It is spring in my heart.
The Maples have budded and
Crocus has pushed through snow.

I have nothing to do but wait and receive the warm days coming.

A moment ago I was a winter storm
all my fields wind swept
trees all sleeping
waiting in silence for the earth to turn her face
to the sun.

In the
in between
is the magic.

And that is where we are

It is near impossible to believe in warmth
When January winds blow across dead white landscapes.

The memory of that long chill makes this the sweetest joy.

changing woman

I am changing woman. She who stirs the pot to initiate unpredictable revolutions and She who bends and flexes and twists to grow strong with the changes washing over her.

I am experiencing such revolution as to keep near the limit of my ability to cope and such are the shifts that I have begun to cease mourning the old life that has washed away and has been drowned by rising sea levels.
I still mourn, but for other things. For things I have been afraid to mourn, been afraid to acknowledge existence of.

Love wells inside me, it pours out with no specific object. Sorrow does the same. Very soon, I attach the sense of love or sorrow onto something or someone, sorrow grasps much faster. Often it is later that I realize that sorrow is leaking out and that it is not from a direct cause.

It is now that I long for a teacher to hold a net for me. I long for a wiser soul to guide me. It is security I want. To know that I am not going insane, that it is a normal process.
But security there may not be.
Maybe I will be separated from my tribe always for the very reason of the sort of tribe they are. Maybe finding an equal is not possible, perhaps a fantasy based on wrong perception.

Lack of material resources traps me, but perhaps also holds me back into a safe zone for a time and a purpose. To trust in life, to actually allow that I am part of the larger web and that my sense of individual need is meaningless.....this does not seem to come with security.

Often I have been given security, and often I have put it aside in exchange for the wild. Patterns tell the true story of who I am.

I am changing woman. My bark peels off, my soil washes away with the river, I erupt from the depths of the sea, my fruit will become rot will become fertilizer will become seedling will become tree.

I feel so grateful for all those whose strands link mine in the web. Forgive me if I try to hold tight to you. It is because you are my source and my connection to the whole and I do not yet trust so fully as I do not yet understand fully.