Not Your Mother's Table

THAT IS NOT YOUR MOTHER'S TABLE

I bet you all thought I was going to forget to remind you of this, this year.
Wrong! Some parts of me are with it and balanced.

So, without further ado: Holiday guilt-free pass.

I have a dear friend who suffers from debilitating anxiety. She posted a meme that asks people to understand how difficult the holidays can be for people who have anxiety, and described some of the ways in which they struggle.

I add to that this request: please be kind and understanding about the schedules of your family and friends, especially when it comes to your adult children. More than kind and understanding, please also be generous enough to be the person who gives them the gift of a guilt-free pass.

Balancing the holiday demands of multiple families can be a nightmare, especially if those families all insist on sharing a meal or even time together on the same day. Rushing from one gathering to the next makes for an exhausting day filled with stressful expectations.

Guilt-free pass: "Hey, I know the holidays can be crazy. Don't worry about Thanksgiving Day here (or Yule, or Christmas, or Hanukkah). Let's plan something around your schedule. And by the way - this is a GUILT FREE PASS. I love you."

Saturday afternoon dinner or dessert, or Sunday brunch or Wednesday night sandwiches and chips, when everyone is relaxed and happy, can be every bit the holiday you make it in your head and heart, especially if it is all about the love and being thankful.

Morning Routine

I am out of bed early these days, whether or not I have slept. I am re-learning the power of being true to my body's natural rhythms; for me that includes being up and productive before sunrise. My creative energy flows best in the early hours, and I love the inherent promises imbedded in the arrival of each new day.

I've just been outside to greet the rising Sun. Today He is dressed in long gray robes that flow down from the sky to drape the mountains that surround me. The rain that is falling is cold on my skin; the jellycoat I love to wear for warmth is not exactly water repellent but I have never minded the rain.

There is enough of a breeze to blow the rain onto our narrow front porch and to cause the rain chains to sway in a little morning dance, and I find myself moving with them in the soft ages-old dance of every woman who has ever held a child on her hip. I love the plink-plink-plink sound of water flowing down the chains, through the lotus cups, and down the chains again. I settle into one of the front porch chairs, my hands and fingers kept warm by my favorite mug holding my currently favorite tea.

It would be easy in this time of year to forget about the land that holds the Cottage and focus on indoor projects only. Days are often cold and wet; going outside often requires bundling up and putting on my wellies. Most green things are tucked away for the cold and dark days, held safe in the body of the Mother where she will either consume or nourish them, so it seems like there wouldn't be much to see. But the getting acquainted with my land and the land spirits who dwell here doesn't stop with the turning of the seasons; neither does growing a relationship nor educating myself about the terra, flora, and fauna for which I have accepted stewardship. Rising before dawn, the first cup of tea, going outside to walk the land or breath fresh air, to check in with the land as I start my day - these things are part of the routine that are necessary to my healing journey.

On this soft gray morning I watch the way the water runs down our driveway. I see where it cuts across the stones into the Cottage Garden and note that I will have to consult my Chief Engineer about doing something to re-route it there. I carry my mug to the end of the porch and stand leaning against the railing, watching to see how the water moves around the lavender bed and I am content with the dispersed flow through the river rocks piled there. The statue of three little bears makes me smile, as it always does. I affirm our plan to put a rain barrel in under the downspout on the corner of the North Wing, and make a note to check out the South and back yards for rain barrel placement as well. Creating plans for the future helps me to feel grounded in the Here and Now.

I move back to the other end of the porch to sit for a while longer, and am pleased to hear the morning bird chorus start its song. First one, then another, then another joins in. They call back and forth to each other as they work to sing the Sun into the sky. From where I sit, the plink-plink sounds of the rain chain provide an under-rhythm to the combined sounds of falling rain and bird song. In this moment, everything feels right. I carry the fluid grace and soft energy of this day into the house with me, back to my desk, and into my healing process.

Peace out, people.

The Winter of My Soul

Funny how long it takes to settle things in a home. In the moving-in process it was necessary to dump all of my stuff - writing materials, books, paintings and paint supplies, craft materials and materia magicae (sorry, Mr. Gray! 37 years out of Latin classes with you and I just don't remember as well as I should!) - onto the surface of the repurposed kitchen table which is now my desk, and envision it all perfect in just a week or two. In reality, although it has been functional for a while now, it took five months to get everything in just the right place.

Earlier this week I was doing the final sorting out, prompted by the need to create an easily accessible morning altar space. This process included going through an impressive stack of notebooks and journals and, because I have lost the ability to stay on task, I found myself reading through each one of them. At the bottom of the stack I found the journal I started when I realized I was in the Winter of My Soul.

Nearly two years ago, close to the end of the first year of life without my youngest daughter in this world, I wrote about wishing I could take a sabbatical for six months or a year. Mostly, I said, I wanted to get away and rest and renew my spirit. I wrote these words:

     "I have alternately felt as though I am lost, drowning, overwhelmed, cannot breathe, cannot slow          down, cannot move fast enough..."

I tried for a while to turn inward with the season. I tried to tend to my own needs, my own healing. I was successful for a short time, but then I let life get in the way. I allowed the expectations and distraction of other people and society to turn me away from dealing with the grief that threatened to consume me. In doing so I shut down all awareness that it was wearing away at me from the inside out.

Events in my life in the past year stripped away all those distractions, and those of you who know me best probably know that I severed the ties of expectations and obligation. While those life changes were immensely liberating and have opened doors of opportunity, they have left me standing face-to-face with the grief that is still raw in wounds that are wide open. This has not been an easy journey, and it is nowhere near complete. I have once again alternately felt as though I am lost, drowning, overwhelmed, cannot breathe, cannot slow down, cannot move fast enough.

A couple of weeks ago I made the decision to follow the seasons in the Turning of the Wheel of the Year, and to turn more deeply inward than I have ever done. To the marrow of my bones I know that it is the right thing for me to do.

When I found that journal yesterday I rediscovered a writing that woke a truth within me the first time I read it, and I read it out loud again as a prayer:

     "When winter comes to a woman's soul, she withdraws into her inner self, her deepest spaces. She refuses all connection, refutes all arguments that she should engage in the world. She may say she is resting, but she is more than resting: She is creating a new universe within herself, examining and breaking old patterns, destroying what should not be revived, feeding in secret what needs to thrive." ~ Patricia Monaghan, Season of the Witch

It is time for me to embrace that truth, and to live in each moment of this season. Self-aware, self-exploring, healing, learning, and turned as deeply inward as I can possibly go. I do not fear the darkness anymore than I fear the light.

I am living The Winter of My Soul.