Every woman is all woman.
And for every action, word and intention towards one affects all.
What if every word we said could be heard by all?
Every compliment and criticism was to all?
To empower, support and inspire one person is a life well done.
That starts with oneself.
Gentleness and compassion and forgiveness. These are our rights with being alive.
Gifts of listening.
Be permeable and others will join.
Solid as stone but ungraspable as water.
We share the same ephemeral air of which births Clouds.
Clouds as dream like symbols.
This is why I Love the Mountains. So I can breath the Clouds of the Sky and Rainbows.
Origin stories from the woman who rode the back of a turtle on a completely oceanic planet and created land.
Origin of the stork delivering babies.
Of Adam and Eve in the garden of eden.
Only stories can come close to answering the question.
But the pointing finger is not that which it is pointing to.
Children know the right question.
“Why?” and then they ask “why” until “why?” can no longer be answered.
When I ask why as to the essence of all things, I arrive at Love.
Love is the answer. Love is essence. Love is source. Love is the center of the onion layers of consciousness. Seen how an untouched baby will die.
Seen as the plum tree gives fruit.
Felt when watching the rising sun.
Sensed as we wonder how the unity of two cells sets forth a chain reaction to create new life.
The family tree with all the stories seems infinite.
But from the perspective of the moon , Earth is preciously contained.
What is the birthday for a seedling?
Is it when the warming temperatures and spring rains collide to coax a hard seed to venture forth with its little white tongue?
Is it when the first green parts push through the soil?
How about for the mushroom?
Is its birthday when the spore first sets our mycelium?
Or when mycelium create primordia nodules?
Or when the fruiting body first sees the light of day?
Or when the cap opens leaving a veil remnant?
Is a caterpillar born once it becomes a butterfly?
Can we be reborn?
Maybe light at the end of a dark tunnel is the process of being born.
Maybe what lies beyond blackholes is the birth of a new universe.
Of waking, tea and tying shoes.
Of driving to another and knowing landmarks.
Of journaling at night.
Of writing dreams.
Of walking step by step.
Of decocting elderberries.
Of fermenting cabbage.
Of welding steel and sanding wood.
Of dancing and drumming.
Of lighting sage.
Of drawing circles and spinning circles.
Of sitting near a stream.
Of lighting a candle.
Of opening a window.
Of holding a butterfly.
Of painting a color.
Of holding a baby.
Of watching the moon.
Of celebrating solstice and equinox.
Of marking importance.
Of deep work.
Of reconnection with old friends.
Of present communication.
Of breath and rhythm.
Ritual is not like other time.
Ritual to solidify memory and embodiment and knowing.
Of being here now.
I awake not to singing birds but to the rumbling and clunking iron tracks of bulldozers and rock crushers. With a combination of anger, sadness and loss, I run with moccasined feet toward the machines of “progress”.
What was once open land and home to coyotes, rabbits, birds, butterflies and ancient wild flowers.
Is in dust.
I come back to the now desolate landscape soon to be paved, lawned and streetlighted in the evening to hear the the sorrowful song of mother birds missing their home and children. Trauma to the land never to be the same. Migrating birds must pass this former respit as they have with other fallen land.
One by one the vacant fields go. Most people pass by.
But the children who live nearby, the field is their place of wildness, of not structure. Where they can find themselves.
The greatest national parks are important. But the vacant fields next door are equally so.
Sometimes I admire the street person with few belongings and no job. They have time to observe and think. They are unbeholden. Perhaps they are as the wild animals. Fighting for survival but free.
Then there is the pull of the aescetic monk living in the proverbial cave, his work is mastering himself.
Oh the stories, inventions, books, songs, poems that were never expressed and die with the physical body in the grave.
Let me have the focus, clarity and time to express what is inside. Give me space to explore the inside. Staring at a wall or closing my eyes is the deep work which often goes unrewarded.
The greatest things take time. Music takes time. Dance takes time. Writing takes time. Thought takes time. Adventure is time. Nature takes time.
And so how shall I spend my seconds which leads to years and spell the life story?
Lock the door and close the windows. I will emerge when I do.
In running, a rock can cause a fall.
In walking, a rock becomes a stumble.
In stillness, you become a rock.
Silence and solitude calls me like a long lost lover.
To be engrossed and entwined with one thing of focus where the greatest expressions are found.
Find me off the trail on the other side of civilization watching as the birds do.
Mindless bustle that they claim as productivity.
The real work is done as we sleep. As we walk. As we play. As we ponder.
Freedom to flow as the winds and waters.