COVERUPS!!!

This is on my mind today…:

I am starting over again and again and again and again….

Wellllll….

Do you know what a kaleidoscopic shift is?

Change!!!

So what are you covering up?

It is changed and you are being paid to cover it up ?

I don’t understand ?

It is changed indeed and never will be the same. Hallelujah 

I am sorry.  Please forgive me.’

Welcome to the NEW !!!

.____

I can’t stay, mother.

I love you, but I wasn’t born to please you

I wasn’t born to make you happy

or give your life meaning.

I wasn’t born to rot under your wings

like an unhatched egg.

I can’t stay, teacher.

I wasn’t born to be put into your boxes

to think along your lines

or to memorize your facts

I was born to think independently.

I can’t stay, my love.

I wasn’t born to satisfy your needs

to take care of you

or to hide in your arms.

I wasn’t born to make myself smaller

or to be taken for granted.

I can’t stay, boss.

I wasn’t born to make money for others

I wasn’t born to follow orders

or to repeat the same day over and over again

I wasn’t born for boredom.

I can’t stay, master.

I wasn’t born to follow your ideas of what truth is

or to live according to your dogmas.

I was born to find my own truth

and make my own rules.

I was born to meet life full on

To get lost on Indian trains

To be seduced by dangerous men

To meet different faces, places and cultures

to be out in the jungle all night

To run with wolves

To be swept off my feet

To be taken by storm

To be heartbroken

Devastated

Stunned

Shocked

Lost

Thrown into the deep

I was born to get my hands dirty

To get sand in my mouth

Mud on my clothes

Thorns under my feet

I was born to jump into the abyss.

I was born to meet aliens

To do rituals

To be cracked open in ceremony

To go beyond time and space

To welcome magic

To totally loose myself

I was born to feel everything

To taste everything

The bitter taste of sorrow

The foul taste of deceit

The sweet taste of love

I was born to learn how to handle change gracefully

I was born to know the truth

to learn how to fly

I was born to learn how to speak the language of love

How to unchain my heart

How to shed everything

How to let go of all expectations.

I was born to learn how it feels to lose everything

except what really matters.

I was born to live a life that would strip away everything that wasn’t real

that wasn’t true

that wasn’t me

I am a phoenix.

I am born to spread my wings and fly towards the sun

To burn up and turn to ashes

To fall down to earth and rise up again

When I am old

I will be proud of my scars

My wrinkles

My memories

My stories

My wisdom

My freedom.

I was born to be free.

And therefore, I can’t stay

– Sanne Burger

A thought…

There comes a time in every woman’s life when she embarks on an Underworld journey. Indeed, she will visit the Underworld more than once during the course of her lifetime. This journey may be precipitated by the loss of someone she loves, or by a life-threatening illness, or a grave disappointment in career or craft. When it happens, she feels that all is lost. She is separated from everything she holds dear. She is in shock. She despairs. She grieves.

She descends to the realm of the Old One, the Crone, the Cailleach, the Grandmother, Lady Death, Hecate, Baba Yaga, Erishkegal, La Santa de Muerte. The Old One has a thousand names.

Our Hallowmas Woman might find herself in a darkened wood, on a night when no moon lights the sky, not even a thin crescent. She sits cross-legged in the dirt at a place where three roads meet, a basket of offerings at her side. She shivers as she hears the mournful howl of a black dog, its red eyes glaring at her out of the thicket. She watches the silver-thin filament of spiderweb twist and turn in the starlight. She feels the rush of cold, quick air as a hoot owl flies overhead, flapping its enormous wings.

She waits.

She sits silently at the crossroads, knowing that the comfortable, familiar terrain of her life has crumbled away and is no more. But it is not yet clear where she will go next, or what shape her days might take.

She waits for the counsel of the Old One.

And while she waits, she reflects. She begins to dream. She sorts through her emotions. Yes! I want that. No! I don’t want that. This is the life I want. Not that. She begins to have glimmers of ideas, a dream barely caught upon waking. What was that? An image, a scent, a feeling . . . it is shapeless, taking form, then shapeless again.

