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tonight i weave my myth - at the place where i live. with the dishes and the laundry. soaking in a tub of hot water and washing my hair with a bar of simple soap. i could have gone to the forest, where the sweat lodge is.. and i could have sat by the fire with some friends listening to their jokes, perhaps singing cree songs around a large drum...
but tonight - i chose to be still rather than in immerse myself in contrived versions of spirituality.
weary - of it.
of the minds as they collide with each other over points of attachment... weary of the songs and how they are sung - and the wishful thinking messages of love and light.
and here alone - not that still after all - with the whirring of the fridge compressor, the electric hot water and the internet connection and the food from all over place, the car and the gasoline, and all of the other cars with gasoline... and the clothes that must be washed in the washing machine... the uniform of the blue shirt and a tie for work, with black steel toed shoes ... and rows and rows of packaged goods that charade as food... all carefully marketed for maximum profit.
apparently there is a book - and the title of it is something like - wherever you are - there you are. and i was just in the middle of it - of here i am. just like i was last night - when i was at the sweat lodge site - in the lodge with other people, making a prayer and listening to prayers and feeling the heat and hearing the rush as the steam rises from th hot stones - there in the dark ...
all the thoughts - all of them that make up me. and in the tub - i immersed my ears under the water and after the fridge stopped its cycle - i could hear my heart beat... over and over and over. and with a towel, washed in the washing machine - drying myself and looking in the mirror at my face.
there i am. a rented house with pictures, and counters and some furniture. a lot of cups and things - all second hand - but still - it seems so excessive. the other day i spent hours scrubbing the kitchen cabinets - i have them open - no doors and i use glass mason jars to store food, and tea and herbs and things like that... a tv downstairs and a lot of stuff. old dusty stuff. and the alter i have - well, i have two... with little statues and crystals and malas and ceremonial articles which i have collected along with my thoughts of who i am. and there is sage i picked last summer, and rose petals i have dried, and a freezer that keeps last summers blackberries frozen... along with perogies and buffalo sausage and salmon and frozen pizzas...
and all of it seems excessive.
and who would i be if there was no power to run a washing machine, if there was no gasoline to power the car or the trucks of food that stock the shelves, if there was no electric heating... and if i must remain dirty and grimy for awhile with unlaundered clothes - if it is summer and water is scarce - then who would i be?
and rather than a couple, or a small family living in a house with a fridge and electric lights and base board heating - if i had to put aside my privacy and live with others in the same building - if i had to share resources, if i had to become accustomed to the changes in temperature without a working thermastat - if i had to physically work hard to grow and gather food, then who would i be?
a female person, with a sore back and a very weary mind... weary of the world. sad for my daughters... when they are not sad - but live with an undefined ill ease knowing at some level things are just not right. there in retail stores with merchandise marketted, or so carefully marketted for girls between the ages 14 and 20... they like it.
so, weaving my story tonight - i must because i cannot escape myself and my place in the story as it unfolds.
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This is a powerful writing. All that we are is intricately sewn from within our immediate environment and all the environments that have come before. My Friend is Cree, and she told me once of her Grandmother words, and how her Grandmother related to her that it is through the weaving of the threads in the use of the hands that we work through our lives. It is a metaphor, yes, but the weaving tells a story, so I was very interested in your post this morning. In telling your story through the written word (albeit typed in this modern age), you weave by way of the hands.
ReplyDeleteI sincerely believe in the balance between solitude and interaction. Being solitary by nature, I know that when the spirit calls us to solitude, there is something within the weave we must pay attention to. It is interesting that you mention the submersion in water. Water is a very sacred thing, if one thinks about it. It is womb-like. It is a landscape worthy of meditation. Do you ever read the publication, "Parabola"? The Spring issue is on the theme of water. You can copy and paste the link from this: http://www.parabola.org/ if you are interested.
The world today reminds me of Yeat's "Stolen Child" and yet, if I really consider that, it was little different in Yeat's time and space. But poets are very prophetic in their insight, and usually are able to tap into the greater depth of the world, which makes the best poetry timeless.
I think that when we come to a singular place in how we see ourselves in relation to the world, to reality, to our own spirit, we see the baubles for what they are, only "things" that hold no great power in themselves, only the sentiment of what we place in them and their usefulness in the moment. There is joy in simplicity and in gentle beauty. We don't need much and yet we may enjoy a moment in that simplicity tremendously. Like when the violets bloom on the window ledge. It's just really ok to just enjoy that.
Forgive me that I babble.
Blessings,
Nahnni