September 2015 archive

The Sound of Water

Waterhouse - The Flower Picker

Waterhouse – The Flower Picker

I’m not sure what to write this morning. I get up to see that the mountains have already turned to gold, and that the lake is silver, a little restless. Everything is quiet, though it’s a bit later than I’d like, and I make my chai tea, make my husband some toast.

I sit by the window, holding the warm cup in my hands, gazing out on a dark green forest, now tipped with gold, the sun filtering down, through the birch trees outside my apartment. I see them swaying gently, leaves gleaming, a play of light and shadow. 

The words come slowly, unsteadily. I feel a little unsure of myself, shaken by my dreams, and a night that seemed to last for a long time. Sometimes I read something unsettling before bed, and thoughts get into my head, making me worry, and perhaps they also seep into my dreams. 

I woke up to the sound of water, little waves lapping against the dock. It soothed something inside of me. I looked out the window and wished again that my apartment was facing the other way, so I could see more of the lake, see the sun setting behind it in the evening. I’m usually looking out on a pine forest, which is beautiful, but a little darker, a little colder. Behind me the sun is spilling over the lake, and the landscape is open, free. The world is blue and green, not a cloud in sight. 

The Last Rose

Artist - Christian Schloe

Artist – Christian Schloe

Pale light in water, a blue sky, a quiet day. 

I woke up in the night and couldn’t go back to sleep. I knew it was early, because the light had not yet reached my window, and everything was dark, quiet, except for the rush of water falls from across the lake. I lay still, remembering my dreams, trying to understand what they were telling me, feeling slightly surprised by them. The night can reveal so much, as soon as we cross the barrier between worlds, stepping into another realm, into the world of dreams.

I heard the sharp cry of a bird outside my window, and felt how strange it was to be in the middle of nature, and how happy it made me to hear the sounds of it, how mystical it felt in the deep darkness.

Traveling on the highways of Europe, I missed the fresh air of home, and felt how odd it was not to want to take a deep breath, but instead finding that the air felt stuffy, full of not so nice things. I knew I could get used to it. I lived in L.A. and got used to it there, but it saddens me that the air is no longer pure, what we’re doing to ourselves, to the planet.

I look outside and the world is left quiet, the trees unmoving, the sky a beautiful touch of blue. I see one last rose holding on in the autumn storms, in the coming chill. She’s pink and beautiful, and I see her from across the small field, in the garden of the white house now left empty.

I want to write something beautiful, fairy like and magical. I want to reach out and pull threads out of the ether, spinning them into gold, into story. I’ve been hesitating because I don’t know how to create a longer story, how I could possibly know enough words to describe everything.

I read many books, and I keep thinking that I don’t know enough, not yet, but something is pressing from the inside, something that wants to be said, wants to be shared, born into the world. I can feel quite unhappy when I don’t write, when I hold back, when I don’t find the time. There is always so much to do, but I must write, I think, to save my soul, my own sanity.

I’m not even sure what I want to write. I just know I long for beauty, and sometimes I look for things in other peoples stories without quite finding it. Maybe that’s what writers do? They feel there is a gap, a void that needs to be filled, and then they fill it. 

There is the priestess, the ocean, rain and green hills, and all these fragments that wants a voice, but I don’t know where it could possibly lead, possibly end.

I feel I’m learning a lot through the words of others. There is so much beauty to read, to breathe in. When I’m a little tired, a little sad, I find myself a good book and I feel better.

The sun is coming through the trees now, and I can see the first of the autumn colors, a pale yellow and red, among mostly green. But it makes everything seem more golden, and even the grass has turned slightly orange. Autumn has always been the most beautiful time of year for me. I like to lean into the gathering darkness, into inky black nights, the stars that are once again bright and shining. 

Blue Eyes

Artist - Christian-Schloe

Artist – Christian-Schloe

I want to write about a man I met on my trip to Slovenia. A few of us went to his house, to his small workplace where he creates blends of essential oils, and where he helps people heal. 

A man with striking blue eyes, and an iron hand shake, that seemed fitting for the mountains.

I felt him looking at me, and I wasn’t sure if I should look away, or keep looking back, because I felt he was seeing too much of me, and yet I wanted to know more about him, like there was something unspoken passing between us. He was a healer, and I felt I could be one as well, one day, in my own way. I was intrigued by him, and how he explained that he felt his way into mixing the right oils together, without knowing much about them first. He followed his intuition, his inner guide, and I thought it was amazing.

He spoke about all the pain he had been through, physical pain. I thought of my own pain, which was emotional, and I felt maybe I could use it in similar way that he had used his, to help others. He was able to understand the pain of others, because he had been there.

