waiting

waiting

In this piece, my 25-year old niece across the country attempts to make sense of the string of days in quarantine–before the uprising… (a follow up post on her blog captures her reluctant participance, tear gas and committment)

the queer apostate

I took a walk this morning. Well, afternoon. Remade into morning with coffee and buttered toast. I feel my body remolding into a sitting shape, criss cross applesauce on my bed embroidering, or on the couch reading, or lounged in front of Grey’s Anatomy. Things aren’t tasteless yet, but still my days feel like lumps of dough rising on the counter; alive, yeast turning sugar into soft porous shapes, but waiting to be kneaded into a new form, so much waiting.

In the neighborhood, there are also signs of life made by waiting. Someone’s ceiling fan is drying with a fresh coat of white, propped up on old paint cans in their driveway. Someone else painted sweet gum pods rainbow colors and hung them by ribbons from the slender, bare limbs of another tree. Kids are sitting in the patches of grass along the sidewalks, or even in the gravel…

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Winter Winds

Winter Winds

These late February nights…

Two Owls Calling

I came of age in a Captainless ship. We all went down one by one. Which may be why these wintry nights with wild winds evoke terror inside. Or maybe too, in another life, I perished at sea, and I’m almost certain that’s true because I don’t want to know. Just the thought of it almost extinguishes me, while I write at the kitchen table with the sun rising over the mountains, a wave of light cresting the satiny snow, as the tea kettle whistles and the woodstove ticks and the timbers of this frame raised by neighbors creaks with the last few gusts before the sap on this hill begins to run.

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Winter notes, released…

Winter notes, released…

december:

i love how the winter sun persists, even through a snowcloud sky. and how the whetstone brook looks like it’s filled with floating marshmallows. and how the world has become a snow globe that some kid keeps shaking.

~

forecast:

zero & sunny

 

january:

our outdoor solar lights (so tenacious in summer) barely last through dinnertime, but the moonlight follows, brightening everything white, like a spotlight on the theater of winter

~

stark, sober clarity.

this is what i love/hate about the ending of the holiday season, and about winter itself, and about aging.

my menopausal bones ache with this cold, and now that the house is emptied of the evergreen and its friendly accompaniments, family included, i fear myself sharp-edged, like the hard world outside, absent of color and fecundity

but there is an invitation extended in this stark sobriety, necessitating love and consciousness, warm woolen blankets and poetry, thick stews and storytelling…

i listen to my bones, to the bones of an aching world, the bones of the earth itself, and i understand suffering

in this spaciousness, i find myself silently spinning a cocoon, breath and light-filled, enveloping me, even as i resist the vulnerability of becoming nothing but air

~

From -21 to 56 in a week.

Water is running down the slope of the hill toward the house, serpentine-like, under the snow, appearing like the silvery stretchmarks across the flesh of a pregnant mother.

“Flood warnings,” we’re told, and sometimes delivery leads to a flood, as my cousin’s did, and she almost died, right there in the hospital, because the bleeding was on the inside, and they already had the baby.

How so are we, like #45, grabbing what we want while disregarding the essential sovereignty of the life-giver… water, soil, air, woman, yoni, breast.

~

On Sunday afternoon, we took a family walk up our wooded road, and our way, we had to step aside to let a truck pass.

I watched as a load of cordwood passed me by and wondered if he ever lost any, and wouldn’t it be nice if he did so while passing my driveway.

It’s been a cold, cold winter, and we’ve burned through more wood than we typically do, which must why someone is ordering a cord this late in the season; and also explains my excessive cord envy, further expressed as I coveted another neighbor’s neatly stacked piles as we walk by their home.

The truck passed us again on our way back down MacArthur Road, and I looked, but there wasn’t a single log remaining in the bed.

Casey has long cut down our wood himself, and its grueling work without a horse or a tractor, and I feel a growing affection for his labor and the way it warms us through winter, and also, I think about how much simpler it would be to turn a dial, and a lot less sweeping too, and less angst about whether it’s dry enough or will last or will burn our house down.

