"Grief does flow."
"Eventually."
"Yes, the measure of time is done differently between the beings. The different ways we do the same things."
"It is just so."
The small private conversations that is the language of writers, and storytellers, is often the place that opens when we are not trying. I have been out in my night shirt, playing with the pieces of my life, in company with the hen and the sparrows, and their kin. We don't dress up much here in the orchard and the woods. As the roll of Destiny's dice have brought us here, we are grateful. Night shirts are day shirts, and it truly does make no never mind.
I've been tending to a pain that settled, lodged in my lower left quadrant. All the normal lights have lit themselves: red, yellow, red, yellow ... As is so often the case with me (Scorpio ... water sign not usually known for going with the flow) I create big and little dams so quickly. But, 'grief does flow.' What happens with storytellers with the genetics to gather healing stories is what is happening as I write to you (anonymous reader, dear curiosity seeker, ...) I have been out in the orchard in my night shirt and its near noon in the day. Playing with the bits and possibilities while the morning is still cool I can lose myself, and the pains, with my safety pins, straight pins and hand-stitched letters made from many times used favorite cloth.
As the time passed unclocked, the hen, the sparrows and finches, the other feathered beings who have names I don't know they come close and share in the hen's food. Robins rustle the raspberries eating the ripe berries. I think, for a split second, "Leave some for me!" and then remember, the pain in me and consider I might not need to feed on more just yet.
It is summer. It is not winter, when so many medicine stories come. Like this one, about sparrows and bears. Ariel and I (Click & scroll down to read the sweet sparrow story). When I sit to pour off a little of the mending that takes place inside my head, sometimes it helps me to jump back and remember. Remember what medicine came another time, a time not tooooo long passed. Remedy in story. I'm in need for something to eat now, upon asking, it wasn't watermelon my body wants. "How about a fresh poached hen egg?" The answer was yes. I've reread the winter tale written just this February, and the short conversation that began this post might have been something sparrows say to bears, or perhaps something a woman in her nightshirt needs.
The poaching water is boiling. That is all. Thank you.
"Eventually."
"Yes, the measure of time is done differently between the beings. The different ways we do the same things."
"It is just so."
The small private conversations that is the language of writers, and storytellers, is often the place that opens when we are not trying. I have been out in my night shirt, playing with the pieces of my life, in company with the hen and the sparrows, and their kin. We don't dress up much here in the orchard and the woods. As the roll of Destiny's dice have brought us here, we are grateful. Night shirts are day shirts, and it truly does make no never mind.
I've been tending to a pain that settled, lodged in my lower left quadrant. All the normal lights have lit themselves: red, yellow, red, yellow ... As is so often the case with me (Scorpio ... water sign not usually known for going with the flow) I create big and little dams so quickly. But, 'grief does flow.' What happens with storytellers with the genetics to gather healing stories is what is happening as I write to you (anonymous reader, dear curiosity seeker, ...) I have been out in the orchard in my night shirt and its near noon in the day. Playing with the bits and possibilities while the morning is still cool I can lose myself, and the pains, with my safety pins, straight pins and hand-stitched letters made from many times used favorite cloth.
 |
| The sparrows' song is something beautiful. |
As the time passed unclocked, the hen, the sparrows and finches, the other feathered beings who have names I don't know they come close and share in the hen's food. Robins rustle the raspberries eating the ripe berries. I think, for a split second, "Leave some for me!" and then remember, the pain in me and consider I might not need to feed on more just yet.
It is summer. It is not winter, when so many medicine stories come. Like this one, about sparrows and bears. Ariel and I (Click & scroll down to read the sweet sparrow story). When I sit to pour off a little of the mending that takes place inside my head, sometimes it helps me to jump back and remember. Remember what medicine came another time, a time not tooooo long passed. Remedy in story. I'm in need for something to eat now, upon asking, it wasn't watermelon my body wants. "How about a fresh poached hen egg?" The answer was yes. I've reread the winter tale written just this February, and the short conversation that began this post might have been something sparrows say to bears, or perhaps something a woman in her nightshirt needs.
The poaching water is boiling. That is all. Thank you.
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