i admire folks who can love autumn.
when summer ends, i take a deep breath and start counting the hours of sunlight that disappear. i realize that by thanksgiving, i'm probably going to be something of a wreck.
on my little corner of the east coast, we're coming to the end of the first officially chilly week, and all i want to do is hide in a cave and cry. no amount of hot cider, butternut squash, specialty seasonal coffee drink, or pumpkin muffins (not that i like pumpkin muffins...) will change that.
yes, the leaves are beautiful, but soon they will be gone...and i miss being surrounded by green.
yeah, the "holidays" are kinda sorta something to look forward to. but...eh.
come ooooon, spring...
Showing posts with label mother earth. Show all posts
Showing posts with label mother earth. Show all posts
11.03.2010
10.15.2008
blessed serendipity
it's been a rough few weeks, and the sudden onset of pms isn't helping.
i was feeling kinda blah this morning when i boarded the bus. but then i looked up and saw the full moon still high in the sky. the sunrise was at my back.
i briefly acknowledged and gave thanks for the sun's rainbow sherbert display, but turned back to the moon to ask for strength.
something in the cloud pattern took me back to august when i sat on the beach with yemonja. that morning, i could also see the moon and sun together.
almost immediately, i felt blessed beyond measure. my trials are simply an ebo, and it's temporary.
i will see the other side & be just fine.
i was feeling kinda blah this morning when i boarded the bus. but then i looked up and saw the full moon still high in the sky. the sunrise was at my back.
i briefly acknowledged and gave thanks for the sun's rainbow sherbert display, but turned back to the moon to ask for strength.
something in the cloud pattern took me back to august when i sat on the beach with yemonja. that morning, i could also see the moon and sun together.
almost immediately, i felt blessed beyond measure. my trials are simply an ebo, and it's temporary.
i will see the other side & be just fine.
12.22.2007
honoring the red
as soon as fall nears--i.e., from september, peaking around thanksgiving, and winding down at the winter solstice--i become increasingly aware of my native american ancestors. i think because of the half-truths and flat out lies surrounding thanksgiving combined with all the cultural misappropriation.
i also begin to feel mournful as the weather turns cold, but recognize that it is not my sadness. i guess this comes from losing so many to the winter marches west during the forced migrations.
at any rate, it occurred to me to place something for them on my egun altar for thanksgiving--or, as many indigenous people refer to it, the day of mourning: some beautiful indian corn i got at the farmer's market, cornmeal, and tobacco (which i keep for my ancestors anyway since so many of them smoked).
they have touched me in dreams and waking visions. a woman taught me a "heartsong". when i almost forgot it, she came and taught me again. i have remembered it ever since.
i used to have dreams of a shaman dressed in a flannel shirt and overalls who would do readings for me.
in another dream, a group of men i somehow recognized as "cousins" invited me into their circle to drum with them. i politely refused, thinking i'd be intruding, but they insisted. i did not drum with them, but, upon waking, i immediately wished i had. i thought, "they were family...". to this day, my desire to own a drum hasn't left me.
this morning i offered their gifts with a prayer close to this one:
the very particular way the wind whistled past my ears as i walked back home signaled their acceptance.
they have so much to teach us, and many of them think they have been forgotten. but just as many native people are going back to the ways of their ancestors, so are we.
we remember
we remember
we remember...
i also begin to feel mournful as the weather turns cold, but recognize that it is not my sadness. i guess this comes from losing so many to the winter marches west during the forced migrations.
at any rate, it occurred to me to place something for them on my egun altar for thanksgiving--or, as many indigenous people refer to it, the day of mourning: some beautiful indian corn i got at the farmer's market, cornmeal, and tobacco (which i keep for my ancestors anyway since so many of them smoked).
they have touched me in dreams and waking visions. a woman taught me a "heartsong". when i almost forgot it, she came and taught me again. i have remembered it ever since.
i used to have dreams of a shaman dressed in a flannel shirt and overalls who would do readings for me.
in another dream, a group of men i somehow recognized as "cousins" invited me into their circle to drum with them. i politely refused, thinking i'd be intruding, but they insisted. i did not drum with them, but, upon waking, i immediately wished i had. i thought, "they were family...". to this day, my desire to own a drum hasn't left me.
this morning i offered their gifts with a prayer close to this one:
to my ancestors who walked this land before me, i give thanks. many of us do not know your names or your faces, but we know your blood runs through our veins. we thank you.
please do not be mournful: be joyous! come and teach us, let us learn from you about caring for the earth and honoring you. come into our dreams so we may learn your ways. we love you.
i thank you for your guidance and the work you do in my life. may you continue to be a force of goodness and strength.
ase.
the very particular way the wind whistled past my ears as i walked back home signaled their acceptance.
they have so much to teach us, and many of them think they have been forgotten. but just as many native people are going back to the ways of their ancestors, so are we.
we remember
we remember
we remember...
