Last night, I woke, as I often do these days,
no longer drenched, but misted,
with a fine release–of attachment, I suppose.
Behind my knees and under my
shoulders and also between my breasts;
and lately even, in the crook of my
arms, as if I’ve been carrying too much;
and just this week, tiny beads of sweat, dripping.
down. my. spine.
Refining, I suppose,
Me.
Only this night,
Solstice Eve,
I remain awake, and feel something
more–a lightening inside–so very light–
my bones–that i think to myself…
The first time I ever slunk up onto the dock without a swimsuit, I wore bravado to cover up: “I don’t care if anyone comes; I’m a middle-aged woman for goodness sake.”
Moments later I chaffed my bare skin by rolling across the rough wood slats after hearing the click of a car door.
(No one came.)
This time… is different.
Yes, I am still middled-aged.
Yes, I am still in the nude in the middle of a lake at mid-day.
But the dock is so warm,
and the water so crisp,
and the last rays of summer sun so delicious.
I roll this time too,
but I take it slow–
Turning across the floating dock from front
to back, and back to front, and front to back
So that one side of my body is warmed by wood
and the other by sun
I roll like this for a good, long time,
anxious that someone will come,
but too delighted to let the luxury of skin and water and sky and sun…
end.
For a moment I question whether my nudity is an invitation
to assault.
I hear the vulnerability
of women
whisper to me
through the ages
And so, I remain still.
Claiming our space.
When every last drop of moisture has been kissed by sunlight
I turn onto my belly once more,
Lifting my head to look out into this world…
Yes, I am exposing breasts,
but there is also this–
A reflection
in the water
of–me.
A silhouette of my
head
surrounded by
rays of light,
streaming in from all sides.
No matter who comes now,
I know that I’m right where
I’m meant
to be.
I have always been a woman of faith. Of many faiths. As a child, I lived in Philadelphia, New Port News, Denver, West Point–and in each place I came across faith–from shades of Christianity–Southern Baptist and Mormonism–to Judaism, Hinduism and Buddhism.
I grew up tolerant and curious.
When I had my own children, I wanted to share the rich world of faith with them, but I didn’t know where to turn. We joined a Native American Prayer Circle, a Wiccan celebration, a Unitarian Universalist Church and an Episcopalian congregation. Each had its own gifts, but none felt entirely like home.
Eventually, I resigned myself to home-churching my children like some do with school. I created ritual and tradition from all that had been vital to me on my own spiritual journey: poetry, silence, reflection, candles, music, dance, yoga, community, service, contribution, stewardship, teachings, conversation, questioning, birth, death, rites of passage, devotion, understanding, love.
In this way, I’ve come into a deeper relationship with myself, and the seasons inside and out… as the wheel turns. It’s too soon to tell if I’ve served my children well. This morning we shared a Solstice Brunch before they left for school. There was a quiche from our neighbor’s eggs. There were orange bees wax candles. There was a poem and a teaching about the importance of the darkness. Of balance. Of rhythm. Of rest. And then they hurriedly removed their plates and rushed out the door.
In the silence of my home, my thoughts turn toward the massacre of a week ago this morning. I remember a Pema Chodron quote I read yesterday and make a mental note to ask my boys what they think of it:
To stay with that shakiness—to stay with a broken heart, with a rumbling stomach, with the feeling of hopelessness and wanting to get revenge—that is the path of true awakening. Sticking with that uncertainty, getting the knack of relaxing in the midst of chaos, learning not to panic—this is the spiritual path.
I don’t know what this world will render of my men. I know I will learn from them as they expose and improve upon my weaknesses and strengths. But neither will be central to me, as my job will be to continue my walk with faithfulness–steeping into the seasons, learning from what comes, growing when I can.
This is one of the first years that Solstice has been especially significant to me. Of all the holidays that I love, it’s the only one that is not made up, not assigned a time or meaning, or laden with traditions and expectations. It’s just the Earth, right outside of my door, tilting as far away as it can from the sun, as Winter sets in.
The older I get, the more I appreciate all this tilting and turning, and the more I understand it–in my bones.
That’s where I like my religion.
Up close.
Solstice
by Lloyd Meeker
Of my blood, my generation’s now the oldest, the link between the lives before and lives unfolding behind me; carries a slow simplicity, imperfect and complete.
Ancestors circle, surround me tonight, I hear them more plainly every year. This night they ask questions that have no words, and no escape.
Tomorrow when the new year’s sun strikes the keystone of my heart, what light I’ve kept alive, all I have to give, will answer.
Two Owls Calling 