Red Spectral Dragon 1.24.17
This is what it means to be Star Woman.
To sit and be still until the Milky Way folds you into the batter, includes you in the unfolding, tunes you until in your stillness you are attuned. Being attuned, you become alert and aware to what seems imperceptible to the ordinary looking eye. Aye, I sitting still have been tuned to a numinous note that allows me to see where the ordinary eye cannot go. How do I know? Like so . . . .
First there is the matter of what’s in the batter and into it, upon the hand, must be etched stars. The stars must kiss the hands and mark them one of their own. Then comes the bird, the chickadee whose song must be heard, its continuous recitation a chirping trilling that sends a thrilling vibration up and down the body leaving it wondering and curious; how did the chickadee get inside? How does it glide? Trace the slow slide into this sitting place and what shows its face?
The West, the West, the West is a full house wherein is the road that leads to and from the labyrinth, the spread open mirror, the water that leads to all waters everywhere. The West is where the court converges, the dreaming place merges and flows touching the borders of Spirit place and Matter, the West is where the archer aims his bow and arrow nocked from the Eastern horizon; and the wheel turns and churns.
This is how I know even though these words may appear gibberish and fibberish; but then such is the nature of words alone as a bird in hand three times over before it’s released to fly into the night sky and yet it returns to peck at the window where it sees the light in the darkness.
Come, walk past the hubris of words and talk, and sit a bit. Listen and observe the six-sided snowflake melting quickly now on the concrete while the grass glistens green and damp on this fresh morning and see into the heart of what you are here to be.
Quietly now, it will be different for you, the quiet may be louder than what I name it as ‘quiet’, but it’s your quiet, your still, sit until it speaks to you or perhaps it squeaks to you or roars with the voice of thunder rumbling and booming on the horizon, lightening streaking down to trees, blasting the oak, hear the frog croak? Sit until in the stillness you find you are deaf but perhaps it is your nose that knows the scent of a newt under hummus, or your eyes that see the shapes of sounds that come to be your finding in this place, the form of a butterfly’s face with unblinking eyes and slender sipper it slips to drink from the depths of a crimson canna, unmoving until it wants to fly. Or walk if that’s the way your sitting must play, run, dance, glance; there are many roads that lead to and from the labyrinth, in varied directions they come and go, winding and turning before resting again in stillness.
The snow is quickly melting; the creek flows clear again having filled and spilled its banks churning muddy white froth down to the river carrying a heavy load of leaves and logs and hubris to send away for the days to come. I do not know how it will be for you to open the windowsill a crack, sprinkle seeds for the chickadees to come feed, then watch them scoot inside from under the opening and wing through the rooms of your house.
I am Star Woman, a star witch if you will, and I know how it is for me to be still even when the archer sights me in as his mark, lets loose the arrow that shifts into a lark and comes winging toward me singing, “Rise and shine sleepy head, time to climb up out of bed, chrrr twee twoo, I have a gift for youu.” And then I look and find: synchronicity and this is how I know what it is to be Star Woman.
“When in disgrace with fortune and men’s eyes,
I all alone beweep my outcast state,
And trouble deaf heav’n with my bootless cries,
And look upon myself and curse my fate,
Wishing me like to one more rich in hope,
Featured like him, like him with friends possessed,
Desiring this man’s art, and that man’s scope,
With what I most enjoy contented least;
Yet in these thoughts myself almost despising,
Haply I think on thee, and then my state,
Like to the lark at break of day arising
From sullen earth, sings hymns at heaven’s gate;
For thy sweet love rememb’red such wealth brings,
That then I scorn to change my state with kings.”
~Sonnet 29, William Shakespeare