Restoring The Dig Tree

I find myself standing amid the debris and destruction that was my dig tree. I am not disenchanted or downtrodden or sad. I find that I am feeling strong, happy, hopeful. I search through the shards and shrapnel of exploded wood with care. I do not know for certain what it is for which I search, but I am sure I will know it when I see it. I stand there astounded by how far out the blast area reaches. Even though the lightning strike had caused a huge contusion, it hadn’t occurred to me that some much could have been thrown so far. And yet, it obviously had been. I walk slowly, circling, from left to right, in ever-widening circles, then ever-shrinking circles, over and over again, losing all sense of time and space, going in and going out, as my brain ceases to ponder the whys and wherefores of what happened last time I stood with this tree. I merely observe and attest to the reality of nothinglessness.
The remainder of the trunk remains attached to the roots seems to be stuck canted half in and half out of the dirt. I see shriveled blackened roots. So much of the wood appears to have died long ago, densely choked with noxious black goo, as well as plenty having withered away to tendrils of ash and dust. However, there is also a lot of healthy growth showing, where there were good times, places where healing continued as best it could under the circumstances. Even amidst this chaos of death, I can see the tiny fragments of life beading up, demanding their own fighting chance to survive. I cannot and will not take that from any of them.
I start to think I have spent enough time here, commiserating with the left-overs of the tree. Apparently, whatever it is I came to find is no longer here. Or maybe it was the memory alone that I was to gather and hold tight as my own. I walk away, back towards where I had come from, when I see it, about twelve feet away from the main core of the trunk. A tiny seedling, gasping with hope and vitality. My tree does not grow from seed, but from seedling, from an outgrowth from the roots that sends up new shoots at random periodic intervals. Here I am. Here is the spark I have been looking for, waiting for, needing to gather up with gracious arms and loving tears, to transplant to another , much safer ground.
With the utmost care and lightest of touches, I clear away the ground, digging around to ensure the safety of the root ball. The ball of craggly earth that I prise up is nearly three times larger than the sapling itself, but I don’t care. All I know is I must protect this baby. I carry it in my arms until I return to my abode, not quite a home, now less than a house since my heart has left it. I fill a deep wide pot full of the richest soil and plant my tiny tree in the pot, covering it with more fresh dirt and mulch. I will give it three days to adjust to the changes before I water it, in order to protect the roots that much more, according to the way I was taught by an ancient gardener long ago.
I offer it prayers, send energizing love and sweetest healing powers deep into its roots and its core. I set crystals around its edges to catch the sun and add that much more healing power and energy to the soil. I pray over it, weaving ribbons of light around the pot, the trunk and the tiny little leaves that bravely spurn the arena of death we so recently departed. I know that once I find my Home, I shall dig a wide deep hole and burrow the roots of this tree into the earth there, where I shall nurture and attend to this tree constantly, with all my love and ability. Where this tree grows shall be my everlasting Home. Now, in order to protect both this tree and my family, I must look even harder for that home that is meant for us.











