#TheGetMyWirkOutThereChallenge #DaySeventeen #wind #plantlife #artineverydaylife #extraordinaryordinary
I love the color fuscia.
In my early twenties I wore either fuscia or bright read lipstick. Loved the color pop.
These cut flowers blew my mind. They were in a simple vase on a restaurant table in Indianapolis.
#TheGetMyWorkOutThereChallenge #fuscia #flowers #daynine #phonephotos
When did I stop listening to – stop knowing –
The Truth that nature alone can claim
The wind is my sister
She reminds me who I am
The patterns in the ice are writ
With the wisdom of the waters
All I need to know, in the veins of a leaf
The trees are my elders
They council my concerns
Through birdsong, I am urged to sing
Especially after a storm
The stars are the map of a million once-human dreams
Mother Earth doubles my heart beat
And to her, my body will return one day
To become one with the land
My spirit to roam free once again
With my sister, through the leaves of the trees
And the flowing waters of the streams
In the running cheetah’s strong shoulders
And the caterpillar paths ‘cross the garden green
Through roots running deep into the ground
To become a butterfly, alight on a delicate petal
To swim with the sea turtles among the corral in the seas
I am a part of it all and all is a part of me
When did I forget this heritage, this lineage, this communion
I breathe in all that has ever lived
And my breathe will be breathed by all who come after
May I remain awoken for evermore
May I never forget again
I share my posts here.
There was an incredible full moon the other night. It stopped me in my tracks, in the way the moon often does. I reflected on why the moon holds such significance for me.
The moon holds my secrets
Bears witness to my tears
Bathes me in her magic glow
With the knowing of the years
The moon holds my secrets
I turn my face into her light
She whispers words of comfort
Through the darkness of the night
Does the moon speak to you?
I share my posts on Alan’s site:
And then, just like that,
The sky cracked open
And joy spilled out
As I wrote the other day, I am currently in a five week-long physical theatre intensive, including clown and commedia.
One week in, and I am joyfully astonished (and exhausted.) My face and sides ache from laughing. My mind has been blown repeatedly by the beauty of the other souls that daily become more and more alive as the class progresses. My heart has expanded and feels raw and tender and open in new ways. Many tears have fallen, from joy and wonder, from deep wells of sadness that come as old rusty parts of my soul are freed from their societal binds.
You see, clown is about exploring the four year-old inside. The little one you were before socialization caused you to “grow up” and be serious.
Before the body forgets to play and becomes blocked by The Block of Cool (as in, gotta be cool, man — gotta suppress this or that to be one of the cool kids.) The Block of Nice (Gotta be a good girl/boy if you want anyone to like you.) The Block of Polite (Gotta be polite to fit in and be a part of society.) The Block of Being Appropriate (Gotta do what everyone else is doing no matter what or you’ll stand out and the bullies will see you or you will be humiliated.)
So as we’ve been playing this week, we’ve been getting up underneath our adult skin suits and back into the wonder, the joy, the big, messy fun of acting with enthusiasm, leading with our hope, and the desire to have fun and make others laugh with us, at us.
It is an honor – a gift – to see someone’s unadulterated humanness. To really see who each person is underneath all the tricks we’ve learned to protect ourselves.
I am blown away by the exquisite beauty and brilliance of each person in the class.
Down the street, one of the buildings has some flowers blooming on part of it’s front wall. There’s a beautiful cascade of what looks like lilac that I was drawn to the first day during lunch break. What I did not notice then is that alongside the lilac are morning glories. (They were not blooming that first day.)
But the second day of class, I walked by the storefront again, and there they were, in all their, well, glory!
I was floored and just stopped and stared in wonder.
Then the next day, they were gone! (Upon closer inspection, they were there, but had withdrawn back into their tightly wrapped buds.)
The next day, half were out again, the others were in different states of the bloom process.
The flowers’ journey seems to mirror our class. We are all at our own different states of “bloom” in our work of rediscovering our unsocialized selves. We all have started the class in different places, and we will end in different places. But along the way, we are all blooming at different times. And sometimes, we are each beginning to show ourselves out in full bloom. It is astonishing to witness.
I cannot wait to see what will bloom next week.
She walks daily amongst the elders of the forest
She is called to tend their wounds
She is one of them, but human, too
She listens, she sees, she hears
And reports back what she knows
But no one really listens to her
No one really believes the truths she shares
She sheds tears for the mighty and the fallen
For the ignorance that will be the end of us all
And dreams of a someday world where trees once again rule
Where we humans believe in their worth
I am the wind’s whisper of the night
I am the morning-song and her echo
You live off my bounty
I gave birth to your parents
And today, I am dying for you
It astonishes me –
this embrace with poison
The death dance she and I are in
I will die saving you
But you can’t live without me
Will you hear my silent cries
And remember me in time
Or will we destroy ourselves
And leave our decayed remains
To birth a new Mother
And will she create a new race
Or are we the last attempt
Recently, a wise woman I know was talking about the earth: how we are the earth and yet are poisoning it. About how confusing and heartbreaking that is.
I cannot stop reflecting on that. This poem reminds me of my own connection to Mother Earth, one that I have come to cherish, but being an urban dweller, I can often “forget.”
I needed this poem today. (Some days are rougher than others.) Maybe you do too.
“And the Great Mother said:
Come my child and give me all that you are.
I am not afraid of your strength and darkness, of your fear and pain.
Give me your tears. They will be my rushing rivers and roaring oceans.
Give me your rage. It will erupt into my molten volcanoes and rolling thunder.
Give me your tired spirit. I will lay it to rest in my soft meadows.
Give me your hopes and dreams. I will plant a field of sunflowers and arch rainbows in the sky.
You are not too much for me. My arms and heart welcome your true fullness.
There is room in my world for all of you, all that you are.
I will cradle you in the boughs of my ancient redwoods and the valleys of my gentle rolling hills.
My soft winds will sing you lullabies and soothe your burdened heart.
Release your deep pain.
You are not alone and you have never been alone.”
~Linda Reuther, Homecoming
Lay me down on a bed of pine needles
Remove my clothing, piece by piece
Place twigs and moss in my hair
And put daisies on my eyes
Evoke the spirits of the trees
Invite my ancestors to be in attendance
Sing from a place within you that has no name
Leave me knowing I am free now
Let my body return to the earth
Mingle with the leaves and the forest life
Know me, leaving, that I am everywhere