A fragile sort of melancholy has settled around me, a rain-spun shroud of mist and dreams that is waiting desperately for the sun so that I can shrug it off and fly into golden summer days.
This image captures my mood beautifully. Just waiting for the skies to clear, and sitting, thinking… with occasional lapses into pondering.
Doesn’t the year know that I have plans for my free time? I have almost two free months for myself after this school year ends (in 7 work days, and I am counting): and time is taking its merry time bringing me across that line. It has been a long year — a marathon year — and I am ready to close it.
But for now, I must wait for the rain to end and for the 9th of June to do that. In the meantime, I shall continue to ponder, and be grateful that my feathers are waterproof.
Deep in the heart-wood that reaches upward to crown the sacred hill, Callieach’s white hart stamps the ground.
Antlered head cocks to one side as he listens to the birds speaking; sharing the best places to forage and the ones to avoid due to prowling cats and foxes seeking to put on winter fat. Once more the hart stamps the ground, steam rising from his nostrils to collect in clouds rising to crown his antlers. The conversation changes and he listens to wolves singing of winter winds and empty bellies; best to run and hunt lest winter stalk them later.
He nods in assent and his breath curls more around each point on his head. He bows his head to the ground under the growing weight. So he stands, waiting — impatiently — for the Queen of winter to gather his breath on her staff and spin out the snow-heavy clouds of winter.
Time, like liquid,
spirals down into Autumn.
One day, the sun pours over the scarlet leaves like amber;
the next, grey curtains of rain wash the brown hills & nourish them for winter.
Time, like liquid, spirals season into season.
Lately, I have been exploring art journals as another expression of creativity. I am still very much on square one with this process, but I have an idea of how I want to play with this small stone on a prepared page. Until the page is painted and scribed, I leave you with the words I was playing with this morning.
These words have brought me comfort and no small sense of hope as I reflect on the past few years. With these words as my guide, I can see my fallow times as needed pauses in nature’s rhythmical motion and not mere idleness.
Nature is ever at work building & pulling down, creating & destroying, keeping everything whirling & flowing, allowing no rest but in rhythmical motion, chasing everything in endless song out of one beautiful form into another.
With the (dubious) benefit of hindsight, I can also see these fallow times as treading water. For a long time, I had thought these fallow time were low-tides… all creative energy, inspiration, and desire was gone. It felt like the well was dry, and all that was stretched out before me was a barren mudflat. This summer, my view of reality shifted. In this refocusing, I saw that I was really treading water in a high tide of external demands, worries, and responsibilities. It was the act of moving that helped me start this shift in perception. Like the tide going out on the shore, hidden treasures have been uncovered and for me, rediscovered.
This season is giving me the chance to back track to myself. I can look at all the parts exposed. I can marvel at what I find; examine each thing and choose whether or not I will keep it in my life. It is a rich landscape, filled with treasures and teeming with potential to be explored.