Words, like crickets, leap from my mind – chirping pests whose trajectory eludes my dulled reflexes, scuttling around the periphery of my awareness
Harmless, really, in the singular, a cacophony in multitudes threatening to multiply further and destroy any semblance of sanity
I must intuit their rhythm, define the notes in workable phrases, capture the essence of their meaning and inscribe the message before they disappear again.
(Pestilence of Words first appeared on One Woman’s Quest II, October 2016. Edited for this edition. Image my own.)
Consciousness commands a shift of focus – tired of the clash of colours stimulation overload – my muse is leaning towards the nuance of black and white
A study of shadows and shading and how light arouses the soul
Speak to me in subtleties she whispers in tones suggestive of hidden depths; I am listening
And so I submerge myself clear the palette of vibrant hues and take up the lowly pencil seek the promise in colourless world.
I have ventured into your atmosphere slipped my skin your skin and discovered a universe thoughts emotions beliefs blending into a physical dance of light and shadow nuances of colour delineating life
At our core we are light leaning into mystery cellular interpretations of a symphony we cannot hear
Compassion extended mind altered we meld.
(Melding first appeared here June, 2020. Image my own)
Maybe I just needed a new perspective – like the famed Hanged Man of tarot – committed to some deep, internal need, I willed a horizontal shift; landed with intent.
Maybe it is not my legs that are disabled, but a soul longing to escape the continual discord of perpetual motion, a never-ending to-do list of the success-driven persona.
Maybe there is a greater purpose for being that is not encompassed by outer drive – a mysterious meaning that is revealed only in the quiet stillness in which I now dwell.
Maybe I have been called to a personal pilgrimage – a Camino of sorts – a crusade of spirit designed to cleanse and enlighten – the journey is certainly arduous enough.
Maybe it is through acceptance, finally having released a need to control, move, achieve, accomplish that I am able to embrace the true lessons of suffering.
Maybe this cocooning is an act of Grace demanding surrender before the actual transformation occurs, and I will emerge, legless or not, winged and ready to soar.
Maybe, just maybe, this stripped down, barren existence is not a penance for shameful living, but a desert crossing, offering re-alignment: hard-fought peace.
(Maybe first appeared here Feb. 2017. Image my own)
One Woman's Quest 