He spoke to me directly once, asked me what I was doing for a living. I cringed a bit, but I said I was writing. He thought it was good, that I was doing something meaningful because he could tell I was sensitive. His response surprised me, and yet I felt embarrassed, that didn’t have a real job, only a dream.

I felt tears pressing behind my eyelids because he was seeing too much, and I was especially tired and exhausted that day. I tried not to think of the others looking at me, as the tears fell without me being able to stop them. They just came as though the cup was full, running over. I wanted to let them come, all of them, but I was afraid that it would be too much, that it wouldn’t stop, that I would scare myself and my friends. I felt shy, embarrassed, confused over my own pain, which I didn’t fully understand, and therefore seemed silly.

He talked about not running away. I wasn’t sure how to take his words, where exactly they fit into my life. I do often run from things, from myself, but I’m trying to stop now, slowly. I slid from his sight as he started talking to the others, and sat in the corner, mulling it all over.

I bought a few things from him, beeswax candles, a blend of oils, healing ointments. 

I love how my home now smells of resin, of cinnamon and cedar wood, of the forest, of the mountains. 

Have you ever met someone who reminded you of your path?

Silver World

Your-True-Nature-Christian-Schloe

Your-True-Nature-Christian-Schloe

I get caught up in the world outside my window, the rain falling and I feel I’m in a bubble of it, of this intense green.

I see myself running through an emerald forest, barefoot, laughing, and there are leaves falling, yellow leaves falling, turned in an instant. Dark clouds come in, a storm brewing above me, rushing winds and clouds and grass bending low. 

I saw the lake in the evening, and thought how the world had turned to silver, and the rain never stopped and the mist seemed to be in the sky, in the trees.

The rivers are overflowing, we saw one as we walked through the forest, picking mushrooms, saw how grey and wild it was, and stood watching, admiring its strength, its wild beauty as it stormed towards the lake. 

My husband took my hand and we drove home, and I saw how the world was brimming with water, water overflowing everywhere, and yet the rain does not stop. I like listening to it, lulling me to sleep, making my eyes heavy and my breath deep. 

I drink my tea and try to get to work, and yet I get distracted again, by the green world, by the singing of water and rain, everything washed clean. 

A Sacred Union

“Wish” by Christian Schloe

I wrote this an evening in Slovenia, after attending the wedding of two beautiful friends. I sat outside on the patio and looked out on the darkening mountains, while drinking my tea, feeling into the moment, the day, writing slowly. 

Slovenia took my breath away by its beauty, with its green hills and high mountains. What touched me the most though was the many shrines spread throughout the village. They were somewhat large shrines of stone, with statues of Mary, Jesus, or someone else from the Holy Bible. I also loved how we would hear the church chimes ring throughout the day, and night, telling us the time. 

A prayer

I sent a prayer into the sky, as the sun set golden behind the mountains, and I stood watching in the open air, in the fading light, hoping, wondering what might come, what might be.

I stood with my hands to my heart, praying silently, in that short moment in time, when the sun kissed the sky, and all faded into blue.

Sometimes I feel so lost, like I’m walking the world alone, and I look for the goddess, for the rose to touch me. I feel so strange, like I’m not myself, like I don’t know who I am, and perhaps never really knew. Maybe I’m discovering myself, who I am, but its a cold path, somehow, like my walls are falling away, and I have less and less to cling to. So I feel cold and bare, walking a snow touched path, toward spring, towards the warmth of the sun.

Today we drove through the mist, a white veil obscuring everything. Up and up we went, and I saw the goddess in a stone shrine, draped in blue and soft purple, hands to her heart, eyes lowered in dreaming, in prayer.

I wanted to ask my husband to stop the car, but it all passed so quickly, and I stayed silent, stealing that short glimpse of her, longing for her, to put flowers at her feet.

We climbed higher and come out of the mist, and saw the sun shine through it, threads of gold through water, and I looked down to see an ocean of white, of clouds spilling into the valley.

A Sacred Union

“For your Heavenly Father is love. For your Earthly Mother is love. For the Son of Man is love. It is by love, that the Heavenly Father and the Earthly Mother and the Son of Man become one.” 

We finally arrived the forest of moss and white stones, of leafy trees and a soft, dark path going through them. We walked through dappled sunlight, dancing like gold, and arrived the sacred circle, the altar, the flower bound trees.

Fairy I thought when I saw it. And magic, white magic, pure divine light.

The bride and groom came in white, walking up the path to the sound of chimes, and soft singing. A man with a sword stood in the middle of the circle, calling upon the angels, upon the God and Goddess to bless this sacred union.

The leaves sang, soft rain falling only for a moment, and the ceremony ended, and we stayed in the light, in that sunlit forest, people slowly ebbing away, leaving only a few of us. The bride and the other women, barefoot, laughing, wanting to stay in the circle, in that hidden away place. 