prompt found at The Dig Tree

Returning to The Dig Tree

You would think, as whiney as I was last time I stood before this tree, with my pick in my hand, deciding I was too tired and too whatever to actually just dig in, that I would have gotten over myself and my little childish whims before I came back again. Ah, but that simply is not so, because here I am, glaring at this crummy twisted tree, yet again, scowling and angry and more than a little irritated with everything, blaming the tree for my own vapid indecision. Fine. Here I am. I shall be here now and plain old get over myself.
I did not really come prepared this time. I have no shovel. I have no pick. I have my hands, with no gloves to clothe and shelter them from the rocky ground that surrounds and protects this old dig tree. At least this time, I can say with the utmost certainty, I know why I am here; I know what I am looking for….I have achieved all my major dreams…only to find out…I need to dream bigger…but…what do I have left to dream about, when all is said and done? Do I even know how? Are the dreams already there, as I suspect, locked inside of me, locked down and afraid to come out, lest they actually be seen and brought to fruition? If I dig deep enough, will I be able to find them? Unearth them? Bring them to the surface? Shine the light of day upon them and breathe true life into them? Will I be able to find Me in there?
Lucky me, I am so focused on dirt and rock and the need to claw my way down below, to strip forth the roots of this tree, to expose the me I know is in there somewhere that I cannot yet find, I fail to look up, fail to notice the sky growing solemn and menacing at the same time. I fail to notice black and green roiling clouds. I do not hear, do not feel, the rumbling growl of approaching thunder. I do not feel the shift in the air, the ozone sizzle that stings my eyes and makes me sniffle. I do hear the whip crack trill of the lightning striking; I am thrown back by the blast as it strikes the heartwood of my tree, not merely breaking it open, but exploding the inner recesses outward, revealing dark swirls amidst the pale yellowed core of the tree.
I can no longer deny it; the tree is me, in effigy. Here I stand, sundered by the will of the Universe, spread out, spread open, splattered into so much shrapnel and splintered slivers. Here are all my dark shadows, all the scar tissue, all the broken pieces that when assembled transmit me to the masses. Here I am, struck dumb and silent, smoke burning my throat, tearing my eyes, peeling away the somber matter that hangs over me like veils from a past I no longer sustain.
I pick myself up, dust away the ash and dust and little bits of nefarious ephemera that persist in clinging to me. I might as well get this over with now. As clear as this celestial push is, as pure as the motives here are, I cannot deny that this is the best and most perfect time to delve in with both hands, mindless of scrapes and bruises, to rip away the unnecessary bondage I have spent so many years wrapping around myself. To pry loose that which I need most to bring about my own clarity and release my vision, loose my spirit upon my own stead.
I step into the debris, mindless of the poking and prodding, the sharp gouges, the biting fingers, trying to hold me back, pressing to tie me back down. I start to grab whatever I can find and fling it away. I am not even stopping to see what I pick up and throw over my shoulder.
There is the house. I wasn’t too picky when I bought the first one. All I wanted was three bedrooms and to be close to my son and his father’s house.
There is the tie to my son. Wanting to be physically closer. Emotionally closer again. There is a lot of fine detail that must be worked on there.
There swings my job, working for myself, but without the much finer detail. All that much needed detail, to expand and expound upon all things there.
There goes my writing. Not enough clarity there either. Too little sketched out to be useful. Barely enough to keep things flowing along.
So much for my drawing and painting; somehow it was set alongside the road and abandoned when a frailer time hit. I need to flesh out those bones so much more.
There stands that good man, tall and slender, with the glint in his eye from staring into the sun, just as I requested. You know, there is not so much I’d change about him. I do need to change the way I deal with him, so unused to being happy or content am I.
Where is the car? The one I can’t even drive due to fear and insecurity all over again? Put that one on the list of things to do. Must find said car. Get into it. Ride that pony one more time. Until I am ok doing it once more.
Here is the income to support the family, the children, to get them into different programs and much more. Here is the safety net I have needed. Nevertheless, there is so much more. So much more out there to be sought, if only I can pry deeper down and chuck things out and keep them straight. If I can set my path, I can find a way to navigate. If I can just figure out where I want to go, the how I want to get there will fall into place.
I come down to the very core, the exact center, of all that I am, all that was this tree. I stand up, stretching out my stiff back, surveying the damage I have caused in my inquiries and harried reachings and gropings.
I can see there shining like a star above all, the Rescue Ranch, that has for so long meant the world to me. Even as I see the promise that I made to that wonderful man, that I would not separate him from his family, would never come between him and them. I stand by that. I am not one who would force such an inhumane choice upon anyone. I see that there must be changes made in the application of achieving this goal, but as yet, I am not certain which way to go, or how to go about doing it. Although I am certain I am not giving either the Ranch or the man up for anything.
There is working for myself, and so many details to pick up and poke around and set into an order that makes some sort of sense for me. There is the phone work, which is going so tremendously well I almost cannot believe it. Though I know that I want more. I want to step out more into the Healer role. I want to step more into the Teacher role, outside of home-schooling of my daughter, and of myself. I also know that my writing needs to take more precedence. I know my artwork needs to take more precedence. There are dolls dancing in my dreams, talking to me about the way my hands move across the substrate of their flesh and bring forth the living beauty of them. There is poetry to write and to recite. There are fibers to be woven and knitted together. There are teatimes to be taken, one sip at a time. So many things, each in its own time, must be separated from the herd, taken down to brass tacks, evaluated, determined, investigated and set out into the world on two steady feet to take growth and boom forward. To blossom and create and procreate.
There is my family. The children of my hearth currently among us. The children of my hearth that will be joining us soon enough. From old sources, as well as from new sources. There is a great deal of detail needed to clarify things with family, from handling former fathers, to incorporating current households, to moving on and expanding things in all directions. Here lives too much fear and shyness and inability to reach for what I want and for what I hope and desire for fear of all that I want being taken away by cold uncaring hands. This place requires patience and compromise by one and all.
Speaking of households, there comes the need of a new house. A new dwelling, with new specifications, new ways of filling things, new ways of letting go of things, new ways of interpreting the way things come together and what it all means to me, and to us as a family, to everyone involved.
There is the business of education, of my own, that of my children, and we as a family together at large. There are rules and expectations and evaluations and so much more. Details. Details. The devil is in the details and we need to make that devil earn his meals here if he is to remain and to prosper along with us, as we plan to do.
There is training the dog. Deciding what to do about the bird. Figuring out who I am and who I want to be. Dealing with all the detritus from my past. As well as that from the boyfriend’s past as well. So many places to touch, so many scars to break open and scrape away the old and the dead. So much new wood now bursting to shove out shoots and to begin new growth. I simply need to go in, decide what I want to grow and in which direction it should go, and set things into the ground so that I may nurture and encourage them. Feed them well. Water them plentifully without over-watering. Prune them back as situations adjust and grow.
At least now, I can take that step back, free from my ire and my angst, and look more clearly upon these little seedlings straggling before me. Now, I can release all of this garbage I have been carrying around on my back and continue the process I have only started here with this clearing away of so much deadwood. First a shower, and a meal, and then I shall come back, take each little wisp of new life, and delve into its mysteries and where we want it all to go this time.
This time I will seek out the heavens and beyond before I entertain any sort of limit to my goals and desires. I shall fly on gryffin wings and soar, breathing dragon’s flame and dragon’s desire all over everything, purifying my way, burning away my fears. I do not expect an easy path. I do not expect instant perfection. I do however believe I shall achieve and over-achieve all my goals. I shall surpass all my very own dreams.
Surely, above all else, I shall prove once again that I am blessed and ever shall be.






