Friday, August 21, 2009


(artwork by the amazing Thalia Took.)

Blood is life's river (phrase borrowed). Blood is the remains of the primordial seas of this planet, the salinity that washed through the porous-membraned cells of those first living entities floating through those seas. Blood contains life and the memory of life. It can be given freely, taken violently, sweated out (metaphorically or in actuality).

I love this image. Right now, it has the place of honor on my desk, so that it is always visible.

But I was reminded last night, that men don't seem to have the same relationship with blood that women seem to.

Wednesday, August 12, 2009

The Seasons and their Correspondences, thus far

I've always felt that spring was both earthy and male and while I can't say I've been aware of it before, this summer has definitely been a Season of Air. Staying grounded, feet firmly planted has been nearly impossible. My thoughts and emotions had had all the staying power of Will O' Wisps. Highly annoying, and exhausting, too.
When I go outside in the evenings, fireflies dance before me. Birds have become my near constant companions. There are times when it feels as if I've entered an Alfred Hitchcock movie and sometimes I feel more like Cinderella, just waiting for the birds and other wild animals to come and do my household chores for me. These pictures were all taken while sitting here at my desk. The sparrows perch on the window screens and chirp and look at me before flying back to the lilac bushes, but the cardinals do not like to get so close and stay in the lilacs and rose bushes.
In some ways, I wonder if this airyness, this non-groundedness is part of the longer term grieving for my Grandmother. Her house is now sold, there is no place to go back to. I had thought that there might be relief (and there was some), that with my Grandmother gone, I would no longer be the "Oldest Daughter of Saint Irene, the Perfect One." Some years ago, after I had pointed out what a difficult role that was, my Grandmother no longer referred to my mother with those words, at least in my presence, but they were implied right to my Grandmothers last breath. (well, she never used the word "Saint" but she did use the word "perfect" frequently).
All those among the living who remember my mother, remember her in more round and more human ways, so this burden should have been lifted. But with the death of the person who saw me as the "Oldest Daughter of Saint Irene, the Perfect One" I also lost the person who saw me as a reflection of that perfection. A pale and imperfect reflection, of course, but a reflection, none the less.
Those of you who know me from more than one place may have noticed that there are no pictures of me anywhere. With the exception of those "can't get out of it" pictures, there are almost no photographs of me anywhere at all. Historically, this has never bothered me. All pictures ever did would be to show me what I was not. I was not blond and blue eyed (as was my mother), tall (well, taller), stunning and confident. Not having a visual record was easier. But now, in the middle of the night, when normal people are tossing and turning and not sleeping for worry about bills and the economy and politics, I lay in bed and wonder "Do I actually exist?"
So what might the messages from the birds be?

Sparrow: It reflects self-worth. If Sparrow has entered your life, ask
yourself if you know your own self-worth. It was considered the
symbol of friendly household spirits, and a pet to

Cardinal: is a reminder to add “color” to our life
and to remember that everything you do is important. Cardinals stress
recognizing your own importance. The very color of the bird is that
of life's blood. (more or less)

The learning never ends.

Not so much hmmm as urrrggg!

When trying to learn a new anything, one of the best things to do is practice, practice, practice. I am trying to learn a new (to me) method of divination and am scrambling to come up questions. (I am a big "I'll take life as it comes along kind of person" I couldn't even come up with a question for the palm reader I visited, when I was last in New Orleans.)

I have been frustrated lately about my blogging. It isn't that I don't have things to say, it just seems that I rarely have time to concentrate on crafting my thoughts into well thought out (or at least coherently thought out) statements, sentences, paragraphs. Rather than being a relaxing summer, it has been hectic, with my time both busy and fragmented by the demands of my life. Often, it feels as if, by the time I've hashed out my thoughts, and put them in order, the time for the subject has passed, the conversation has moved on, and any contribution I might have made has been made, and credited to others.

I came up with a series of questions with which to practice my divinations, using one question per day:
What would be the result of my setting aside a specific hour each day to write?
What would be the result of my setting aside a specific time, duration of less than an hour to write?
What would be the result of my setting aside a specific time, duration of more than an hour to write?

The results for each one of these questions were unmitigatedly bleak. For a couple of days, I stayed off the subject when doing my divinations, and the results of those questions were not so dark, nor consistent.

I tried a different tack. "What would be the result of my giving up any attempt to write?" Again, according to the reading, giving up any attempt to write would be, at best, foolish, and at worst, a really really bad idea.

"What would be the result of my continuing to attempt to write?" Middling positive to positive.

Is this to be a lesson in dealing with frustration? Don't give up on something, but do not give it any time, either? Or perhaps there is something else going on, that I haven't quite caught yet?