I gathered wind-flowers and put them in a vase next to where I’m writing now, to stay close to their magic. I also noticed the first of the nettles, peeking through the dirt, and watched the sky for a long time, above the glittering lake.
Something was gathering power out there, coming back alive, the sky full of clouds, dark and white ones, with light between them. I felt I wanted to stand in the wind, watching them, feel into that slow brooding something. It reminded me of summer, which often feels like thunder, like sun and rain and storm, and yet most of the time nothing happens. But I love that beautiful contrast, darkness tinted with gold.
I went into my bedroom, because it lets in the evening light, though its window is narrow. And I can only see green branches, pine cones, a bit of sky, and distant mountains.
I sat gathering flowers in my heart, mostly roses because they are a favorite, but also violets, forget-me-nots. I was reading in that white silent space, hearing the wind outside, mending something inside of me that had been hurt, a worry that says I can’t trust myself, what I sense and feel. The world has its loud opinions, that I shrink from, turning to the Goddess, the angels, praying that what I hear, deep in my bones, truly is their guidance.
Sometimes I go from room to room, window to window, watching the sky. And just before sunset I see waves of light on the walls, streaming through my apartment, and the birds are full of magic and song, and I hear them, like crystal water, calling forth the night.