Summer Solstice. prayer. blessing. dream.

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…

So this is what it is be a bird.

(Bird Egg Feather Nest, Maryjo Koch)

the still ones

Holly Sierra
(artist: Holly Sierra)

I realize now that what I saw in my mother—the fixed-ness to one spot—her dining room table—a cup of coffee beside her—was not only a response to a life of over-doing, but also quite possibly, the result of–hormones.

I know this now because I have become fixed.

How else can the wisdom of crones be cultivated?

I have joined the spiral dance of the still ones.

~

(more on stillness: Ripening still)