The beauty of the ceremony took my breath away, and I so loved that sacred circle in the forest, which felt very special, sacred. I almost wanted to curl up on the moss and stare up at the leaves, the sky. 

The ceremony was inspired by this article. 

 

Coming Home

Girl with Pigtails, Samuel Henry William Llewelyn

Girl with Pigtails, Samuel Henry William Llewelyn

A gathering of post I first made in my journal, then transferred to my blog, as is often the case. I wanted to combine them all, because they are all about coming back home, and I didn’t want any to be lost in drafts again. 

Saturday Evening

I come home and watch the last light faded from the trees. 

Home feels different, a little strange, like I  don’t fully know it. Or maybe it’s me that is different, and I hope I could be – different. There are many things I’d like to change, one step at the time. 

I feel soft and dreamy under this full moon, and yet I have no words in me. I’m too tired. I gaze up at the sky for a moment, at the pale light and dark clouds. I look for stars but there are none, and I return inside, putting out the candle, quietly slipping into bed. 

Sunday 

Sometimes I carry a prayer with me, throughout the day, as the light comes through the windows. A wish for things to be different, for me to be different, for dreams to fly. 

Leaves rustle outside my window, and I look at them, a little strangely, looking to recognize the trees I know so well. 

Everything is quiet, there is nothing happening on this gentle Sunday, and I slowly sink into myself, after a long trip, of highways and restless sleep. But the adventure is over, and I miss it a little. 

It’s like I stepped out of a dream, for a moment seeing new things, and then returning to it, not quite recognizing what I was dreaming before.

Things change, and I feel at the doorstep of a colder, darker season. September two days away, winter looming in the distance, white and shining, black and hidden, a walk in the dark. 

 Tuesday

I start to slow down now, after the trip, having spent a few days at home. We drove so fast for so long on the highways of Austria, Germany, Denmark, and I think it left me a little frazzled. I prefer the smaller roads, where I can look at people’s gardens, see cows grazing, notice little things as they happen. 

I open the window and see the black and silver lake, the trees bending in the wind, leaves floating past me. The air is still soft, slightly warm, but I can feel darkness stepping closer, a crisp chill at the edge of everything. I enjoy it, the heavy rain coming down, autumn slowly coloring the grass, the leaves. I want to light more candles, burn incense in the night, make spiced teas and cookies. 

I feel a little pensive. There is a lot on my mind, on my heart. I go through my day and thoughts come to me, about what I am, who I want to be. The Goddess whispers to me, and I try to be quiet enough to hear her. 

I am what I am, but through the Goddess I can change. I go to her, try to remember her more often, even as something in me resists. 

Pride made me leave her, – I wrote this once in my journal, one day not so long ago. It was all I wrote, and I felt sad, disappointed in myself, but I could also see things that before had been hidden. 

Without her I feel I walk a side road, not quite in life, not immersed in it like I want to be, but stepping to the side and around. Unwilling to give up my own pride and will, to follow something greater, to bend my head, fold my heart and hands in prayer to her. 

I feel her teaching me, bringing me lessons, and I try to thank her, even as it hurts. I feel her smile then, something warm and joyful touching me deep inside, a light in the darkness. 

Moonlight

The-Messenger-by-ChristianSchloe

The-Messenger-by-ChristianSchloe

I recently went to Slovenia, for a wedding, one of the most beautiful weddings I’ve ever been to. I will write more about it soon. For now I wish to share a small moment in Denmark on our way back.  

An Evening in Denmark

That special moment in the evening, when the sun sets, casting golden shapes and shadows upon the walls.

A land full of sky and stone building, of dark clouds glinted with gold, drifting over rooftops. A slow moment in Denmark, in a small town, drinking chai latte that somehow taste like incense, spicy and sweet. 

I hear music, watch swallows dance in the last light, in the last of the summer evenings, before autumns turns the corner. 

Moonlight  

I saw a white shining moon over yellow fields. And a soft pink sky, so faint you could hardly see its color. It made everything seem soft and beautiful, as the night fell with gentle steps, as we drove on straight, narrow roads. 

The Goddess shone brightly, white hair trailing through the sky. I felt her smiling a blessing, in the falling darkness. 

Then the forest descended all around us, hiding her from us, and everything seemed suddenly darker, and I looked for her, a golden light between the trees. 

Everything fell silent, and I grew tired. I looked for a place to pitch our tent along the forest path, in the grey darkness.

For a moment I sat alone and looked into the sky, at the pale stars and heard the rustle of animals among the trees. It felt like a gift, this last night abroad before we returned home, before taking the boat across the ocean in the morning. I whispered thank you into the night, grateful to have seen the moon so clearly, to have been filled with beauty. 

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