based on a prompt from:
The Dig Tree

July Full Moon DreamBoard

July 7, 4:21 am - Full Moon, 4:38 am - Lunar Eclipse

The Blessing Moon

Dive into the juicy energy of the July Full Moon and swim deep in her blessed, abundant energy. Dream, meditate and intuitively divine, there's great magickal strength, power and clarity in this time. Let visions flow, so you know how to best prepare for the hard work that harvest requires. Plan your steps to success, within the garden and within your life. Know what you will harvest and how you will store it to sustain you throughout the winter - that time of death and dark journeying. Gather herbs for drying and preservation, preparing for magick, medicine and sustenance. And in a spirit of celebration, leave an offering in the moonlight, in the garden or out of doors, for the spirits of nature. Thank them for the radiant abundance.

The above from the Witch SuperCenter July newsletter.
Yes, I read really weird stuff...but where else can I find accurate Moon information and folklore? :-)


Jamie says:
It's the full buck moon and we have fully arrived in summer. Now is the time to get into action, to sense your own power, to step up and in to all that you want to create this month. What will it be?

And please make sure you check out her site; she is getting ready to open up and announce a whole new blog and direction. It's going to be incredible!


Now, for my own stuff.
I've actually been contemplating the Full Moon Dreamboard for days now.
Thanks to Jamie, all the Full Moon Dreamers, all the Wishcast Wednesday wishers, I have alot of things moving and shaking and just booming forward. It shouldn't take me more than a month or two, if that, to get off the network and work solely on my own. Which is going to be STUNNING!
I also have to thank my significant other, because without his support I'd never have the confidence to do half of what I do.

