The Art of Love.

Beyond Chaos

Waking

Happy emerging blue skies to you and farewell grim winter drear.  Change can be gradual.  I am apt to forget the fact. Incremental happiness happens, like daffodils in spring unfold.  My frontal lobe, a dream machine.  Intuition and reason, mother and father of realistic optimism.  I will squirrel away, fox the odds, frog march my path and crow my exhultant joy.  I will be owl speech simple and monkey evil blind. A wolf howls,  I stop to listen and hear the lowing of a cow which reminds me of the children in the other world, who live in light, growing and golden. They observe without judgement. I feel my spine straighten as I raise myself in defiance of the dark companion behind me, to the left, west, if I'm facing north, which I am.  To my right I feel the cooler temperature of the unknown as a wounded magic floats free, like a balloon on a summers morning, bobbing towards the blue beyond. My child heart knocking on the door of my ever hopeful mind, opening to where all the hours and days of my dreaming  now welcome me into a place that is the shape of me. I cast a glance over my shoulder and see that there is nowhere I should not have been. When I face forward, I see the black crow playing saxophone. I stop to feel the music in my hips, a swaying, serpentine undulation entwines my spine. I make space for the dancing flowers that emerge full grown from the fertile earth. A goat, ruminating by a gate post, considers the delicacy of a dog rose bouquet. In the moment that follows I find myself there, with his hooves on my breast, marveling at how gently he has made me his, leaning on me, neck stretched over my shouder to nibble the lofty wild roses. I wonder what colours coalesce to make the sky uniquely today its own. Beside me, in the undergrowth variagated, the ivy veined a shade of fruity red for which I have no name.  An amber hue leaps out from the distant mountains, a brief encounter, like the scent of honeysuckle on a summer evening, fleetfoot flickering sprites of nature.

Loose Living

I wear loose cotton dresses, resistance to synthetic array. The trees don't mind, I don't mind. Then I find myself where walls and mirrors say "Hey,  nobody going nowhere, there's dirt under your nails."  I continue weeding. I wear loose labels, resistance to stickers and stamps. "Artist" I say to those who ask. It's the biggest box I could find.  To herself in the attic I say "shut up, fuck off, let me be." I wear the weave of my dreams loosely. I won't be saving the world nor manifesting  brilliant schemes. I am just being. I wrap myself in snug attention, a rich tapestry of trial and triumph, with strong threads of intuition, imagining a path towards soul unleashing life affirming light for whoever may need, especially Me.

Shell Shock

Impact

Words like boulders dead on the ground,  ponderous shelters for creature crawlies that shun the light of day.  If I break them down perhaps I will find a crystalised truth at the centre of my life. Standing outside myself flogging heavy horses, who refuse to pull the plough,  they languish there, as the drone of flies fills the wasteland that is my field of dreams.  Walking the circulumbering path again, nothing new to report.  The seaweed waits, cold and slippery, a promise of plenty to slugs and crows. The hyacynth made a good attempt to herald hope, but wilted before its scent could induce migraine.  Interrupted life. Now there is a pebble in my shoe, it fits right in the fold between my big toe and the ball of my foot. I have learned to walk this way. Occasionaly, I take it out to have a look. I remember a child who lived outside the eggshell wondering what was going on inside.  Ignoring intuitive warnings as she breached the seal and peered in. So many chickens that never hatch.  Stillborn.

Mortal

I am not the me you met yesterday. This time I did not beat the odds. The righteous hand that takes, I had known was aimed at me.  It was only a matter of time before it descended from the sky to knock me down. 

Now I can be counted among the billions, no longer the omnipotent being of my own mythology. I am mortal, a little less safe, a lot more heart in my head.

Timidly planning for tomorrows uncertain unknown.  Never knowing what axe may drop between this moment and the next, or what boulder may fall from the sky to crush all that is familiar, changing the landscape forever so that I must tread a new path.

Yet, things move as they should, with dinner on time, dishes washed and leaf mould gathered for the garden that is my anchor to the present.