Archive of ‘Healing’ category
She walked among silent white trees, her dress trailing the ground, leaving the hem muddy, her feet bare and cold as she stepped close to water, kneeling, drinking.
This morning I listen to a song I love very much, that inspired the name of this blog, and my book – The Little Flower.
This song is full of quiet hope. It is sad, yes, and I remember crying to it and asking for it to be sung at both my sister and dad’s funeral. It especially reminds me of my sister. It’s a conversation between a flower and the singer, where the flower explains things in trust of God. No, she does not mind being in the dark forest, where there are shadows because God is with her. She doesn’t need to be admired in a garden because she was born to be a forest flower. And when the snow comes, she’ll be asleep until the sun kisses her awake once again.
I had a lovely moment last night when I had lit candles and opened the window to feel the fresh air. An owl was singing outside, and I paused, closed my eyes and smiled. It’s the most magical sound to me, and it’s been such a long time since last I heard it. I feel life returning all around me. I hear birds in the morning, and the light stays longer, seems brighter, as though the sun has regained some of its strength.
I sit by the window now, watching the light on the birch trees, making me feel spring in my bones. The Equinox is coming up. I dream of standing by the water, in a simple white dress, but it will be too cold for that. I will watch the sunrise, probably in my winter coat, and though it’s less poetic, I’m looking forward to it. I hope to be by the coast this time, and see the sun come out of the ocean.
Snow Queen • artist- Christian Birmingham
The evening had fallen, draping itself in blue and white, the trees frosted over with newly fallen snow, a touch of ice at the edge of spring. She gazed out into the dying day, seeing a dim light fading just beyond the mountains. She sighed, dreamily hugging her knees in her ivory gown, feeling the cold of the window pane as she rested her head against it. It felt as though the long stillness of winter was passing into spring, but the light was shy, and pale, unsure of herself, – a white lady at the edge of the world, gazing longingly in, afraid to come closer. And yet everyone looked for her, any sign of her in the air, the ground, the budding trees. She did not know how much she was wanted.
But slowly she would know herself better. And her step would grow surer, her dress changing to pale green, and then violet as she sprinkled wild seeds and flowers from her hands. A soft wind would blow, her laughter warm and golden, releasing the streams, the ice-covered lake, and river. The birds would return, once more filling the world with song.
I feel a bit like the winter outside my window, hovering just before the first touch of spring. There’s an ache in it, even though the snow that fell last night brightens something in me, makes me feel white clad and shiny on the inside.
I lit candles last night and started writing in the beautiful book I received for Christmas, with the golden cover. I’m still figuring out my new story. It keeps slipping from me when I try to grasp it. It needs a plot, an ending, but all that comes to me are little moments like the one above. So I write what comes, and hopefully, it will lead me somewhere.
My book is out on amazon. I’d love for you to check it out, and share it with someone you think might like it. Thank you!
I hope you’re dreaming beautiful dreams for the new week.
I want to share tender heart songs from the past. Songs that was once my life, that I still carry inside of me, but that I want to let go of, to be carried away by the wind into the open air, finally touched by the sky, the sun. I don’t want to forget, but instead, bring life to old feelings that I hid from the world, to not hurt myself and others. I was afraid to take up space, to speak of what happened. Even glimpses of what I had gone through seemed to release a great wave, a shadow that felt too big, too uncomfortable to share. An elephant in a small room.
But it’s like walking among trees, thinking of winter in spring. Seeing the frost-touched the ground, that will soon be full of flowers. Noticing that there are shapes in the ice, like roses, that grabs your heart. And you kneel down to touch them, winter flowers among the dead grass.
I feel I’m doing the same inside of me, going through memories, pain and shadow. Gathering moments of beauty among them. I’m looking at the tapestry of my past, seeing the colors, the threads of gold that gleam the brightest, but also the darkness, the gray and red and black. I look at it all, knowing I’ll find stars in the night.
Living with Grief
I understand now that my grief will always be part of me, that I’ll always love and miss my family. Still, what I want is to walk deeper into my pain, and no longer hide from my feelings. Let them make me stronger, help me appreciate life more fully, all the little joys that it brings. I think sorrow can be turned into beauty, into strength.
I never truly digested what happened, all the losses that tore me apart. I put a time limit on my healing, and then stuffed everything away into a tight hard knot inside of me, that swelled and hurt until I could no longer ignore it.
But I also feel that things happened as they were supposed to. I moved away, found love with my husband in California, and when I had grown stronger, and gathered new lessons, new life experiences, the Goddess whispered it was time to return to Norway, and face my past.
Writing has been a huge gift, one that I did not have before. It’s like I’m slowly unraveling old feelings, word by word.
