08/08/2024
walking between two worlds means sometimes getting really torn between them, too, and the need for a clear home base is becoming more and more apparent. My soul knows where she goes to rest and yet I have been hesitant to move in there. Afraid of commitment, I leave the door wide open so as not to close up any opportunities - I wonder, restlessly, because where you sleep, you get claimed. It is time, though.
Every song, as Tom Waits said, needs an address. It needs someone or something it is directed to, it speaks to, it longs to resonate with. Every song, however, also needs an address from which it can spring and spread.
It is from my soul place, my best work emerges. I can carry books and learnings there, to my soul realm, to inform the creative process and lend fill out the picture of intuitive understandings. My soul, however, does not travel well. I take her out from where she feels at home and her skin starts to dry up and itch. She misses the nourishment she finds in the forest and the view of the waves that clear her sight and the sea breeze that fills her lungs and invigorates her cells. I can stuff her in an office and tie her to a chair and say: "here, read, learn, listen and don't come out before you've produced something worthwhile, defensible, less vulnerable to academic critique." She will sit there and try, because she is dutiful and has been shaped to be 'good' by someone else's standards. But her feather coat will dull, her furry belly will reveal flakey skin patches, her claws will cramp and hurt and her eyes will be blinded by fluorescent light, unable to see in the dark and translate the secrets that bring life and magic to us all.
An open oven can't bake bread. It is time to move in, underground, into the soft, mossy caves that, through underground tunnels, illuminated by dreams, and the earth's soul whispers and images as old as life itself, open up to high cliffs with swooping seagulls and ocean views. It is time to carve my number into a piece of bark and hang it onto the cottage door on a piece of string - "here, I belong. Here, you can deliver your mail. Here, you can place the bottle of milk on my doorstep. Here, you can knock if you seek the medial woman who sees well in the dark and knows how to navigate forests and run with the wolves and swim with the seals."
Here, I rest.
Here, I receive.
From here, I travel.
To there, I return.
HUT HUT HUT.