naked messenger

i watch the sky light up into purple this morning. its been weeks since i could glimpse the sky from a window, and i was wilting. i watch the colors flare up the heavens and i feel like i’m slowly recovering from a long, long hangover. 

all i can do is put one foot in front of the other. i’m buffeted by the tides of the sensational and the mundane, like the rest of us. i’m invited to starve myself of human contact. in ghost streets, people touch crossover buttons with their elbows for minimum contact, without even thinking about it. these already ingrained customs still shock my alien eyes. i’m washed up on the shore of my attempts to change the world where i can and accept it where i cannot. 

wandering if what i do is enough. ever.

my client today said he experienced pure magic. i don’t know which of us keeps the others going, these random strangers with whom i sometimes exchange texts of poetic survival medicine – i keep snapshots of the gems for the days where i wonder what the hell i’m doing with my life. i keep mental pictures of that faraway look in their eyes, when they still haven’t come back.

sometimes it’s enough to make my day, the moment when a voice on the phone says yes, and makes time in their lives for the unknown. 

just that. without that, we go nowhere. 

and then, as priestesses know, there’s the fall. where a detail, a small spark will send us crashing down. last time it took me two days of staring at the floor. four days with a paralyzed back. body ingesting and letting out stuff bigger than me, bigger than the one who did the thing, who knows, who cares, it needs to get out and it does. i do my best to weed out the shame i still feel in those tragic downward torpedoes where i am, where we are, mercilessly crushed, one day or the other. we are on the altar and the altar is a place of sacrifice, of knife and blood and the singed smell of burning. We pay a price for letting our lightning summon fertile life back into the living dead.

and oh, the dead. with frayed nerves i lock myself out of my appartment – twice. i buy flowers for the neighbour who lets me scale their balcony. i stare at the pink lilies, suddenly remember. last time i bought flowers, it was pink lilies, the day my father died. did he die? right, he did. that still seems improbable on certain days. time doesn’t touch three decades of love, any more than the span of the oceans did, when we breathed in different hemispheres. last week i wept for an hour watching a movie, where a bedridden man held his daughter’s hand in the same way, pulling in that awkward squeeze that says i dont know what to say or how to be but i love you and we’re a team.

i juggle the simple survival of a land, a bed and food on the table taking up most of my days. miraculous friendship and running through clouds of goldfinches. always this gauging of the line – where do i push myself further, where do i give way and pick my battles. today i still smiled at the two of cups giving me divine confirmation to lie down. i am like most humans – i usually know the line only when it has been crossed. 

i also know the path from how far i’ve come. the way is not linear but with the turning of the years my feet have grown tough, and my heart soft. my eyes open. i wrote down words from the dreamworld.

“i stand as a pillar, a warrior, a naked messenger for my vision.“

and perhaps that’s it. the path of wild love simply says love, and be seen. one sentence. a few pictures. an hour of knitting, templing or crying. every day’s tribute of my heart, pouring out wine.

photo by mandy Ruangrit

#wildlove #musings #sacredsexuality #hardtimes #lockdown #grieving #magic #everydaymagic

Published by joythunder

ecstatic wildness

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