Lions, and tigers, and bears! Oh my!

I stopped writing for a bit. These last few months were tough for me in so very many ways. When I did start back in it was more catharsis than craft. Only now do I feel like I'm finding my voice once more. It's a great blessing we have here, this universe, this cycle. The key is to dance it gracefully with joy, charity, love and hope. Most importantly though is to share it, this wonderful life. Nothing is greater than the ability to discover and understand and finally love other people. I'm blessed in this way as I have found, within my yoga community, two beautiful women, in spirit and poise who have become beacons of light in my life. And I, in turn, find I mean a lot to them. The time we spend together is pure magic in terms of coming to understand each others' fears and hopes and who we are as we continue to grow. I am learning from them how to laugh and dance again. They are carving the word Namasté on my soul with a gleeful abandon. I do love them dearly.

When you're walking in the dark wood and the noises surrounding you are unfamiliar and somewhat threatening just remember - reach out to the left and right, grasp your friends' hands firmly and take a little hop. Then a skip, and let out a small whisper - "Lions, and tigers, and bears. Oh my". Work it up into a full blown dance number, singing at the top of your lungs and before you know it, you and your friends are out of the woods, together.

Aeturnum

Of no needs have I, he said,
nor wants, desires, envy.
I'll take my company with the dead
and whither God may send me.

So late the thoughts of you have stayed
to feed my tired dreams.
At night I cry before I pray
to gods I've never seen.

This is a hard time of year for me. Long ago, in another place, I watched someone, whom I loved deeply and fought with voraciously, destroy themselves. Their inner anguish broke through and the years of hidden self loathing had become a bath of despair. Substance abuse was the requisite escape until finally it became, not an alleviation for the pain, but an answer to the problem.

I had done what I could to get her through another tough holiday season. The holidays, with expectations, memories and hauntings were always a dark domain. I left, thinking that we'd made it yet again, perhaps a new year entailed a new hope. When you're drowning, you don't stop to consider what it is that you've grasped with all your might. All you can do is will it to hold you up, to support you, and pray.

The body was in a coma for a week until I made the decision to end its journey; the soul had left long before that, of this I'm sure. I didn't cry then, I couldn't. I could just move and keep moving. I guess I still am.

Is There Balm In Gilead?

There are many kinds of wounds, they scar in different ways. Those of the soul, the psyche, have their own agenda and may last for hours, weeks or even years. The most deadly, most dangerous, are those that we inflict upon ourselves. They have no natural healing rites. In fact we may, in turn, reopen them again and again. There is but one salve for this, that of which artists have discovered to be an elemental truth. Within the congress of creativity lies a purification ritual, cleansing the laceration and sublimating the distress. These acts, endeavors, products of our hope and imagination are the concourse of amelioration.