallelujah for the knowing that the manifestation of skin and bones and spirit is none other than all of the elements of Nature. No more, and no less.
A season where sunshine comes earlier and there is solace in the weed pulling I train upon rising to come back from distraction. I orient to the birds and the cushion and the sweet grass gifted from a rainbow bright. A time of movement inspired by my own tissues and bones and gratitudes.
I want to be like the woman who knows how to hold ceremony and wear all of the right adornments that protect her, and tells the world she is in love with it. Her- can that be me? Right in the way perfection resides in being exactly who we are, who we want to be. There are horses to tame, demons to joust, and I pray some pixie folk. I wish to decorate the cave that will contain my big falsities and free me when I am quiet of anything but wings of kindness, and a thorax that is no longer so vulnerable.
I have been here before. I have returned again and again. What comes is a little less fear. Perhaps a time to borrow from the treasure chest of swords, battle axes, and daggers under the bed in the boys’ room.
Spring blooms. Opportunity through concoctions of fanciful in the form of everything and nothing. The one who is learning not to leave anything made of truth out of her heart even when it comes with pain is flourishing. I am a seed. Again.