Mother’s sky

SOC Writing _ 2.8.21

Mother’s sky

Over dust and dusk she weaves her loom – the clickity clack – the chicken’s feet holding the house – how do you do it? Holding down the family with no time for yourself – but save your garden and the brief glimpses of joy in the natural world. No matter – you are living your life - I mine. We both have our terrors, both have found our joys – mine might spill over to yours at some point – like your grandson descended from you but from my loins - I make my pact with the wild to bring to it what I have found, hunted, stolen – the women from a grey landed sky - the rock lichen white upon grey stone and ever deeper water their I’ve ever seen. She like the night white women has terrorised my soul and still beckons me in – what should I do? where should I, retreat – move to?  A fighters stance sometimes aids me – but it is not me – I prefer the still and slow prowl of the father lion – who bristles with hot intention – sometimes played out – oft hoping I don’t have to – but there all along I look to the skies – for parts of your celestial star maps, for grandmother’s too – a whole mothering constellation that I am no longer afraid of. We gird ourselves for another session with this ancient vine – I am not keen in the sense of having a coffee with her – more of: will I, won’t I – the insights to the calcified parts of me – she says I have so much life in me – do I? I barely know it – of course I know it – you have come to me – like my spirit creature and have spirited me away. I shall not return to the hum drum world now – I shall make something of this soul – really impart the love and life lust that is here and not give any fucks about those who disdain it – it is indeed as David Whyte says – time to accept the happiness due in my life. Stay in love and forget the old sinking and drowning – time now to walk on water.