Outside my Window
I see a patch of blue sky, white clouds swirling above dark trees. There is a slight wind today, and softness to the air that makes me step outside my door, taking deep breaths, feeling an ache, a longing for spring. I know the sun, the light will return once more as it always does. For now, I watch the gray, overcast sky, with glimpses of gold in between, drops of snow sometimes falling, the wind coming and going. The birch trees are smiling at me, waving their bare, dark branches, whispering of beauty yet to unfold.
Sometimes I walk with quiet, careful steps, as though stepping on glass, testing my boundaries, seeing how far I could go before something breaks, before I’m punished. I question how far I can live my life according to my own will and heart’s desire. But then I realize that no one stands in the way of my happiness but me. No angry gods or curses, no constant gloom that I have to hold onto to stay safe, to stay in the shadow so that too much sunlight won’t burn me. It’s strange, this fear of being too happy. Do other people struggle with this? Create troubles out of nothing?
There is so much sweetness in my life, making me want to stop, close my eyes and breathe it all in. Pause little moments and take them in fully, and yet I step around my joy, timidly, carefully, afraid to go too deep, or something monstrous might pull me down. I suppose I got burned, got used to life being turbulent and unsure, people getting sick, dying. At some level, I knew it would happen, that there was something dark and terrible coming my way.
But it’s over, I feel that too. Like a great storm clearing to reveal sunlight and a fresh start. I’m learning to live my life anew, I think, away from my old fears. I’m learning to not always expect the worst, to not worry, and to ease the tension that seems to be a constant in me. That tight knot in my stomach, the clenching of my teeth, as though I’m trying to will something away, will life and all it’s possible horrors away. But there is wonder too, and I want to melt into that, into all it can offer, even when there is suffering. I want to live, fully, deeply, with an open heart. I want to be happy, and do what I came here to do, and not turn away the gifts given me.
There is a path appearing inside of me of crystals and gems, moss covered and dirt strewn, simple moments my soul long for, silver threads of interest that I gather, following them back to myself, to my heart.
I wake up in the morning to snow drifting outside my window. I like to lie and watch for a few moments, before getting up, tip-toeing into the cold, grabbing my robe, turning on the heat as soon as I reach the living room.
The world is white and silent. I get lost in it sometimes, just watching from my window. Sometimes I resent what I’m doing because I want just to stay and float away with the snow on the wind, but there’s always something that needs doing.
I feel happy in the morning because the light has returned, and I can see the world again. And I don’t mind the cold because it means the snow will stay.
Sometimes when I walk along the road, I twirl a bit, envisioning a white dress to dance in, bare feet on a frozen ground. There is something light and pure about snow, especially when it falls all around me, light as air, sometimes like tiny shards of crystals. A gift to brighten the darkness of these months.
Because evening comes early and the night is deep. I don’t mind, because I feel I’m still on my way down, deepening into myself, to find rest and nourishment before spring. But sometimes it’s as though the day never quite begins. At midday, it still looks like early morning, and the sun is hidden behind a thick blanket of grey, never to be seen. I long for it, but not too much. Somehow I’m ok with all this darkness.
I bought white roses for the new year and draped a midnight blue shawl across my dresser in the bedroom, which is also my altar. These colors seem right now that the world is white and black and blue, and different shades of grey.
After our evening walk, my husband turned off all the lights inside so we could see the day grow darker, slowly, watch “the blue hour” as we call it. Which is exactly that, when the world looks blue and shining, in the last bit of light before night takes over.
I open my window before bed, and the great pines outside stand like two sentient beings, white and shining against a black sky. I wish them goodnight and crawl beneath the covers.
I found her among the trees in the winter forest, remembering to look because I was hurting inside, if only a little bit, but enough to reach for her once more.
I stood in the first snowfall, hearing that deep silence that only comes when the world is painted white. I followed a single snowflake with my eyes, the way I used to do as a child, watching it flutter down down, until it was lost among all the others.
I’m looking out the window now, into a darkening world, turning slowly blue.
I wish for the winter rose, to carry her with me through Advent, into Christmas, to remember her most of all. I get lost in the world, and then I get tired and retreat into myself, remembering her. I want to be soft and quiet then, looking out at the falling snow, the world silver and white, the lake like frosted glass.
I want to go deep within myself, close my eyes and rest. I feel thin, stretched, with little energy to write, wanting to curl up with a good book, poetry. Letting the words fill me, drip into an empty well, like snowflakes in the night.
Artist – Marianne Stokes
The world is afloat on a cloud, a cold breath over everything, icing the trees, the ground, the grass. I lay in my bed and saw a white, glowing blanket outside my window, the moon coming through it.
I saw the sun for a moment, touching the mountains, but then it was gone, everything lost again to the mist, everything silent, everything frozen. Even the birds have no strength to sing now. They just stay among their branches, huddling in the winter chill.
There is magic in the mist. I saw it drifting across the forest yesterday, and thought of all the stories about it, about creatures appearing and disappearing in it. That it’s an entrance to a different time, a different world.
