There is a level of exhaustion which a good sleep can’t fix.
It takes multiple weeks of obeying the nap and going to bed with the sun.
It takes hours upon hours of quiet and alone and slowly, slowly remembering what our own bodies sound like when they speak to us.
It takes good, long walks or runs or swims every day to make our bodies’ tiredness begin to match our hearts’.
It takes being bored which lets in creativity or mischief, which hold the door open for delight to return.
Even that does not heal all the damage, but helps it to move to the past and scar over and not remain an active, acute thing.
Build up to stillness slowly,
greeting each new distraction, thought, worry, feeling with generous welcome because it is part of the path.
Rest for the heart comes in stillness, as rest for the body comes in sleep.
Not a lack of motion, but a balancing.
Stillness will come in tiny moments; that is enough to be going on with.
I hope that all my Morning Meander friends are celebrating Wolfenoot — a magical and wonderful day to celebrate.
Walk your pets, support an animal shelter, and let kindness flow.
Hangs a diamond in the silk-velvet of pre-dawn sky,
like a message,
like a Silmaril,
like a promise.
If this Morning Star were a promise
made to me by the stars,
what would it be?
That old promise, the promise which came walking up the shore
carried by a god.
I was just about to turn twelve
and the world had come crushing down and I
felt the weight of living
and would no one take this undeserved pain from me?
He walked up the shore
cloaked in a deep grey
and made the promise,
and for those words I have held on through…
Which have been complicated and painful and exhausting beyond belief
like the sea.
And lately the Things have changed.
That is inaccurate.
The Things are as they always have been,
but I bear them lightly now.
And I rest between times.
I had thought the promise meant that someday I would die
and all this would be over.
But today it means just what he said,
the god who walked up the shore all cloaked in grey.
Seems to be a regular thing now.
I’m not enamored of it,
Now that I could theoretically sleep until tierce
So I’m going to enjoy what there is —
Special Dog Time —
After walk, after food,
They wait for me at the comfy chair and first Sgiob gets an all-over massage with extra attention paid to ear massages
And then I put my feet up
And Max fits himself between my legs for his nap.
OK, I can handle this.
Sometimes, that’s what’s needful.
the briefest of walkies at 4am,
then back where we belonged.
That I won’t try walking outside barefoot,
That I will try to make a sled run,
and so little snow that I will forget about mittens and I will find myself at the bottom of the meadow with no way to stand but to push my hands down into the white fluff to hoist the rest of myself up.
But that’s not the disaster which some people would shriek about,
It’s fifty yards from my warm home and hot bath.
What’s a moment of discomfort compared to a sled run before sunrise?
and with a turn
she rises again.
The breath goes out on the month,
Just a slip of white left
between the clouds.
Yet snow is promised
It always comes
and this year the path through will be different,
this year the way to the real front door is clear and open and I very much hope that we will use that path, make a clear, shoveled way to the door over cobbled path.
That leaves the glass doors just for the family and the woods, you see, and the path therefrom will not lead to the mundane, polluting, everyday cars.
That way will be blocked, says I,
By all the beautiful snow in the world.
What I want is for the glass, south-facing, sun-loving inner doors to lead to a magical place of sledding and dog-running and sparkle and wonder. I want for these doors to lead to Faerie.
So I’m walking the new path now,
making it ready
For the snow
Count the cost.
Reckon the gain.
The sky lightens, and the earth spins,
and the good dogs run,
and the coffee makes noises,
and the sweet ones wander the house aimlessly.
each breath deeper than the last,
with crackles of old stuck places unsticking.
Is the circling round of the year
to a sacred day
regardless of the ephemera.
This day’s call, irresistible.
My merry lass’s natal day!
I shall watch the sun rise and remember the story
while she sleeps, safe and sound, nearby.