Day 366: The Beginning . . .
Today is a year and a day.
Ceridwen’s brew has leapt from the cauldron and visited its healing inspiration on an entirely “accidental” person.
But there are no accidents, as we know.
There is mystery and magic.
There is love.
And there is hope.
I slip off quietly into the night, listening.
For nothing and everything in particular.
I am a woman blessed.
Day 365: Caravan of Love
Love is the first and last word, and I am deeply grateful.
Love is the caravan of all caravans, each of us traveling its dusty climbs and surrendering falls.
I will continue both as Love’s student and Love’s teacher: I pray to set a fine example.
I listen now for the exotic rhythm of a more mature love, the one that sees.
I open to the exquisite possibility of being loved by being known, fully for myself, gifts, flaws, and all.
Such a journey, of course, begins and ends with me.
May Love continue to lighten my step.
May Love rush up from behind and surprise me with delight.
May Love reveal not only its strength, but its tenderness.
I follow, I follow, I follow.
Day 364: Caravan of the Novel
The magpies are descending. Bringing their bits and baubles, torn pieces of maps and ribbons from fairy queens.
They visit daily, their loot mounting and glinting into the sunlight, under the moon fall.
The moment will arrive when I will put on my best dress and kneel, sifting through the exotic notions, each one whispering its particular story to me.
The pen will appear and the pages will turn.
And I will open to the wonders of truth-telling in fiction, for it is far more reliable.
I follow, I follow, I follow.
Day 363: Caravan of the Gypsy Shoppe
It’s an itch I’ve yet to scratch.
But I will.
No sooner had I launched this column than the fascination of experiencing all things gypsy began to beckon.
Yes, it will be a retail store, but this is not my purpose. My intention is to create wild, sacred space. A magical moment hovering just outside an ordinary day.
Step into Gypsy and you will be greeted with a sensual rush: mulling spices, soft, twinkling lights, the grand, romantic music of the 40s, and a tactile feast, silk to stone.
Gypsy is an attitude. A way of courting imagination, a sense of fun, and daring possibility. It will welcome husbands in need of a new idea, nourish lost souls on their way back to center, and particularly, celebrate women and girls. Females do a lot of great things naturally. We nest and nurture, we inspire and allure. We believe in forces unseen, and we command our appropriate stage. It’s time to open an emporium that supports our efforts.
Think less Pottery Barn perfection and more “disappearing down the rabbit’s hole.” Think the gracious and abundant turn of the seasons. Think of a worn treasure chest and the rusty key to open it.
Yes, this flies in the face of conventional business wisdom. I will need help along the way. But when have I ever let the safe route be the final word? No sense starting now.
I gotta do this. I hope to see you there.
I follow, I follow, I follow.
Day 362: Caravan of Motherhood
This journey continues, and I rejoice.
To be a mother is to have been filled with the light of the gods.
To cup in my hands the wonder of depth and height, tracing its shape with my thumbs, watching it blink up at me.
To mother is to not even pull the next breath, lest it rise and fall alongside my child.
And it is to let go.
Each day.
Again and again.
It is to turn ships of intention toward new seas.
It is to set the braver, kinder example.
It is to look at oneself unflinchingly, because it matters, and because a legacy can also be defined as the gift of a child’s own dilemmas.
I listen for the giggle and shriek of this path, adding my own music of delight.
I see the bare feet run.
I smell the sweet breath.
I taste the salty vigor of motion, up, about, and faster.
I feel the tiny hand in mine.
I follow, I follow, I follow.
Day 361: Caravan of the Divine Feminine
She must come first, for we belong to each other. She is awakening in us all.
Her language wholly compelling, I follow her mystery, working out the runes of paradox as I travel.
She is everything I have ever really known, and everything I can’t wait to discover.
She is bone and star shard, velvet and steel.
She is the best in me. The fierce little light in my daughter’s eyes. The creativity that is my tomorrow swirling and welling and brimming to full.
She is the silver bangle and the lover’s moan.
She is tender mother and wise, silent crone.
She is the maiden I catch in the mirror as I remember to laugh.
She is what is right and proud in this world.
She is healing itself.
She is returning.
I follow, I follow, I follow.
Day 360
As Gypsy nears her close, it is important to remember why I began writing these daily entries four seasons ago. Yes, I wanted to challenge myself in a creative discipline. But I also suspected that writing had something to teach me, and I needed to fully open to this possibility.
Indeed, the lessons came as I sought to capture elusive ideas with an extraordinary word or phrase only to watch them grow wings and take to the air again, un-pin-down-able. (It should be a word.) I’ve stretched and exposed myself, ironically discovering calm in my nakedness. And I’ve gathered–and regathered–the pieces of my story I mistakenly thought were mended.
So, I’ve been humbled. I’ve learned the wisdom of paradox, the steely truth that holding the space between two apparently irreconcilable extremes is the only way to court a true miracle. Just as the page insisted each day that I return and fashion something useful, so my nomadic year has demanded I keep reaching, keep hoping, keep loving. Thus, I’ve proved to myself the only way forward is to not shut down. Basically I’ve found writing to be just like living: messy, unpredictable, and increasingly essential.
Essential in that I want my life–and art–to be real. Me. Of my essence. If I have discovered anything worth trusting this year, it is the divine translating itself through the unique expression of me. Not of me, but through me, so to speak. And I’m done spoiling that, getting in its way, or lessening its impact. I’m here to share my soul, as many wise writers have stated, without apology.
So, as Gypsy gathers her things and prepares to strike camp, I offer the caravans that continue to call. In the days ahead, I plan to follow a few cherished muses, allowing the sweet, fierce song that is my song to sing itself along.
Gypsy will find her way.
Day 359
I’m learning.
When my husband proved less than helpful anchoring a shelf above the kitchen sink of our town apartment, I stopped myself.
I didn’t tell him everything that came to mind. (Like, “It’s the bloody least you can do!”) Instead, I simply told him I deserved kindness. More importantly, I believed this to be true. I then turned and walked out the door, driving thirty miles to buy more dishes for the as-yet, nonexistent shelf.
It was an act of faith and self-care.
I continued on in having a good day, and as I turned the Jeep back toward home, my phone rang. My husband wondered if the door to the studio flat was still unlocked as he needed to stop by–again.
Which he did.
With $49.30 of appropriate screws, a studsensor, and a board of solid pine. The shelf looks rather smart.
Day 358
On this autumn in-between day.
In silence.
Last drops of ginger and olive leaf and rose-water.
I breathe in reception, now my secret scent, and marvel
The poets were right . . .
Day 357
I discard this dusty traveling cloak.
Ravaged by the miles of recent terrain, the leather worn through,
I lift its weight off my shoulders one last time.
It has proved a faithful protection.
But I need it no more.
In loving gesture, I fold and crease it between the standing rocks.
The rocks through which the sunrise channeled this morning.
So alive.
Stirring me from sleep.
Calling me up and forward to greet what now is.
It’s just the way of it, is it not?
The moment longed for the whole of one’s life just sort of sneaks up and winks.
As if there all the while.
In humility, I return my cloak to the elements.
And stand tall, without cover of any kind.
