Today was earth and air. The practical and the woo-woo.
Saged my house. Placed carnelian stones in the corners of my bedroom and rose quartz behind my pillow.
Got my oil changed three months past-due. Mailed off my taxes and scheduled an appointment with my accountant, the ones who raises chickens on the windy shores of Lake Champlain.
Typed passages from Terry Tempest Williams’ book on my newly repaired typewriter: “Beside a well, one will not thirst; beside a sister, one won’t despair.”
Wandered around the Hadley Garden Center, intoxicated and grounded by all those colorful bamboo pots, the smell of dirt, the variety of leaves. Got lost in Whole Foods and bought mostly things that weren’t on my shopping list. Lugged a giant tub of cat litter to the car. A pound of ground espresso beans infusing my inhale.
Pillaged my parents’ barn with my mother’s blessing for wooden crates on which to place my sweet new houseplants.
I fell. But I am still standing.
A shell has two meanings–can you think of them? A foundation, as well. Wordplay delivered by a dead poet with shades, smokes, and a sense of humor, the one whose company I still keep.
And all the while, soaring high above my life, a bird of prey. From the car, I watched a formation of geese fall apart; for a moment perceiving the birds to be falling from the sky, scattering, creating a kind of visual chaos.
I think about the eons before meteorological instruments and wonder if women could sense a snowstorm coming on the cusp of spring, who lived in concert with the seasons and were able to sniff out imminent shifts in otherwise predictable patterns.
A hawk in a pine tree, three thousand miles from here. The message and the messenger. An owl feather falling to the floor of a kitchen that felt like my own, but wasn’t. A quote, sent to me by the one who wears the grey sweatshirt, whose scent is comfort.
Grandmother owl is said to show herself to those who need to let go of some old part of their life that no longer serves them.
My own patterns, though predictable, are still a mystery. The man at the market cradled a blanket–then as he hurried out into the parking lot, I glimpsed a baby’s tiny head beneath. New life.
The end of the day. A voice silently riding currents of the unseen.