“Why don’t you just turn on the lights,” my son says when he arrives home from school to a dark, candlelit house; and I guess it’s the same with trading in the woodstove for a dial, it would rob me of the intimacy of warming not just my toes but my soul.

~

What if I, like the metal roof on our timber frame–exposed to a season with more than a dozen hours of frozen darkness–also opened to the morning light, letting it warm me through, until in one big gush, I released the weight I’d carried through the cold…

february:

I wake, in the dark, and reach my foot across the flannel to see if it’s morning. The warmth of his thigh is my reply. “Go back to sleep,” I say, but I’m 54. I no longer listen. (Did I ever?) I lay there in the dark, wondering why. Have I had enough sleep already? Do I need to pee? What day is it? Is it the weekend? I lift my head to make out the numbers on his clock. It’s not even 5. Just then, Jimmy Cloud arrives, and I remember that yesterday was Wednesday, a snow day. Must be a lot; it sounds like the front loader. He lights up the woods out my window, and I wonder what the foxes make of it all. Beep. beep. beep. Are they asleep in their den or out hunting? I haven’t seen them since the babies grew up. Jimmy plows for a good long while, and when I feel Casey begin to stir, I get up to pee. He gets up then too.”I might as well stay up,” he says. I listen as the stairs creak as he heads down to start the fire. Later, he brings me rose tea, and I invite him back to bed to cuddle.

~

And also, yesterday, while putting on my rose shirt, in preparation for a weekend of writing & meditation, a paper wasp stung me on the heart, through the flesh of my breast…

~

Must be windy. Or a UPS drop off. Or is it a bear? I’ve been seeing posts about bears. I’m trying to meet this deadline. It sounds like its trying to get in. Maybe it’s just the shovels on the porch falling over.

Oh my gosh, I hear it walking around the house. Maybe it’s a robber.

I close my computer. Grab the phone to look like I’m calling the police.

(Oh, right… it’s just the sound of snow pounding off the roof.)

~

 march

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Autumnal Chakra Dance

Autumnal Chakra Dance

Carpool rates for those traveling together!

Kelly Salasin

Celebrate the fluid consciousness of Autumn
within a welcoming and supportive
woman’s circle

in Southern Vermont

Women’s circles evoke a sense of sisterhood, and also a feeling of being in a maternal space. There is a deep sense of being connected to one another, at an archetypal level. ~Jean Shinoda Bolen

Autumnal Chakra Dance
a Let Your Yoga Dance women’s circle
in Marlboro, VT
Dancing through the body’s energy centers
with the energy signature of the season: release, flow, rebirth.
Tuesdays, November through Winter Solstice
6:00 pm to 7:30 pm

*With 2 options for missed gatherings:
1. Bring someone new to the dance.
2. Receive the chakra playlist to dance at home.
(* Or drop into a yoga class with my husband Casey as space is available.)

For ALL women who like to move to music!
No other experience, skill/talent relevant.

Autumnal Journey: $123.45
Early-bird: $111.11 (Space for 11)
Paypal…

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Summer Love for Women

Summer Love for Women

In Southern VT and online.
Breathing s-p-a-c-e for women.

Kelly Salasin

Celebrate the expansive energy of the sun
with the cooling & nourishing retreat of a
woman’s circle

in Southern Vermont and online
(or by invitation–near you!)

God may be in the details. But the Goddess is in connections.
~Gloria Steinem

Dance where you are. Your song has already been written.

Chakra Dance
a Let Your Yoga Dance women’s circle
in Marlboro, VT
dancing through the body’s energy centers
highlighting each of the 7 chakras
Late July through early September
Thursdays, 6:00 pm to 7:30 pm
Skill & experience irrelevant
Early-bird
$111.11

“I realize that I don’t know my body very well–and I want to.  This helps. I trust you as a teacher.”

Click here for more voices on dancing through the chakras.

“I’ve learned so much from this woven fabric of feminine voices.”

Writing through the Chakras~Online
a 7 chakra online circle for the soul
Lammas (early August) through…

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