I begin to stir, coming up for air. My sweet older kitty, as always, by my side, we are opening our eyes to the dark. I dare glance at the clock, 4:00. Which is not too shabby. So I stir, making my quiet new solitary way to the bathroom.
After sharing a probiotic from the frig with the barely awake dog, after popping the castor oil packs into the waiting oven, after raising the shades upon the still dark but awakening day, after imagining someone else being here, and how it would be and what that would be like, I crawl back into the still warm bed, catching sight of the big big moon, alaying upon the horizon beneath the still bare trees.
Yesterday I’d had an appointment with one of my dear friends. Who, as a matter of course, accomplished all sorts of remarkable things , supporting my organs and systems in a range of powerful specificity . That their clients understand, and come specifically for.
And that much of this country would neither understand nor believe possible.
And that much of this country would neither understand nor believe possible.
Ending with an enormous singing bowl upon my back, vibrating through my heart, ravening it’s singular power through air and neutrinos and cells and tissues and mind and heart. Helping me to somehow vibrate all tough stuff back, smooth, into place.
As I lay there, watching this lymph and that kidney, that adrenal and this circulatory aspect of that ventricle, resound and respond .
As I lay there, watching and feeling what we call healing. With, truly, the greatest gratitude and wonder .
Afterward, I brought my art supplies and settled down into their Sanctuary. A beautiful big space of vibrant forest green, thick with healthy plants and art and lights.
A big cabinet of powerful waiting singing bowls . Photographs of mine across one wall, of the woods, from years ago.
Welcoming sofas and chairs . A kitchen.
A vast range of supplements from a company I made acquaintance with 30 years ago, and used in my own practice.
And of course, my own herb company, Gwen’s Organic and Wildcrafted Herbs, which I gave to them when I got sick years ago.
Which they proliferate and provide for everyone , and add to ,with their own remarkable formulas.
And then? The apothecary, a life of its own. Which once was mine, and now is theirs.
I sat down upon a little sofa I paint at, and in came one of their clients , someone a bit older than myself, with a young teen, who scampered round the side to their own private sofa.
I took out rapidograph and cut up the thick watercolor paper into two smaller pieces, then found the compass, and, on each , made four concentric circles, as the other person sat, soaking up the peace of the space, thumb holding a place in their book.
“This is such a sun room .” I said, watching the early afternoon sun stream through the window, casting it’s warm light down upon the plants and art and pooling all about us.
She smiled, and told me she loved this time of year, when everything began slowly to turn toward spring.
My other friend emerged from their office , welcomed the quiet eager teen, and off they went to the appointment.
The woman and I got to talking, as she’d arrived while I was describing a cross country drive I’ve been thinking over.
She told me of driving from Arizona with her son, many years ago. How the pavement was so hot she had to buy new tires,
How she’d managed to buy a house two years ago, for herself and as something for her granddaughter to have .
How she worked at a university garage, and finally got to retire next October.
How her daughter was unstable and slept on every sofa and bed imaginable. The pain in her voice palpable , an offering.
Of stark humanity, sent across to me.
So I told her how glad I was that she was managing what she was.
How fortunate she got to watch her free time approach.
She had come into the office and sat down , just when I’d been referencing my ex , in a particularly humorous , painful, unbeneficial light, with my friends.
I’d laughed at finding myself uncharacteristically speaking this unkind way , in front of a poor unsuspecting stranger, and apologized to her, someone I didn’t know. I know I sounded funny, perhaps a bit unkind, honest.
And so, the two of us talked. About the all kinds of tough this life presents most of us with.
How, if you spent enough time with anyone, you would discover their own sad stark tough tough.
Which might not even be tough for you, but was terribly tough for them. Because that’s simply the way it goes.
I told her I was glad I wasn’t som
I described how I used to remind my clients that, when our lives are hard, we can be comforted by those who came before us, and those who are out there in the world today, of all species and types of living beings .
Who struggle through the mundane and the unimaginable .
Who struggle through the mundane and the unimaginable .
She smiled and said yes, she agreed.
Until the kid came out, all soothed and calmed and tonified up, happily scrabblily , like any good healthy teen, up to her grandmother, who she wishes she could call Mom, and off the two of them went, better now,
As I carefully laid out a blue and white and gold template . For two small but soon to be shimmering mandalas.
Because mandalas are so like gems to me. Having grown themselves quietly far down in the earth. In so many remarkable ways.
And then they emerge, born of the fire of a volcano , or of other ancient formative ways.
Mandalas, what I seem to need to create at this tough confusing juncture of my own life.
Mandalas. Being simply themselves , unearthed by some human hands. Brought along into existence with some human paints.
Until suddenly, there they are.
A new mandala, shimmering dancing breathing living on some wall.
A living breathing someone to have tea with and fall asleep beneath and awaken to the new day with. To hold a presence in your own days, and your own nights.
No comments:
Post a Comment