Between Judyth Hill and Robert Bly (and with thanks to Dale, Clarissa, Oriah and Pema, all the roadways and avenues, time and space in between), the rains decided to take these tears, tickle this metal roof overhead (this tin hat I seem to be wearing), run down clickety-clack through mild, darling downspouts this morning. I imagine wee field mice drinking and dancing where the newborn trickles run on the grey January slabs at the front door.
This morning I see the rivers spawned and some tales told by their currents, these ancient stories that come to live alongside us until we might notice.
There are windswept windows carved in this ice; I peer inside, see glimmering moments of you and me.
Time unlocks and falls away, all at once these reflections shine back through the low mists and weather. They rumble with one voice, a winter’s rippling and settling. Nothing to fear, figure out, fight or flee.
Grateful for this pen and the words that come. They hang like tattered, glorious streamers, between us, joined.
Tags: Dr. Clarissa Pinkola Estés, Judyth Hill, Leslie Holt, Oriah Mountain Dreamer, Pema Chodron, Robert Bly
