Antares

There you are
with the clouds finally peeled away.

Scorpion’s heart, you sound like a villain,
you look all red and pulsing,

But somehow I don’t believe it.

I believe that you are a friendly star, just there,
just so,
as a skymark so I can learn my way.

Antares in the morning sky.
Almost March.

Tsssssshhh

Today’s snow is tiny, tiny crystals of diamond ice which whisper and touch as they fall on the previously-fallen snow and on each other. The whole night is full of them and I want it to go on and on and I want the night to hang on for a few more hours —

It is lovely.

A dream journal

is absolutely the right tool for the job — I dream so rarely that I know of, the practice of observing anything at all will help —
and all I have written so far is “I don’t remember any images or actions, but there was a pervading sense of peace”
over and over for days

Which is lovely, of course.

Is it true?
When I’m home safe and asleep in my bed, do I dream about being home safe and asleep in my bed?

It’s early.

Still-dark early
with a bit of moon-glow, but only a light touch.

I look around and see worry and striving or
lonely depression or
pandemic,

But for some reason they are not mine.
I am in the right place.
I am in the right work.
I am loving the right people.

I am making progress on cleaning the attic, which is absolutely proof of miracles. Sit with me and I’ll tell you about the correlation between how my house looks and how my mental health is going.

We cleared out a box labeled 1993 this weekend, that’s how long and how deep has been this struggle.

And it’s early yet.

Sunday morning

Sgiob is singing a little song to herself,
something to do with chasing the bouncy ball
and having a cool stone lintel to lie on when she gets too warm.

The sound is close to a purr,
tonal
and it is both comforting and nostalgic.

Something about “this lovely life,
yet I have memories which are not mine
of great flocks and open places.”

I don’t know exactly when it left,

but there used to be a soul-eating demon out there, coming in through the windows,
slipping in as blackness right around the edges where the glass meets the frame,
eating me hollow so that nothing but a husk remained,
going through the motions.

I don’t know exactly when it left,

but out there it is only the Night, which is a good friend.