Winter Solstice 2018

December 19, yesterday watched the birth of dawn, observed the death/rebirth symbolism found in nature, wondered why and how our Ancestors embraced such simplicity as sacred. It cannot be that far off from my own sensitivity to such mundane events that most take for granted. It’s only a day away from Winter Solstice, or Jöl, as my Ancestors would call it. The time of in-betweens, tell tale signs of sleeping earth. The sun makes his way to his lowest point in the northern hemisphere, begging for clarity. Our minds cannot comprehend such cosmic rays, the vastness of our place in this vision of universe. But we try.

We try to measure and analyze and quantify all that surrounds us, even the stuff that so clearly cannot be quantified or analyzed or measured. It all gets us closer to technological evolution, physical growth and expenditure, but further away from the simplicity of Spirit. And that’s what this season is supposed to be for, to me. It’s a day for rememberance, inward reflection, speculation on our Soul’s journey in our human experiences. It’s for intuitive processing, connecting with the Source that creates all things, destroys all things. It is for prayer and spell, the closeness of family-as we’re all connected.

This is not about dogma or doctrine, it’s about tradition and timelessness. The progression of nature’s turn from Dark to Light, contraction and expansion. I celebrate to share with those I love. I celebrate my Love for the earth. Forget monetary value, as there can be no price for preciousness. Forget material goods, electronic devices, technological needs.

Strip it all away, lay yourselves bare, and revel in the glory and agony of it all…of all it means to be human and alive to witness the sun rise with the turning of the year. Contemplate the clouds and rejoice with the songbirds.

Remember who you are and those you hold dear. Remember the sunset. Remember your origins, and be fulfilled: for it’s the Winter Solstice, the ending point of previous dreams’ gestation, and the birth of a new year.

✨Happy Solstice, all💙

Advertisements

Defenses

I wonder if I manifested you out of the chill mist that creeps in during winter. Leftover remnants of a feeling of longing, so familiar, yet so long away. I feel as if I’ll wake to a clear cool morning, this version of a dream god embracing me turning out to be nothing more than my own fancy. But the sensation of this electric schism doesn’t seem to obstruct my view. How can I love an apparition? A shade I feel is just a memory or future chasm of thought.

Is this what it says? Is this the way it was written? Meant to be this abstract and magnetic polarity that has grabbed onto the atoms in my being? Or is it merely a wisp of cotton cloud gliding over the sun’s face?

Do you have a face? Eyes that demand gazing, lips that demand poetry? Are there spiders of longing building webs in your hair? Do your dreams weave with me into a realm of ice and heat and floating orbs? Are the words really present? Is it someone I know breathing twilight against my skin?

I kept the secret of how I built my defenses, how I kept everyone out. And how someone gets in.

My walls were built of blood and bone and ink. Carbon elements as hard as diamond along the perimeter, as soft as graphite in the in-between spaces. Dry, parched paper desperate for a drink of liquid language, and bits of my own neural activity made the mortar. All it would take to break through is observation on the part of the Conqueror. One has but to look at the joints and fissures and cracks to know how to get through. I have but to exist, and the one who knows would know.

Of course, the life I grew inside my body, my womb, she morphed and evolved knowing this already. She helped me build this fortress. She reached up with budding fingers and hands and clasped my soul hiding in the dark, hiding in the swirling nebula of embryonic fluid. She gave me new life, and helped me build the fortifications to keep trespassers out.

And then the dreams became lucid. I saw the unseen, communed with the Mother God of placentas, birthing lava out of the mouths of infant mountains. The dreams became my sustenance, my life force. I became this disc of rotating plasma, entering the world at will.

Still my walls held. Still my armor deflected surges of control, fear, and hated storms. But my light was dim. Weakened by self neglect and self defeat.

And then your words appeared before me, in front of my eyes, demanding I take them all in, take them in and let them build to a crescendo of heat and lightning. I want to come because I can. I want to rend the air with my wilfull voice, I want to know what this feels like from inside my physical spaces, I want to let you in. I want to move against you, a dance that knows what Love is, a dance that does not hold expectation or judgment or betrayal.