Even though she is heartbroken, she begins to find comfort in this liminal space, between here and there, past and future, now and then. She is poised on the threshold between her ancestors and her descendants, the Dark Moon and the New. She begins to sense that she is broken open, and her heart expands, light streaming out through the cracks. The veils between this world and the next are thin indeed.

We see the Hallowmas Woman in the stark November landscape, with its muted tones of olive, ochre, sienna brown. We find her in a cold statue in a graveyard, garlanded with dead roses, thorns, and blood-red rosehips. We see her in fogbound mornings when there is no distinction between sea, stones, and sky, and the Otherworld is just a step away. She lives within the brief days and long nights that draw us toward withdrawal and cocooning. The Hallowmas woman rests. She withdraws into herself. It is not a time of connection. She prefers her own company, turning down invitations to gather with others. The midwinter holidays will be here soon enough.

Perhaps, if she should be so lucky, a woman will live long enough in human years to embody the Old One literally. At 70 or 80 years old, she has walked the Great Round of life/death/renewal more than once. She knows how the story ends. Age does not automatically confer wisdom (there’s no fool like an old fool) — but by 70 years old, our Hallowmas woman has learned a thing or two about her soul’s purpose. She is well aware of the legacy that she will leave behind when she crosses the threshold.

Her body may be ravaged by disease or aging. Then again, she may be as flexible and strong as her 90-year-old neighbor who practices yoga and walks a mile or two every day. Keeping the physical body supple and healthy has never been as important as it is now, with a whole Underworld to explore. The Hallowmas woman has not had her moonflow in many years, and to be honest, she doesn’t really miss it. She’s content to be on the other side of the hormonal veil, and to leave the cycle of fertility and release to younger women.

When the time of All Hallows comes to a woman’s soul, she begins to make her peace with Lady Death, and with endings of all kinds. She knows, as the Fates do, that all things must pass. She knows herself as Atropos, She Who Cuts the Thread of Life; as the Queen of Swords, who slices away negativity, confusion, and doubt; as the Blue Dakini, who severs ties. She makes choices: this, she will keep. That, she will let go.

She begins to live as if Lady Death is peeking over her shoulder. Life is stripped down to its essentials. What is really important? In the end, what really matters?

She sorts through the possessions left by her parents and grandparents, after purging and giveaways and purging again. What remains are photographs, wedding rings, a Welsh Bible, a fraying crazy quilt, a fishing hat, a cherished wooden chair…

When we suspect our time might be short, our priorities become quite simple. Finish that painting, that poem, that song; forgive him, and her, and that one too. Spend time with the ones we love; visit the edge of salt water and stones every day. While we’re there, be sure to pick up beach glass, then give it away. Sing to the Blessed Mother. Light a candle and breathe a prayer for the wild and holy earth, for the benefit of all beings. Be present to the beauty that surrounds us. Every day is a gift of grace.

The Hallowmas woman has been sitting long enough at the crossroads. The Ancient One emerges from the thicket of thorns, the black hound at her side, a green snake wrapped around her arm. She offers the woman a sliced-open pomegranate, its ruby seeds spilling out. With her inner ear, the woman hears the ritual words: ‘Take, eat: the fruit of death, which is life.’ She swallows nine pomegranate seeds, savoring the tart, bittersweet flavor on her tongue. The Crone points a bony finger toward one of three paths, and the Hallowmas woman moves on. She casts one last look over her shoulder as she leaves the Underworld, then turns to search for a first glimpse of the New Moon.

On our deathbeds, when we’ve run out of time, and no more books will be written, no more songs will be sung, and no more canvases will be painted — when that time comes, and we are poised to cross the threshold into the Great Unknown — all that matters is love. The fierce love we’ve had for the sacred earth, for our friends and family and lovers, and the love that has flowed back to us in return. Our overflowing hearts have been cracked open, mended and broken open again.

All that matters is love

Plus, I want my children to love each other after I am gone. Right now, they don’t like me or each other. Oops oops oops.

I have work to do!  And it is not too late!

Chez Clarissa!!!!

Hang on !  It is going to be a bumpy ride !!!

Fasten your seat belts!!!

Best. Jay