Summer Musings

1. For the last two weeks of August, I've enrolled in a course called Wild Musings by the wildly inspiring Renee Magusson ( http://www.reneemagnusson.com/). I'm so excited. I love Renee's unabashed honesty and depth. She will often post 10 things for her blogs (also Effy Wild does this) so I thought I would do this too for my July blog. In August, through the course, I'm hoping to put my 'wild musings' here on my blog. It'll depend what comes up and how public it wants to be. Lol

2. In grabbing Effy's website url, I noted that she lists herself as a soul number 9. I'm a 9 too. Old souls, I think. Been around a while. I was once told by a palm reader that I was an old soul because I have a star on my palm. I like the idea of being an old soul so I look at that star sometimes and remember.

3. Thinking about the number 9 made me think of my house number. This month (as in many months!) the focus has been on my home and yard. I was very conscious of the number of my home in drawing my house for the new moon in July but it wasn't until this moment that I realised that if i take away the 9 that's already there in the house number that leaves 1+2+6=9. Ha! And if I add that 9 to the pre-existing 9 then I get 18. Which of course is 1+8=9! Triple 9 house (in Britain 999 is equivalent to 911 in Canada!) appeals to my triple Pisces soul somehow. My old triple Pisces soul.  I've cheated a little on that by removing the original 9 but that's OK. Lol! Below are my new and full moon paintings for July. I actually got them both done this month so that's wonderful. 

4. I long to be outside at the moment. The sun is shining and a warm summer breeze is wafting through the open windows, waving the prayer flags that Linda and I made and shared. Once I'm finished this blog, I'll take my puzzle book and sit outside under the umbrella for a while before Rob comes home. Then i have ParaTactics, our poetry group meeting before I go to work for midnights (9pm to 7am--the first of 4 in a row)

5. Speaking of poetry, please take time to check out the incredible poem by Tom Hirons that i copied and stole from Effy on facebook. It's long but it certainly stirred something inside me. It made me cry. It's at the end of this post.

​6. Also on the vein of poetry, here are some photos and haiku from my instagram daily post #365daysofsybwriting. Today was day 210. I think you have to click on the haiku and pictures to see them separately. Sorry (at least on my computer!)

7 & 8. Also haiku and pictures. Enjoy. I hope you can read the haiku okay. I wish i knew how to link to my haiku in instagram so you could see it without having an account.

9. This is what I really wanted to write about in my blog this month. I had some sad news a couple of days ago. A writer friend is dying of cancer and her condition recently worsened. No doubt I will write more about her another time. I consider her a dear friend even though we were never friends in a more typical sense. But I don't believe there's such a thing as typical when you have a connection to someone. She has a young family so all of this is even more heartbreaking. The other night, lateish around 11 or midnight, I was trying to process my grief, my sadness. All I wanted to do really was run downstairs and grab the bag of Party Mix i knew Rob had bought me for work and stuff my face with it, stuff all the feelings down that wouldn't really come out anyway, the ones that lodged a tad lower than my throat, my heart probably. Stuff them down even further, bury them beneath all those pretzels, cheesies and chip-like salty things, How many times have I done that in my life? So much loneliness under spoonfuls of peanut butter. I could read and stuff my face and well not forget but deaden or smother those awkward feelings. 

I didn't go downstairs and get the Party Mix (think that's what it's called. I DO love them!).

Instead I sat with my feelings, drank a delicious cup of tea (can't remember what kind now, and ate two sugar free mint toffees before sleep.

When i woke up the next morning I felt good that I hadn't succumbed to eating out of wishing to suppress my feelings. And then the tears flowed. Rob gave me a huge hug before work. 

Don't get me wrong, if I want to eat junk food then i will. This was about recognising what i would be trying to do with the junk food. This relationship with food is something I want to uncover further. I plan to investigate my teen years where my food abuse started. So many changes in general during those years but lots going on for me with emigrating etc. I have a wonderful gentle oracle deck, Gentle Wisdom of the Faerie Realms by Sasha St John, to help me with that. 