I want to trust, and feel newborn stars committing themselves to friction release inside the both of us.

Take me, because I give myself freely. I am here, opened to your poetry, opened to the point of shattering. I will be destroyed. But I want to feel it.

I want you to tear down this wall.

+LJ

Into the Wilds

I began to dream under the same raw moon as the tides that bare down on fragile flesh, the flesh of my forefathers. There’s blood in the apex of these stones, calling us to stitch the wounds of our own callousness and fleeting desires.

I wandered into the wilds, under sand pine prophets and oaken kings; I lamented on the nature of our odorous civilisations, our war machines and dogmas of oppression.

The egret and ibis heard my prayer and came to see the stranger in their midst. A creature of sorrow and sickness and greed.

But I wandered aloud, my footsteps bringing me to piles of rubble that once stood the test of time… and time is now mine under the stars of my newfound fortitude, this reckless keen edge of awareness budding to life inside my sleeping bones.

I was wary, once, of travellers of that forgotten golden realm; longing to hide in the shadows, a conscious observer of the night flights of those fighters, the fighters wringing the life out of the pockets of creation.

And I stood there watching while the memories came to dance about my head, spiders spinning webs in my hair to trickle thoughts of liberation into my brain.

I thought once of you, the way your eyes would move to judge the very fabric that weaves our flaws together. I set that memory free, and again turned to the wilds that so lovingly called me home.

I followed a deer growing thick with fetus in her belly, asked after the hymns that so wind their way around and through beast and tree, and she told me to listen.

So I listened to the gathering dusk, the crickets’ music transforming my soul, and then I was no longer afraid of growing old. So I climbed into the crook of a giant’s sheltering limbs, and I ate nothing but what I could catch in trembling hands.

I sacrificed my self into the hunt for this wealth, this need to resurrect what once was a feral heart. I stopped playing prey and found sanctuary in the blood of the earth, the blood of reptile skin and spear pointed teeth. And I became a solitary predator.

I dug into the midnight soil seeking a space to sink my roots, to wait and trap any form, any trace of food for my thoughts.

I wanted to grow wisdom. I wanted to relearn that Mother tongue of soil, muscle and memory. The language of the land’s savage composition.

I wandered the forest, aching to be found among the palmettos, a dying breed of mystic, planting seeds and craving all things that a human craves when burning that all to cinders and ash.

I buried myself in the darkness among cypress knees and Spanish moss. Letting nightcrawlers sing me to sleep. I wondered then what it would mean if I chose to stay, if I chose to let myself forget to be human for awhile.

So I tore from myself small strips of regret and tied the cloth of those sins to a dogwood tree. I cried at the wrath of the earth calling for my explanations of falling off the edge of this world, so long ago, now, it seems.

I entered the badlands of buzzing insects, leeches and steam. I let myself go back that way again and found the answer to that riddle:

 

I was never really me.

Love was an Old Brick Road

Once we carried wishes in our mouths, our bleeding hearts choked up on poetry and whiskey, the nostalgia of childhood dreams.

When romance was the ocean calling us down to the shore, we ran in rhythm to the pulse of the waves, and stripped down beyond our naked vulnerability, plunged ourselves deep into the indigo of what we thought we’d have.

When love was an old brick road, we danced in rhythm to the beat of the setting sun, kissed his feet goodnight and worshipped the moon as she rose.

Love was an old brick road, but somewhere along that path our travel plans unraveled, and I ended up walking alone.

.

.

.

+LJ

To remember

What is it to hold memories? What is it we feel when stepping silently among the graves of people who once felt what we feel, who once loved as we love?

As the light half of the year is nearly gone, I seek the spirit of truth among the trees. I seek the enlightenment, the means to remember the calling that stitches itself to the strands of my DNA.

The need for flight and otherwordly observation is budding within a body which longs for transcendence, longs for a memory of where she’s been.

Mysteries are buried in the stone, and it’s a difficult thing, ignoring the fluttering of thoughts jumbled together within a mind trying for solitude. The dead offer peace, tranquil cerulean dreams. I seek within the shades of the earth, and find myself attached to this meaning.

The meaning between Life and Death and everything woven within.