sometimes I fantasise about disappearing. not death.
just checking out. take to my cosy cottage in the shadow of a mountain.
grow pumpkins and squash. swim in a lochan daily.
write that novel. for me. not caring if anyone reads it.
i’m {BEING} on my own time.
slipping under a liminal moon. free.
joy joy happy happy joy. LUSH!
What are you passionate about?
Nature. Nature connection. being outdoors together
1.
Blink twice and I miss you. Not wanting to make this mistake again, I watch for your arrival. Then once here, bask in your delicate beauty. Each bursting cluster unique. Soft and curled petals, blush and flush, fuchsia, rose, and pink.
I pray for the wind to stay away, to go away as with each gust you are forced to separate from your centre pistil and disperse like confetti. Floating upon the air to land anywhere. And then it’s over for another year. Short-lived gone in the wind.
2.
Each year you return with an open palm, gentle and vulnerable. I see you watching me. I wait for my time. I put on a display of tight fisted pink buds as a promise. A promise that soon comes. To blaze in my glory is a gift I cherish. As soon gone. Drifting off in the wind to become more in time.
Going down is the sun. Still warmth to be had. Precious.
Let me sit in its grace and give thanks. A moment. Spring.
Blossom. Lambs. They look at me as if they want to say something.
Make a connection. I see you and you see me.
Running after mum, grabbing at her teat. Kids.
Always demanding something. Mine are both beautiful
inside and outside. I say this all the time. But what do I mean?
I take no credit in their beings.These birds are singing out
their lives, building nests before they can rest.
But when do you ever rest once you have kids?
What a worry. What a responsibility.
Yet, they have forced me to grow. To step into this thing called
mothering. Like a pink bud, still clinched like a fist, there is more
to learn upon this journey.
At the tail end of winter,
loaded with blousy, pink,
double flowers with frilly edges,
are Japanese blooming cherry
trees. At mere sight,
I become mooncalf,
mooning over their delicate
blooms. Reborn.
For a few weeks at least,
hope trembles through
the boughs.
The present moment
like each pink, soft cluster,
is cherished.
I’m using my morning routine as an anchor. Each day comes and goes, but I can show up and repeat a selection of rituals which keep me present and bring me joy.
When there are days when I hit a funk, when the energy is low and I forget about the abundance in this world, I lean in a bit more fully or a bit longer into a certain practice until I come back to myself.
Today, I needed to move with the sea. It’s been two weeks since I’ve been into the sea what with being away and experiencing the come down. So I promised myself last night, today is the day to return. I kept this promise to myself, strengthening that muscle of trust in the self.
It was freezing and beyond. The wind chill was sharp and painful. The waves were high out there. But I walked in and out, did my acclimatising dance and gave thanks.
I thanked the sea for being here, always to greet me. No matter how long I’ve been away, or how broken I turn up. She is always there to greet me in all my fucked up glory and I thank her for holding me, for rocking me back home to myself. To her. To the universe.
Living Wild Studios 