10. Last thing! This has taken me a lot longer than i anticipated but here we are. The last one is also a haiku and a gorgeous lily from the International Friendship Gardens. 

Take care of yourself, dear soul. Let your wildness claw itself out and make the most of all your days. 

Summer explodes/ brand this lily on my heart/fuel for winter days

SOMETIMES A WILD GOD
by Tom Hirons
​
Sometimes a wild god comes to the table.
He is awkward and does not know the ways
Of porcelain, of fork and mustard and silver.
His voice makes vinegar from wine.
When the wild god arrives at the door,
You will probably fear him.
He reminds you of something dark
That you might have dreamt,
Or the secret you do not wish to be shared.
He will not ring the doorbell;
Instead he scrapes with his fingers
Leaving blood on the paintwork,
Though primroses grow
In circles round his feet.
You do not want to let him in.
You are very busy.
It is late, or early, and besides…
You cannot look at him straight
Because he makes you want to cry.
The dog barks.
The wild god smiles,
Holds out his hand.
The dog licks his wounds
And leads him inside.
The wild god stands in your kitchen.
Ivy is taking over your sideboard;
Mistletoe has moved into the lampshades
And wrens have begun to sing
An old song in the mouth of your kettle.
‘I haven’t much,’ you say
And give him the worst of your food.
He sits at the table, bleeding.
He coughs up foxes.
There are otters in his eyes.
When your wife calls down,
You close the door and
Tell her it’s fine.
You will not let her see
The strange guest at your table.
The wild god asks for whiskey
And you pour a glass for him,
Then a glass for yourself.
Three snakes are beginning to nest
In your voicebox. You cough.
Oh, limitless space.
Oh, eternal mystery.
Oh, endless cycles of death and birth.
Oh, miracle of life.
Oh, the wondrous dance of it all.
You cough again,
Expectorate the snakes and
Water down the whiskey,
Wondering how you got so old
And where your passion went.
The wild god reaches into a bag
Made of moles and nightingale-skin.
He pulls out a two-reeded pipe,
Raises an eyebrow
And all the birds begin to sing.
The fox leaps into your eyes.
Otters rush from the darkness.
The snakes pour through your body.
Your dog howls and upstairs
Your wife both exults and weeps at once.
The wild god dances with your dog.
You dance with the sparrows.
A white stag pulls up a stool
And bellows hymns to enchantments.
A pelican leaps from chair to chair.
In the distance, warriors pour from their tombs.
Ancient gold grows like grass in the fields.
Everyone dreams the words to long-forgotten songs.
The hills echo and the grey stones ring
With laughter and madness and pain.
In the middle of the dance,
The house takes off from the ground.
Clouds climb through the windows;
Lightning pounds its fists on the table.
The moon leans in through the window.
The wild god points to your side.
You are bleeding heavily.
You have been bleeding for a long time,
Possibly since you were born.
There is a bear in the wound.
‘Why did you leave me to die?’
Asks the wild god and you say:
‘I was busy surviving.
The shops were all closed;
I didn’t know how. I’m sorry.’
Listen to them:
The fox in your neck and
The snakes in your arms and
The wren and the sparrow and the deer…
The great un-nameable beasts
In your liver and your kidneys and your heart…
There is a symphony of howling.
A cacophony of dissent.
The wild god nods his head and
You wake on the floor holding a knife,
A bottle and a handful of black fur.
Your dog is asleep on the table.
Your wife is stirring, far above.
Your cheeks are wet with tears;
Your mouth aches from laughter or shouting.
A black bear is sitting by the fire.
Sometimes a wild god comes to the table.
He is awkward and does not know the ways
Of porcelain, of fork and mustard and silver.
His voice makes vinegar from wine
And brings the dead to life.
by Tom Hirons
www.tomhirons.com