My rituals are begun. I'm about to write my three pages, clearing the way, centering myself, sinking into a comfortable writing seat. Soon I will ignore the rise and fall of the winged creatures outside my creation room window. I will stop imagining what they are and are not, stop marking the patterns their flights seem to make. Though they do fascinate me with their dances.
Before I dive into my writing today I did a bit of reading from my super-hippie daily calendar, the We'moon 2011 (30th anniversary) edition. Here is a piece of prose, from this week, that I liked and want to share.
I plucked out my wing feathers--they said I belonged on the ground.
I stopped dancing and singing--they said I had no rhythm.
I silenced myself--no one was listening.
I stitched my eyes shut--So I didn't have to see what was happening.
I dug my own grave and lay in it--So I didn't have to feel the pain
So I could be at peace
In the emptiness.
There in the pit
I found my bones
In the marrow of my bones
There was strength
In the pulsing of my blood
There was rage
In my flesh--Desire
I clawed my way out of that grave
Using my strength, rage and desire.
Carefully I cut away the stitches
To see the truth
I whispered my words to myself
I started to sway and hum
To my own music
Now I am gathering feathers
Resurrection by Eileen Rosensteel
This poem reminds me of a post I wrote over three years ago. (How can it be that long?) It's called On Reviving Myself and you can read it here.