post-date: 12/29/08

The skies have been drawing me upward. Their breadth sweeps over me like the universe is breathing into me. The clouds, the clouds absorb me into them, carrying me out of my so-called self. They are my greatest comfort here, followed by the stars. When they are low and grey and billowy, yet they sweep along on the wind, stretch and smoothed and shaped into new forms. The winds lift my hair and caress it as it passes, until it returns again. At night when I fall asleep, I cast my dream net out the window to lasso all the secrets hiding within the stars. I see many faces here in the trees. And the leaves are like a sea of earth crashing against their stumps. I can hear the divine more clearly here. It is quiet. All the unrest of the City has left me. I can hear my own thoughts, finally. I can feel my feelings, I can dream my dreams. I feel magic. I feel called. I make magic. I make myself anew. I feel myself feeling more and it finally feels real. And yet this is not the place for me to stay. Neither is the City. I am being called toward untouched forests, rich fruitful earth, fresh salty ocean water, clean clear mountain lakes, luminescent clouds, so many stars they crowd the sky, sun burnt stones, red clay river banks, the songs of birds and the expansive silence in which my precious divine reveals itself. I want to streak my face with mud, run barefoot over rocks and paths, become the great mother and take unto me the sun, my husband. I long to discard my symbols of status, privilege, achievement, and ambition. I long for silence and sit in repose with my equal. I long to wear the gems which my mother bestows to me from the earth, to run free and wild like a wolf, wind rustling my fur, the moon causing a shimmer across my silver coat.

Writing with Rain Water

Today I photographed the clouds as the storm rolled in from the west. Deep greys with streaks of lighting and growling thunder. The city was just a foggy silhoutte in the distance. A few raindrops suggest the impending downpour. There is something about the rain that welcomes isolation. Within the last two weeks I have found myself deliberately going outside before the storm, somewhat aggravatedly getting drenched, but savoring the wetness, the exposure to the elements. The wind throwing stinging raindrops in my eyes, against my cheeks. I greet it with a smile, shutting my eyes against the assault. The water cools the fire that the city stokes in my veins. The passion for more, for less, to be rid of the oppression of identity, to embrace my ghostly anonymity. The struggle against reason, to succumb to every capricious whim. The roof is my solitary island, the width of the sky affording room for all my expansive thoughts. When I am alone there, I am content in my solitude. The lightning excites me, the thunder answers my silence. My sighs, otherwise deafening in the confines of walls, windows, and doors, are stolen away by the wind. They are not trapped inside, amplifying and choking me in my dreams. They are small, fleeting things, and I am free to let them go. Then the rain comes, and washes me clean.