12.20.2007
(pre)menstrual musings
constantly hungry.
spiritually sensitive.
wondering why i haven't had 2-3 babies by now.
slightly unfocused.
dreamy.
constantly exhausted and energized at the same time.
formlessly creative (in need of OUTLETS!).
frustrated.
entranced.
craving orgasm.
vaguely nauseous.
lunar.
stiff. a little achy.
full-feeling.
talkative. ideological.
blocked.
waiting for the flow.
spiritually sensitive.
wondering why i haven't had 2-3 babies by now.
slightly unfocused.
dreamy.
constantly exhausted and energized at the same time.
formlessly creative (in need of OUTLETS!).
frustrated.
entranced.
craving orgasm.
vaguely nauseous.
lunar.
stiff. a little achy.
full-feeling.
talkative. ideological.
blocked.
waiting for the flow.
7.13.2007
mayo
i went to girl scout camp for a couple of years, probably when i was 8-10 years old.
as at most sleep-away camps, many things revolved around the dining hall. we learned how to fold and unfold the flag into a triangle. we put it up in the morning, and retired it at night.
we literally sang for our supper: you sang to get in the hall, you sang to see who would get served first, who got to leave to go to the pool first (loudest group won)...we sang grace, too.
each day, one camp would arrive early to set the tables and serve. that meant one or two people from your camp sat at each table, and you were something of a waitress for everyone else that day. everyone rotated, so everyone had the experience of serving and being served.
one of the folks in the kitchen was a black woman named mayo--at least that's what we called her. not even "miss mayo", which--as a properly raised quasi-southern young girl--would have been her proper title. just mayo.
mayo loved us. she gave us treats for our hikes, smiled at us as we came through the kitchen. she probably called us things like "baby" and "honey", too.
i'm sure she gave everyone those treats and those smiles. but--in the spirit of the best teachers and grandmothers--she had a wonderful way of making you feel like you were the only camp she was giving treats to that day.
i'd never seen anyone like her. i was used to large people; my family is tall on both sides. but mayo was tall and wide.
it was impossible to tell how old she was. she could have been 40, she could have been 80.
and she was dark. up until then, i'd never met anyone who was as literally black as this woman was. she wasn't what we'd call blue-black, but she shone.
she was loud, too, but not crude. her voice had a natural resonance that she either could not or did not want to contain. if she was annoyed, it was rolling thunder. if she was happy, it was an endearing, steady hum. there was something utterly southern about her.
i am certain i had to have had ancestors like her, but she's the closest representation i've seen in the flesh, before or since, of what we must have been like somewhere between africa and the first couple generations who had english as a first language.
obviously, she left an impression.
every so often, i think of her. i have no idea why.
but, it moved me to write, so i went with it.
mama mayo, wherever you are, i pray you are blessed.
ashe.
as at most sleep-away camps, many things revolved around the dining hall. we learned how to fold and unfold the flag into a triangle. we put it up in the morning, and retired it at night.
we literally sang for our supper: you sang to get in the hall, you sang to see who would get served first, who got to leave to go to the pool first (loudest group won)...we sang grace, too.
each day, one camp would arrive early to set the tables and serve. that meant one or two people from your camp sat at each table, and you were something of a waitress for everyone else that day. everyone rotated, so everyone had the experience of serving and being served.
one of the folks in the kitchen was a black woman named mayo--at least that's what we called her. not even "miss mayo", which--as a properly raised quasi-southern young girl--would have been her proper title. just mayo.
mayo loved us. she gave us treats for our hikes, smiled at us as we came through the kitchen. she probably called us things like "baby" and "honey", too.
i'm sure she gave everyone those treats and those smiles. but--in the spirit of the best teachers and grandmothers--she had a wonderful way of making you feel like you were the only camp she was giving treats to that day.
i'd never seen anyone like her. i was used to large people; my family is tall on both sides. but mayo was tall and wide.
it was impossible to tell how old she was. she could have been 40, she could have been 80.
and she was dark. up until then, i'd never met anyone who was as literally black as this woman was. she wasn't what we'd call blue-black, but she shone.
she was loud, too, but not crude. her voice had a natural resonance that she either could not or did not want to contain. if she was annoyed, it was rolling thunder. if she was happy, it was an endearing, steady hum. there was something utterly southern about her.
i am certain i had to have had ancestors like her, but she's the closest representation i've seen in the flesh, before or since, of what we must have been like somewhere between africa and the first couple generations who had english as a first language.
obviously, she left an impression.
every so often, i think of her. i have no idea why.
but, it moved me to write, so i went with it.
mama mayo, wherever you are, i pray you are blessed.
ashe.
6.21.2007
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