And so I begin, this new day on a gray screened morning, the pear under a veil of mist and the crows appearing out of what could be nowhere, yet, I know is somewhere because I am here. I rose from dreams of a dying patriarch, over and over again, dragging a ruined part of his leg, hairy and bloody, back to his dying body, so he could say his final words, whole.
I had that dream, seeing that scene, repeatedly last night. I kept convincing myself to sleep. Graham crackers in a bowl of Brazil nut milk at 11 and not arguing with my son, even though I could have. Imagining my totem animals snugged closer to me as I burrow in my blankets, wondering how I will begin today. What could this white page possibly reveal, like that crow, appearing out of nothing, or that broken necked patriarch, an ancient virile looking man on the ground arriving in my dreams. What am I seeing when I look at that? Why is the bloody sheath of a leg all blown apart necessary? What do dreams teach us anyway?
It is the day before Christmas Eve; at least I hope it is because I am in no way ready for the holiday. The tree is in the house and we all love having it here, though no one has made moves to decorate it. Our Solstice party was beautiful, the spiral I laid in the backyard revealed itself in the grass next to the oak, not in the usual spot but shifted slightly.
Just like my whole entire life feels shifted slightly today.
My new website, a revelation of my work, a synthesis of literary and visual expression, all so beautifully arranged here for you. I am in awe of it myself, even though, like that grim dream, I know it is mine. If I am to acquire wholeness, don’t I want to put all parts of myself back, to hold all that is important, close?
I cannot go back to the old way of being me with only parts of myself attached to my center. This newer, more open and exposed self is a bold invitation to cohere all the parts of me. All the words and the memories and the painted pages and the classes and work I have done, the costumes and gardens, the buttonholes and diapers that have come before now, are all part of me. And, by weaving it to wholeness here for you online, I reflect the same wholeness in real time. And apparently, in my dreams.
The criminal gifts of this dark season, the light at the back of the dark beast of winter, are reflection and revelation, of inquiry and letting go. The night before last, I dreamt clouds of snowy owls over my head, some in undulating roiling billows. I could see their speckled bellies right over my head and others in rows flying singly. This carnage of light tearing open my dark dreams speaks to my fears of being so expressed in this world that favors nicer, saner, “I am fine and these dreams mean nothing at all” people.
It is nearly Christmas. Truly. It is nearly the celebration of a birth that happened in a darker time. The arrival of light in the shape of a baby boy and a lineage of stories that cultures have been built around that event. It is a chance for us to consider our dreams as mythic hints of our becoming. I emerge in to the world today with a deeper fuller story to tell. I emerge from the mist of gray velvet morning, cawing like the crow in the oak.
Assembling words as a prayer for rising.
Welcome to my new website.
All my love,