I’m in a calm place, I read calming things, but I’m rarely calm myself. Perhaps that’s why I’ve come here, to see if some of the earth, the air can seep into me, give me some of that quiet frost. I’m learning to trust. That’s what I call it. I imagine what it would be like to walk through my day in trust, knowing I’m safe. Or at least feeling I’m safe, that there is nothing to worry about, to be agitated about, as though something might strike me at any moment. Maybe I felt that life betrayed me, fell out from under my feet, that the gods betrayed me, somehow. That I can’t trust them now, even though I want to.
I walked in the forest, in the early evening, when everything was a breath of blue and the sky had lines of gold in it. As I walked, I observed a joy inside of me that I feared, that I had hidden away. I hadn’t allowed myself to feel it because it might go away, might anger the gods, anger destiny if I allowed it to bubble up inside of me. Maybe I would set myself up to being hurt.
I thought also of my mom, then my sisters, how I felt I shouldn’t laugh and be happy when they were sick. No one told me I couldn’t be, but somehow it felt wrong. I suppose children learn things that are hidden beneath the surface, things left unsaid.
I thought of the Goddess and wondered if perhaps she was light and joy, and beautiful things and that maybe it would make her happy if I dared to step into it. For some reason, it wasn’t something I had considered she’d want for me. But sometimes I feel her laughing, shaking her head, as though I’m taking things too seriously.
I would like to walk with lightness in my steps, and not be afraid of trying, of failing. I would like a deep calm to enter me, deep in my bones, like that blue air that was all around in the forest, silvering the branches. I wanted to kneel and stay there, on the frozen ground, by the waterfall, like white lace down the mountain. I wanted to listen, for the earth to teach me something, but I wasn’t alone in the forest, and we had to get home in time for something. But that’s what I felt then. It’s what I still feel when I remember walking in that new winter world. I’m happy it’s here.
Artist – Francois-Fressinier
She moved through the grass in the black night, wet with rain. Mist cloaked everything, leaving a silver hue over the mountains. There was no moon, only darkness, only blackness in the trees, the ground, the air around her.
Yesterday I broke something precious, something fragile, like porcelain inside of me, and it shattered on the floor. But now I’m gathering the pieces, hoping I can return to myself, to what I had.
When we have something, we don’t think about how easily it can break, until it does, and then we’re sorry. But I’m finding it again now, gems in a field littered with frost, remembering what it took to get to where I am. Remembering to honor the journey, even if I long to get further ahead.
The day has started, but it’s wrapped in silence, in white, the world almost lost in it. I thought I saw ice for a moment, but then it was gone, and I realized it was just mist and light playing. The nights are getting colder, the storms having stilled a little, leaving room for the deep freeze.
There is light on the trees now, and I can make out drops of water in the birches. I remember walking in the forest yesterday, almost stopping in my tracks by the beauty of rain, like pearls, gathered on a small, pine tree. Seeing that brought me out of myself a little, because I had been lost in worries.
I so wish I had a sunlit chair to sit in, by a large window, to be warmed by light, even in winter.
Waterbaby – William Samuel Henry Llewellyn
Sometimes I feel cracked and weathered, like a well gone dry. And I look for books, for words to drink from, for stories that will sing to me. I feel I’m always digging to find them, always searching, searching.
I found this. Do you have any books you’d like recommend?
I went for a walk in the afternoon light. There was no snow, but I could still tell it was the winter sun, white and cold. I felt I was walking and gathering words, under the blue sky, among the trees, dead leaves, and yellow grass. I saw the black lake, so deep now, inching towards the trees.
I sat down among the birches, in a place new to me, and saw their stems gray and bearded, old, weathered branches reaching towards the sky. I could see the sun between them, making the grass gleam in front of me. A thread of light went from it to me, going across the road, the water, all the way to where it was setting over the mountains.
I took my shoes off, gasping at how cold the ground was, but it felt so good to keep my feet there, if only for a moment. I always feel like I’m somehow floating above everything, above the world, not quite in myself, in my body like a friend once said. Maybe I’m writing my way back to myself.
I like to sit in the darkness, by candlelight, watching the black morning outside my window, seeing cars driving by, the day starting. I sit in silence, working on my book, burning incense, praying.
I want to stand in the doorway, in that moment of breaking, of first light touching the sky, cold air wrapped around me.
I want to walk softly, letting nothing touch me save the voice of the Goddess, whispering to her, hearing her whisper back. There is something about the early morning that makes me want to be quiet and still within myself; that makes the words come, as though the calm of night still lingers, the stars having left some of their magic behind.
I read once about a man wanting to be careful so that the morning did not break like glass around him. That stayed with me because I feel it too. I don’t want to rush or be brash. I don’t even want to speak. I just want to sit and watch the sky brightening, perhaps quietly make breakfast, breathing in its sweetness. See a dark forest outside my window, fields now green and yellow, grass dying away, no more flowers, the world left naked.