Wintering

allowing the animal body to be: fragments of writing and feeling between mothering and surviving. a non linear account of the omen days, the days after, a back and forth current of being.

My body recoils, down deep, roots stretching into the couch, the bed, the in-between time, like a seed tucked into the soil beneath many feet of snow, like outside my window, under the willow trees, covering the garden beds, between deer and fox and rabbit story.

Set your intentions, what do you want, how will your life be? Questions and questions, demands a plenty, gnawing at my ankles like a starving beast. There is tinsel and wrapping, warm food in bellies, beeswax candles burning.

In the twelve days, the omen days, I have tides turning, from gnawing to joy, quiet, alone, lonely, playful, connected, whole. My dreams are taking me places I didn’t want to be, but there I am anyway.

Days and nights are bleeding into Kairos time, marked by snowfall, melt, rain, stretching beyond sunset and sunrise marked by moments of connection, magical mundane, holy life, depth of grief and fear and shame, the entire spectrum, all the seasons of feeling before me, wave after wave, and I am here in this one carbon dusted body thrashing then floating upon its currents.

Rinse and repeat.

This is maybe my 6th day coming back in between bits and pieces of my days to weave together something I am writing or feeling.

isnt that the way

of mother

The Omen Days

not a new year new me, that is always bubbling, shaping, forming, contorting within and outside of me, cyclically, like the seed, deer, earth, body.

The days to listen and sink deep into that sea of being, alive, in your life, whatever that may be.

My son is currently next to me shoving video’s of sourdough starters moving into my face, cutting off my ability to type, he curiously wants one as a pet, not for any reason other than its curious aliveness, just like him, just like us all.

Back to writing

I will not ask myself what I want to be, I already am, I already am becoming. I am already soil sleeping preparing to wake, a cyclical being, what more is there to trust than the invitation to keep loving.

(I tell myself this over and over as my cycle comes early, under full moon light, and everything in my life is again gnawing at me, hungry, aching, asking)