Warmth and sun, oh how I need it.  I have slid the cover of the moonroof back on my car.  My commute this morning should be glorious.  The window itself is closed but light will flood the car. 

Oh, how my pineal gland needs the stimulation. Homemade vitamin D coursing through my body.  I will almost be able to hear the birdsong off in the woods as I rumble down the interstate. I will take the exit through the park today to check out the gardens and trees of the rich folk.  I expect daffodils and redbud and pear.  Perhaps the dogwood will be starting. 

My irises have begun coming up. The ancient ones.  The ancestors of my great-grandmother’s.  I like to think she got hers from a family member.  I like to think about how long our lineage has been sharing iris rhizomes with one another.  Where they might have originally come from – Missouri, Tennessee, Michigan?  Those are only the places I know about.   

The day will start chill.  It will be a conundrum to figure out what to wear today.  Weather says It’s 60F now for an expected high of 75F though in town it will likely be warmer.   

Still, on the concrete, in the shadows of the buildings, there will be a chill.   

I always think it looks ridiculous to wear summer attire this early in the year even if the temps warrant it.  Oh, how my toes long for the freedom of air.  My arms and legs for the brilliant crystalline light of an Appalachian spring day. 

But I’m assuming much.  It may be warm, but I have no guarantee of sun.  For all I know, it will be cloudy and drizzly. In fact, yes, the weather says cloudy all day with thunderstorms tonight.   Sigh.  But they are so often wrong.  Let today be a wrong day.  They can keep some of the warmth if they will just give me the sun.   

I need that bright light. 

I am weary of this gray winter we’ve had.  The Eagles said it best, “the sky won’t snow and the sun won’t shine.”  It’s been dreary rain for the most part.  Abnormally warm for winter, but dark and gloomy. 

I need to be in the yard.  I need to re-read The Secret Garden until it’s time.  Folklore says the appearance of dandelions signals when it’s warm enough to be barefoot outside.  Nowadays they call it earthing.  I grew up sans shoes…earthing is my natural state.   

I like being outside, toes curled in the grass, the soil, the sand, and even the mud.  Feeling the Mother through my feet.  My yoga instructor says there is a bundle of nerves terminating in the feet that begin at the pineal gland.  A conduit from mind to earth, so to speak. 

I need to bare my feet and let those nerves absorb the earth’s vibrations. 

Shall I wear sandals today?  Hmmm.  Probably not.  It will be cold in the shadows.  It will be gloomy and rainy.   

But soon, dear ones, soon. 

Update: It is not gloomy and rainy. Warm with partial sun. AND the dandelions are out. It’s time to barefooted outside. Yee-haw. My hillbilly diva self is quite happy.

Dante: The Divine Comedy

“In the middle of the journey of our life I came to myself within a dark wood where the straight way was lost.”

The Divine Comedy

Well.  As you can imagine, I was quite startled.  Imagine meeting yourself in a dark forest when you’ve lost the road?  Or found it, depending on your perspective.  The two of you, literally, standing there.  Both in shock.  Mouths open, staring.  The one a hunter and the other a gatherer.  Would there be nervous laughter.  Both of us are me so I imagine there would be.  With a divine comedy, laughter is essential. 

Talk about a midlife crisis.  Two of me.  The adventurer and the homebody.  The urban dweller meets the hermit who lives in a large tree trunk.  Both me, neither me.  We need to integrate.

Photo by Niels Dewulf on Unsplash

Or do we?   Can’t there be two?  The introvert and the extravert?  Yin and yang.  Ego and Id.  One for desire, one for need.

Should life be a straight Roman road?  Sunlit and laid out before you?  Or a winding country path verdant in dappled shadows hiding and seeking. 

Is it a conundrum or a dream?  Sacred or profane?

Questions. Which of me will ask the most questions.  I imagine the hermit mostly silent, observing and taking it all in.  The traveler babbling trying to make sense of the few details I’ve noted.  Like two of me.  In a forest.  Lost. 

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The Coming Home

Are you a tourist or a traveler?  Is it a trip or a quest?  A journey or a destination?

These days, I’m a tourist more than a journeyer.  I did my journey early in life.  I was on a quest for years before coming home to myself.  Coming home to my heritage.  Coming home to my genetics.

That sounds kind of sad, but I don’t mean for it to.  A year or so ago, maybe two, I was playing around with some video software and did a digital story about my house.  I often don’t know what I think, until I start writing.  The montage needed a script and so I wrote one.  In the course of writing, I discovered I had reached my destination.  The journey was over.

Now when I leave home, I’m a tourist.  I’m not looking for a place to live or find happiness or fulfillment.  I’m simply out seeing the sights.  Kirk Judd wrote:

I thinks
one reason
I be leavin'
alla time
is 'cause
the comin' home
so good

–Kirk Judd

The comin’ home.  Yes. 

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I love…

I love puppies.  I call all dogs, regardless of their age, puppies, but in this instance, I am talking about newborn puppies.  I love their glossy fur, round bellies, and milk smell.  I love the little noises they make when they suckle.  I positively chortle with delight when they try to walk or jockey for position to reach one of mama’s nipples.

The Creator was in a good mood the day puppies were made.

I love coffee first thing in the morning.  Fresh and piping hot.  I wrap my hands around the mug and hold it like it is the Holy Grail leading me to redemption.  I love the aroma and will breathe it in with the steam.  Once in a while, I will pour heavy cream into it until it is the color of dark caramel.  The richness of the cream coating my tongue.

Morning coffee is my daily ritual – my must for starting the day.

I love the beach in summertime.  I have a low chair that allows me to dig my feet into the sand as I stretch out, my mug of coffee with me in the morning, and a ridiculous umbrella drink in my right hand in the afternoon.  I sit there and I watch people and I watch the ocean and I meditate on the sand.  I do not read.  I do not write.  I do not think.  I just sit and let negative ions from the crashing surf pour over me until my skin begins to redden -the signal that I need to get out of the sun. 

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