Last night it came to me what I want this month:
Clarity.
I want to know what to do to push all my changes forward. I want ...fruition....I want to reach that point where I can say ah, now all I have to do is maintain things, instead of fighting to get them going.....
Instead of being in the birthing process, I want to hold the baby in my arms....so to speak. :-)

What hit me so succinctly last night was--getting from here to there.
My copy of 'Everyday Matters' by Danny Gregory came in yesterday afternoon. He was talking about while his wife was in the hospital, asking why this happened to her, to them. All he wanted to know was how do we remake our lives and be happy again....
He wanted to know--how do we get from here to there....which really struck me hard.
This is my perennial question and complaint. I never know or see or understand--how do I get from here to there....
I want to--but I don't know how...tell me how...show me how...explain it to me.....

My life is about baby steps. One little step, taking me, from here to there. :-)
I get that.
I can fathom and savvy that.
I'm good with that.

Add into it, my from here to there, gaining the clarity and focus to see which step I should take when....when to increase my stride...when to set aside my pride...
the 'dream seeds prompt' from SoulFood Cafe. Not that I have looked very hard, because I know it is there, but the only link I can find right off-hand is on a locked blog--so slog around a bit--there is so much to SFC--it is there.
The Dream Seeds have to do with the plant life you see around my path here in the painting.
These plants and trees are the fruits of the seeds I have planted, lining the way, showing me that I am doing the right thing and heading the right way.
The path is made of stone, rough and uneven and coarse, but I never expect anything to be smooth or easy, because if it were I would immediately distrust it. But trouble doesn't stop me--I keep going.




The one picture is of the painting in a sleeve because I was hoping that the sleeve would deter the curling--I didn't set out to use watercolour pencils....much less actual water colour paints (boy, do I have alot to learn about the water colour paints :-) BUT I love them!)...so I used a heavy drawing paper...and it of course curled up.

I do have some water colour paper notebooks...think I may have to try those tomorrow...wah hoo!

Dream Seeds Growing

This is in response to the 'dream seeds' prompt.

There will be a story at some point....but not yet....yesterday was pretty busy...and I still have alot to do today just for today, much less yesterday...or tomorrow. :-)

The Great Purse Caper

I bought myself a new purse recently.
I do not remember what it is that finally set me off about my black one no longer being adequate....it's beat to heck and back, sure...it's years old...but it's black...it's sturdy and it holds all sorts of garbage, including what my kids hand me and/or stuff in there....I think what did it is the realization that I no longer actually own black every day boots, except the French ankles, and I have no black loafers--all those loafers and none in black!?! I am so slipping here.

Then again, I can blame the easy lure of etsy, and being stuck on calls with darn near insane clients and needing to keep my brain occupied with other things so I don't get sucked into their insanity. I have enough of my own, thank you.

Now, I knew when I started looking at purses what I had in mind. What I want is my neon pink sling hobo bag from the 80s, minus all the mesh, and not at all pink. I never really liked pink, but I SO loved that stupid purse. When I took off when I was 16, guess what the one thing I regretted leaving behind was...yep...that purse. And when all the junk I had left behind came back to me years later after everything settled down, guess what was totally gone...that darned purse. I would have dyed it...I would have done tons of things, terrible things, to it, but I'd still have that ugly thing. It was the best purse.

So, I spend weeks at a time, sifting and searching and randomly popping through way too many things on etsy. Etsy is especially nice when I am trapped on those 2 hour calls where all we do is gossip and not much else.....This technique is especially beneficial of late when talking with my best friend and I want to keep my emotional attachment to what he's talking about nil. Hey, keeps me from freaking out and hanging up because I can't deal with things...so it can't be all bad.

There are a gazillion bags and totes and wristy things and pouches and cozies and you name its on etsy. Ninety-nine percent of which I have zero interest in. Some are very unique and I love them, but won't buy because shipping is too outrageous. Or the price itself is too outrageous. Shoddy construction...ugly patterns and even worse colour combinations. The wrong materials. My list goes on and on. I have three purses still sitting in my favourites, with me thinking one of these days I may want a different purse. But this is me, and I am so weird it is not funny. I may never buy another one either, until this one ruptures and dies, may it never happen....

