Hawks, Poetry, a Cemetery in August

On Mogul

For me, there is no death, there is only life.

Places of burial are sacred to me. They provide me with immense peace. I am at home standing upon the thin line between worlds I wholeheartedly walk into. It is natural for me to be among the living and the departed. 

Since May, I have been physically, mentally, emotionally and spiritually weighted. I use all the tools I learned thus far in this mad, crazy, beautiful ride called life to rid myself and space of negative energies, feelings and thoughts to prevent negative actions. Holistic body healing modalities work wonders, yet sometimes they are not enough.

As a physical being, every thought, experience and action requires use of energy, my own and others. This results in the absorption of energies of thoughts, which are quite powerful; to later settle into the physical self, the body, showing up as illness or pain. This is a red flag to rid yourself of what weighs you down.

Spiritual weight I am used to. I am an ultra-extra sensitive empath, among other things, so I kind of have no choice in that matter and accept spiritual matters humbly and with reverence. This is climbing up another rung of the ladder, learning new things about self and others, about shadow and light, discarding head-trash, fully accepting those I love, those I lost, loving the child within me and the woman I have grown to become. Preparing myself for the woman I am growing into. These weights I do not mind. They are necessary to a seeking soul.

Emotional and mental fatigue is disabling. Once negative thoughts and/or energy embeds itself within the physical body, and it does, for everyone, with or without consent, illness sets in. Illness can range from being distracted and crabby to outright disease. This begins in the mind. Things you tell yourself, the way others treat you, how you accept that treatment, the way you treat yourself, what you choose to allow and do not allow with self and others.

Boundaries are crucial. I have strict boundaries. Apparently, I like to play jump rope with my own boundaries. I mean hey, it is life and life is meant to be experienced but suffering is not part of the deal. Not this kind of suffering. This kind of suffering I am able to control with my mindset.

This is why, this day, is surreal.

Upon waking, I wished to get down to the water, my ultimate grounder. Instead, driving to the lake, I was diverted by a cemetery. I have never been on this land. A few days ago, driving past this cemetery, the need to go there was so intense it felt like magnets pulling me there.

I drive and stop where I am told to stop. I pull to the side of the grass and walk. There are a lot of Celtic crosses, artwork and design. This is my ancestry, part of it. Immediately, I take photos. The carvings, the messages, enthrall me and the time people took to pay homage to those they loved.

Artists created statues of angels and birds, of intricate scrolls and mandalas. I am blown away. I keep walking and kneel before a most divine angel.  I take several shots of her wings, her face, and her gentle outstretched palms in supplication. I turn to see Mother Mary, humble with her head down, palms out. I keep walking and see row upon row of trees.

Wandering around, I find rocks, feathers and pine cones. I crouch down low and listen to the birds singing -  drowning out the crows that attempt to add dissent to the chorus. The wind blows my hair around my face and I am fully awake and alive staring up and into trees. I place my palms lightly upon bark as I pass by each tree and find an accepting tree to place my spine against. I look to my right and stare up and down row upon row of intrinsic artwork, ages of lives and love carved into stone and marble.

Kneeling down in reverence and awe to those before me on this strange Earth, I know now why I have been guided to this healing place.

I find absolute refuge beneath a huge pine tree in the shade. I sit cross-legged in the grass, place both palms upon the tree, and ask, what do I need to do?

Immediately, I am answered.

Several things are answered, pleasing answers to issues that plague my mind and soul. I smile and move on and see a single tree far in the distance. I have no desire to walk to this tree because it sits in the blazing sun, yet I go, my legs decide for me. I walk around and around the tree in wonder and I am always "looking up" and when I look down, there are three feathers, barred, black, brown, white, tall and thin. Cooper's Hawk I believe. Strong medicine.

Overcome with gratefulness for the significance of the feathers, for this is exact, necessary and on purpose, I look to my left, see a multicolored rock glinting in the sun with minerals, and place that in my palm. It feels good and right there.

There are no coincidences.

Wandering back to my shelter, the pine, I sit and listen to birds and wind, to the beauty of nature, to existence itself rumbling within and around me. Freely, open and accepting of all that is, I know I am in another world, standing and praying on holy ground.

All of my angst and worry leaves me.

The night before, I wrote a poem about existence. The birds above me sing divinely and I record that poem as I walk up and down row upon row of life. My hair whips in the wind, nature is alive and on fire and the spirits of those around me guide and teach me. They tell me to keep going and that everything is fine. They tell me that I am loved and watched over. They tell me not to worry so much. They tell me that life, my dear soul, life is good.

This is what I shared with them and what I share here, with you:

Beneath the Midnight Sun

On Mogul

Image © Mogul

We bear witness
to our birth,
our death,
to days that go by
spent beneath
the sun of the mystery,
only to rest
upon the breast
of Autumn's breath.

We are witness to change
and fall then rise
like leaves and snowflakes,
drifting and landing
on the lashes of children,
such dear souls,
playing, innocent,
upon the mighty banks
of Mother Nature.

We are witness to our birth
as Spring arrives,
unannounced,
unplanned for,
bearing buds
and bees that buzz
and blooms in June,
beneath the deepest eye
of the sun of the spirit.

She is on fire,
dear bright star,
dear friend.

- Miss Majestic Mother Nature,
Oh, how you make sweet love with Father Sky -

The night falls.

I sit beneath ancient raiment,
staring up,
above,
and into us all -
existing
here.

Nothing to fix,
nor change
or even say -
but to simply be
here
now -

sharing my heart
beneath the Midnight Sun.

Begins The Crying Of The Guitar

My soul needs more than what is tangible in this foreign land. There are realms I may never experience, although I have fallen into quite a few, however, in times like these, the crying of the soul is not something I am able to taste or touch.

Federico Garcia Lorca understood when he wrote, La Guitarra or The Guitar: 

It begins, the lament   

of the guitar.                                                

The wineglass of dawn                                                        

is broken.                                                                                      

It begins, the lament

of the guitar. 

It's useless to silence it. 

Impossible

to silence it.

It cries monotonously

as the water cries,

as the wind cries

over the snow. 

Impossible 

to silence it.

It cries for 

distant things.

The physical body perceives a spiritual yearning, a natural state of being, as "sadness" or "something that cannot be placed" yet I am not sad, or confused, quite the opposite. I am an empathic creature, human after-all and am supposed to be feeling. There is no "one way" to feel or be, just as there is not one path to anywhere.

This pull is lasting for months. There is a blind spot in my field of vision. I am not supposed to see that far yet, although my soul knows. I allow my intuition to take over and walk along trails left by those that trudge before me. I trust my instincts.

Every evening, I stand outside, both feet planted flat on Earth and watch the sunset and wonder: How may times can I write about this? I answer: Many.

The clouds do not take rest in the sky the same way twice and the canvas is alive with colors that humankind has yet to create. At dawn, I greet the day. I give thanks for all that is, as well as gifts on their way. This is prayer. These times are mine and only mine. These are times I feel most protected and guided.

When I step out into this world, and it depends on the day, I view everything in either black and white or bursting with color. This is nothing new, yet can be maddening to the mind for the soul instinctively understands. The mind attempts to rationalize what is divine.

There are times I must create space between myself, this reality, you, reading my words right now, and the one I exist in as I write them. They are indeed, two different realms.

My tribe is scattered across the globe and I am, wide open.

Inspired by 5 Things Your Soul Wants To Know