Little Altars Everywhere

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That rock that we
have been pushing up
the hill—that one

that keeps rolling back down
and we keep pushing
back up—what if

we stopped? We are not
Sisyphus. This rock
is not a punishment.

It’s something we’ve chosen
to push. Who knows why.
I look at all the names

we once carved into
its sedimentary sides.
How important

I thought they were,
those names. How
I’ve clung to labels,

who’s right, who’s wrong,
how I’ve cared about
who’s pushed harder

and who’s been slack.
Now all I want
is to let the rock

roll back to where it belongs,
which is wherever it lands,
and you and I could,

imagine!, walk unencumbered,
all the way to the top and
walk and walk and never stop

except to discover what
our hands might do
if for once they were no longer

pushing.

– Rosemerry Wahtola Trommer, “Perhaps It Would Eventually Erode, But … “

Full Egg Moon Dreamboard

We are in the waning days of the Full Egg Moon. A few days before this lunar cycle started, I made the tiny collage above which seemed to put forth a directive: Listen, something fragile is rising. I turned this phrase into a series of questions that guided me during the past month. What are you hearing? What is fragile? What is rising? Frankly, the answers surprised me. They were powerful and have left me feeling a bit tender and exposed. Hence the silence in this space. I have been working with my little bits of words practice in an attempt to put some words around my feelings. You can expect glimpses into that art journal over the next couple of weeks. The Full Flower Moon begins on Friday.

Little Altars Everywhere

 

Blue Jay Feather, Pine Straw

Death pushed me to the edge. Nowhere to back off. And to the shame of my fears, I danced with abandon in his face. I never danced as free. And death backed off, the way dark backs off a sudden burst of flame. Now there’s nothing left, but to keep dancing. It is the way I would have chosen had I been born three times as brave.

-Mark Nepo

Sunday Selections

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The god of dirt
came up to me many times and said
so many wise and delectable things. I lay
on the grass listening
to his dog voice,
crow voice,
frog voice: now,
he said, and now,
and never once mentioned forever
– Mary Oliver, “One or Two Things” (excerpt)