While I was wandering through all this garbage on etsy, I decided what I really needed in a purse. I'm fairly simple. I like pockets, inside pockets, divided sections of a purse, with pockets. I don't like the strap too short, but don't care for it too long either. Says the nearly six feet tall lady here. Then, again, after I had all my ideas pinned up together in my head--I actually woke up one morning with a very clear idea to deconstruct this size 3 skirt I had found in my closet -- how a size THREE got there I have no clue--cause I haven't worn a size three since I was about oh 10? Maybe 8? I had the idea so clearly in my head, what to cut where, where to put pockets, even the decorative stitching I was going to use on the inside and outside pockets....and then I decided I do NOT want a denim purse....I do not want something as big as I was planning to sew up myself...and I surely did not want to make it myself right now.

Step into my storage room, where I have a pile of items cut out, but not sewn. All but three of these are from about 2006? When we left MO for MD when we fled the stupidity of the ex and his b/s lies. I know there are two bags sitting there waiting for me to remember which bag I cut out (since they are the same--I have a set of patterns I like and I was making bags for people)...not to mention I think I have a set of yoga clothes cut out...and some other stuff...I have yoga pants cut out from WV before we moved back here too--but those never went farther because I grabbed my sewing machine to bring w me when we left originally--and left the foot and wires for the machine--in WV, in a box. I know--I am SO smart....let's not go there.

This should explain why I was perfectly comfortable paying someone else to make me a purse.....I mean, other than I am essentially lazy and just not in the mood....

It took me about two weeks to decide on colours. I have a very weird thing for the combination of red, black and white. They mean something to me on levels I cannot always garner comprehension ... but I love the combination. I found two purses that were these colours. I also found a nice brown bag and an even nicer olive green type colour bag--those are still saved for later on...I am still thinking.....

I decided I would try to find a hobo bag, since i like them. What I ended up ordering was a recycled hobo bag, made from an old quilt. Which also means alot to me. Here are the details of the bag:

I bought this from 1oddbird, who is terrific to deal with and ships very fast-I can't tell you what it shipped in as I never saw it-the second it got her my daughter had it in the house and opened and basically walked in and tossed the bag at me and walked out. She came back a few minutes later and handed me the receipt very nicely. Never said another word about anything.

Upcycled Red and Black Hobo
Description:
Handmade by myself using a vintage quilt (the underside of one anyway!- the top was a ripped nightmare!) the hand stitching is visible (check out the pics) adding a very cool vintage-y feel. She is 21 inches wide at the widest point and 13 inches tall in the center. Fully lined in a white linen tablecloth with 2 interior pockets and a vintage button closure.

Thanx for checking her out!!


First of all, the colours were perfect. The price was more than decent. Shipping was excellent.
It means a great deal to me that this was made from parts of a quilt. It gives me a connection to the past...quilts in general have meaning for me...it's a very good thing.
I should have actually taken a tape measure and measured out her size, because I wanted something about half this size, but I am not complaining. As my one friend snarkily keeps picking on me, it'll make a great diaper bag one day (grrr!) (Again-not pregnant-not trying to get that way-planning to wait a bit for that again, thanks :-) )
The colours have symbolism to me. The fabric has symbolism to me. The shape is awesome. The button is not at all tacky or out of place.
In person, the workmanship is impeccable.
And it smelled GOOD when it got here. You have no clue how much that makes me feel better about things. As bloody weird as that makes me sound...but still...I am extremely sensitive to scent...

Now Alexis started this thing, well, her friend did, but still....by showing us what is in her purse. Click here to see.

I am envious. There is no way now I can get away with something like that. Then again, I am the nutter who would stick a pen and notebook in a tiny bag--and forget my ID.
Then-I had kids. That was the end of the being able to carry small things.

So, as you can see from the above pictures....I carry alot of garbage around with me. Crayons from about five different restaurants...lotion samples, a mini bottle of lotion, 3 tubes of chapstick, my wallet, my emergency bag stuffed with Band-Aids and prep pads, and stuff to clean my glasses, eye glasses repair kit, coffee sticks (don't ask) , three kinds of pain killers (2 for me, 1 for the kid), a mini manicure kit, a package of emery boards (because the girl swipes my manicure kit when I am not looking and I always need an emery board when we go out...), garbage that the kids hand me when we're out--literally, just trash, tons of old receipts, bobby pins, 2 hair sticks-one of which I thought I had lost!...my business cards which I never give out because I never think of it, my tattoo artists business cards-which I do give out, Kerry's business cards--which I also give out like candy :-) ....my keys, a stain removing pen, notebook, about ten pens of various colours......oh boy, does the list go on........and on.......

