In the morning when I slip out of bed I am not thinking alchemy, only quiet now make no sound.
I am tired, the kind of tired that makes me angry, and hormonal, the kind that keeps me up. I am practiced in compassion for this but running low on time to practice my basics, so I’m a little cranky when I open into a quiet house, rain dripping just outside that is more early winter than fall. Illumine rain low lighting, the growing starkness of the forest, makes my nighttime dreams come back to life. I think of wooly bears, they misled us but didn’t last year, this is my Great Grandparents Black from the lower shore, saying the little caterpillars called the weather. In my years on the upper and mid shore Wooly spoke true. Last year the only deep sustained freeze wooly spoke true came in my heart, which was not so much a misspeak on WB’s part of course she was private message delivery just for me. Sighh. I think of the precious little wooly bear who wouldn’t move from his wee puff ball circle. Much a baby, and the sweetest sierra brown. On camping for WNY Grasshoppers showed up this year too, brown, small. Quick. Then a cammy one outside the RV door. It was a camouflage like I’d never seen, all tan and grey. Then one dead, and later in the sun a perfectly green and secret among the grasses one on our walk to the Turtle Pond.
I come quiet to the quiet day and its sounds, the winds leftover from Nor’easter who brought ice pick come quick waves. I think how easy it was to quiet the ocean in my heart. Knowing her water will come back to me/just like waves. How little time I was on AI this year, or even in OC. The couple few precious days sitting in the tent rocking or feeding my baby feeling the sea breeze. Poetry comes sacred to my space, my office takes shape on its own, the magic there leads us into a devotional practice for the Final Harvest moon. I call my Ancestors in, the only official Time this season bc in general I speak their names most days. I keep the candle burning through our sacred circle on Perseverance and too on the Ancestor part of drawing down the moon. My child makes her little chicken clucky noise from the other room on the bed when I write this down. I am reminded it is a time to give thanks.
And so the Dissolution. Liquification of my Life takes on itself, I walk quietly and more quietly seeking grace. I have never been so brand new to myself, I have never been so full-bodied my self in my moments of small return. Open up my practice more and more, am delighted watching the Free School come to life on our own homestead. Pictures, memories, groups and Places, whole constellations of soul fams self sustained in an archive in my heartmind. It is Final Harvest, Samhain again, Mo’s birthday arrives, it has been 10 years since we lived in Northern California under the giant spirit redwoods on the hill, 10 years since Newport than Santa Cruz.
Camping with Mandy and Katie and the weekend before that, our first whole family trip me him & all four kids. Brie creates a sacred space and the questions she speaks fills my prayers. The questions I need. Life is wild this Massive Trip. Here are pics of my Ancestor alter & the last 10 days of my Life. A Samhain Sacred Harvest, indeed. Ready ? to cast seeds