photo by Jefra Linn
One night I had a dream of trying to tether something to the ground. The feel of it, my determination to dig in the dirt and fix the peg deep, was intense and real, just as the flap of cloth on my cheek, then other bits, more material, cool air, wet silk, confetti, wind. When I awoke I was speaking to a friend on the phone, pleasantries, and suddenly the sense came to me – I was attached to this feeling of being “shot down,” literally and figuratively. Certain feelings of bitterness, like leftover coffee grounds, connect with symbols, clear images complete with scenes, just as others of sweet fragrance, laughter, wings, earthquakes, skin do.
Not to know the energies within us as they introduce themselves is to miss the manners that come with evolution. When I sat with my coffee in the quiet of rare morning moments, I followed this thread of thought and came to the shore where my parachute tore. Silk shreds, sheets, some long like kite tails, and luminescent in the night sky, like sea creatures I’d seen over water. Every loss was related to this feeling, just as every thrill was related to the elation of climbing, the white water, clouds simply forming and changing.
It is amazing to let such memories come. My shot-down self said hello, silently, and the smile that came with it was both amused and relieved. My goodness, we talked this way for hours, until what felt like afternoon came again. We talked of how each sand crystal was created and glittered, how the water felt so cold, how the memory of Gulf Stream warmth came like every other memory of warmth, flooding. The sun and clouds and stars rolled into one, too, and scattered, and the memory of twinkling eyes glittered like diamonds on water. There were no leaves at first in this opening, only eyes blinking, salt water slipping down one cheek, then dancing in bursts over rocks, against hard sand.
Slowly what came was the memory of creation itself, a seed swollen with the urge of life as a thought wanting to express itself every way beautifully, the power in this, the quiet joy. Each seed of thought within me has had its life, is living. When we swirled that latest Port with warm chocolate, for instance, my friend and me, in the warm brown room that held the laughter and flavors of friends enjoying themselves, the flavor of centuries lingered and leapt in our syllables.
As I watched the face of the man who served us, those who passed him, his eyebrows alone told a story of restraint, some sorrow. The gleaming bar told a story of hands resting, wiping, wishing. As we read the story of beans, seeds, flavors, years, on the slick paper presented to us, I opened myself to their stories. Just as each object we accept easily has its own movement and change, each thought dances or dives, glides or struts, smoothly lets itself be known. The Story of Stuff is out now, Annie Leonard’s and more, making us think of the journey each object, each creation, each thought takes. And a local man wrote a great article of his own application to know this journey intimately, reforming one use into another. While thinking on this, I had news of a distant relative’s death, news made known through an apologetic email, the litany of names connecting the name, the person, the people, to me, to us – Buford, Desaix, Elizabeth, Minnie Maude, Donna. I am thinking of this now, these energies distant to me, South, Deltaland. Connecting chemical dots, to know the force of love, and all the ways we make love live. Thank you for each way we make ourselves known, in love.