Not all of that made it into the new purse, thankfully.

All the business cards did. Even mine. :-) My keys. My wallet. I cleaned out the emergency bag and cut its contents nearly in half. My notebook and only four pens. All the pain killers made the transition. Or else I will only buy more because my loving daughter is a migraine creator when we go out.....she gets them-she gives them-she is one....Only two tubes of chapstick (one for me, one for the kids). Manicure set--and emery boards, just in case. Gum.
And not much else.

As I said earlier, this bag is way bigger than I had thought it would be....
every time I walk out the door I can tuck whatever book I am reading into it...or whatever knitting project I am working on (even though it's been so long since i have touched my knitting my daughter mournfully asked why I never did it anymore the other day....which made me sad...and stop it...that was the morning I woke up with the visions of finishing the other twin blanket for the pair of blankets I am making for our future twins......the fertility jokes must stop now...really.....please! )
I have lots of room in this bag. That is both cool...and annoying. I had to stuff the pain killer bottles into a smaller bag to keep them from rattling so when I walk. I do like I can flip the strap over my head and carry it across my body with the bag on my hip, especially when I am in a rush to go drool over art supplies ... but that's just me.

So, that's my story...and that's my purse.....

that's all there is...for now....

The Heartwood Tree, Standing In A Pool Of Tears and Blood

See the accompanying story here.....

One picture was taken with the flash on--the other with the flash off.

Really must sit down and chat w the scanner, the darn thing. :-) Works like a dream for the bf--then ignores me every time. :-)
Should I blame the man--or the machine? :-)

Footprints

SoulFoodCafe Prompt

The Box

He gave me a box, that day, when first he told me he loved me. He did not let me open the box while he stood there. He bid me wait til after he had gone away, gone back to his home, to his other world, the one without me. I could do nothing more than obey, so deep was my love for him. How was I to know what I held in my own two hands?

I was not used to being trusted. Then again, I was not used to being genuinely loved or cared for or enjoyed. Here was a man who took my breath away, with every moment, with just a smile, and the leprechaun light a twinkle in his eye. This is the man who saved my life, more times than I care to remember. It was for him, although unbeknownst to me at the time, that I shifted my path and my direction. I chose him, much earlier than when the future had deemed appropriate, but much later than Spirit would have had us together.

I turned my back on a world that would have given me, after much work and determination, everything I had ever asked for from it. But then again, I had asked for so little in the grand scheme of things. In this man, I was given my heart’s truest desire: honest true love. How could I turn away from that?

So, there I was, with that small golden brown box clasped between my two hands, my breath too fast, my head a little achy. I worried my palms might be too sweaty to carry the thing. I stood in awe, looking at the intricate carvings over the top, along the sides. There was a patch of green velvety felt along the bottom, to protect it when I set it down. I fingered the edges tenderly. What could he have possibly given me?

I went inside, curled up in my chair against the wall so the sun’s light could tumble in, burnishing the chair and me, enshrining the contents now sitting on my knees. I knew where he was, on his journey home. I knew in my heart, so deeply connected we were. I sat patient, allowing him the time to arrive at his home, to greet his dogs, so start going along with his other business, the business that would never include me, but at its conclusion would never again bother me nor raise its weary head.

I took very slow very deep breaths, practicing my meditation in the space of the few minutes I needed to feel him calm down once he was inside his house. With intrepid fingertips, I caressed the glossy wood, stroking it as I often stroked his cheek, his arm, with utmost attention to truly feeling him with all my being, not just my skin. There was no lock. There was no calamity. I tilted the top back upon its hidden hinges. The heady scent of roses greeted me.

Inside there was a note, written in his hand. “Within this box you will find my heart. I leave it in your care as it has always belonged to you.”

I knew right then I would marry him. I have never looked back. I have never wavered. And I never will.

Prompt found here:
A Chocolate Box

Also posted at:
The Pythian Games
Alyce
Raven