Then there is this cloth. This cloth that started from a comment my grandson made. About how cool it would be to have a zipline to/from the moon. He wrote it down for me so I would remember. I started the cloth during our vacation. Initially I thought it was just going to be a light-hearted piece. Putting his comment to cloth. It became something else all together.
We have been home now for one week and this is the story of how the cloth changed, and how I evolved with it. This was a peek through the hole in an oyster shell. Her journey had taken her many place and the cosmic thread that held her in place–well, it was red and had sustained her for a long time. She was connected to the moon yet able to fly. But she couldn’t see. Her vision was obscured. And she knew she needed to see things clearly. Very clearly. Cosmic flight can be a tricky thing. But I ignored what she was saying. I thought, “She’ll get over it. It will be o.k. in the long run.” And in the meanwhile, the base below her feet started changing. And it became very complex and jumbled. and it didn’t take long until the currents of the underworld were so unpleasant that she could hardly bear to stand there. At one point the red puppy grew fangs. It changed from a companion to a threatening creature. Drops of blood dripped from its mouth. I was beginning to listen now. Didn’t like what I was seeing and She didn’t like it either. And she talked for awhile.
Talked about transcending seemingly impossible challenges. Talked about soaring even when her tether appeared attached to powerful, limiting forces. What do we do in those instances? What do we do? She felt she had choices. That we always, in all ways, have choices. In fact, she insisted on taking responsibility for her life–for making her own choice. It wasn’t an easy one. There were many factors involved. Many things to consider–but in the end, it was clear. And so–heeding her surety of intention– with one quick motion the ties that were holding her down were severed. The cloth was separated. And suddenly the cloth was permeated with an amazing “lightness of being.”
Still, there was work to do. She wanted a real face– she had a need to be seen for who and what she was. A face that showed the map of her life. It’s trials and joys and work and weather. A crone’s face. And it took hours. There was a lot to think about. A Lot. And the eyes were next. Of course she needed eyes. To SEE things. Not just to LOOK–but to SEE. To see AND be seen. And to understand what it was she was seeing.
I even heard her say that it’s never an easy process to really see deeply into the reality of existence–and all its wonders. And even though she’s still a bit shocked over the changes of the past week, and yes–a bit sad– her eyes ARE open. Her heart is open as well–open and intact. The earth may still be her grounding reference, but she knows in her heart that her wings were meant for soaring. And she gives thanks for the gift of sight.This particular style of story telling was inspired by Saskia’s postings at tales from the bird hut. Scroll down to “Little Bird has Left.” The crone’s style–well, you’ll have to ask her about that. And as you may have guessed by now, my story and her story cannot be separated.