In the Dreaming,
where all the place is yet unformed,
the most beautiful creature stirs below and comes up to land.
And as she moves, the mountains form,
And as she rests, she calls out life to join her by the water.
And when she moves again,
across the skies,
you can know her colors.
I was not going to write about the Rainbow Serpent, but when I posted the picture above and saw it spread across the screen, she came into my mind. And who am I to argue with Creator Gods? …
An ordinary heart, Sacred like yours
A little bruised, but loved and wrapped in cabbage leaves
Thrives in warmth
Winter makes me strange. I think it is because most of my energy goes into keeping the grey from stealing the days from me. I dream of red. Red, like London buses, or the balloon in that grey Paris movie. I don't mean far-away red, just red that defies the seeping fingers of grey.
And Desire Red. The red of dreams powerful enough to hold me together when all I want to do is be scattered.
What colors hold…
There was a baby I once cared for,
and for the long life of me; I cannot, throw away her shoes
Not shoes really, but wee rubber sandals,
that held her tiny small steps, and her big Angel happiness
I see her still; unsteady, stumbling, but oh so joyful
and I hear her glee and the patter of her tiny footfall
forever, eternally, imprinting on my heart
I once imagined that The Old Woman who Lived in the Shoe was a type of foster carer, for all the lost children and foundlings of storybooks, fairytales, and nursery rhymes. …
There was a Woke Lady down under
Who claimed her pot plant a Wonder
But next to her plant pot
Smiled the Buddha on his ground spot
because Woke — she most clearly, was Not
Someone, who shall remain nameless, once wrote something making a spectacular claim about her potted geranium and posted a pic of said geranium. To give you an idea of the piece; among other things, it was also tagged ‘Spirituality’.
Someone else (Thank you, James), read that piece recently and told that someone, that the geranium was fine, but having the Buddha on the floor next…
And at the crossroads, she asked me, — ‘What do offer, what you bring? What do you place here for us to begin?’
‘I have nothing to give which is not already yours’, answered I
‘But I can place here, the things that I know, that I am:
I am the artist’s heart
I am the Father’s Love
I am the Mother’s hands’
— ‘These are but aspects of the same, so; speak to us of your hands’
‘When I was a child, they were beloved to my mother, so they have learned to grow strong.
When I was a teen…
When I asked others to join me here at Self-Crafted, the first writer to contribute something (Thank you, James G Brennan) asked me if I wanted a piece of mine put on Twitter or IG. I actually had to think about what IG was, because ‘I don't do social media.’
Yeah, I do sound like that when I say it. But when James made his offer, it highlighted something to me: To date, all external traffic that’s landed on my pieces has happened because other people (editors and friends and perhaps Medium) have been sharing my stuff.
-‘Look, there’s another grandma, at the crossing!’
-‘No, darling, we can't take her home, I’m sure she belongs to someone.’
I thought something was different on Friday morning when we drove to kinder. There was a holdup at the traffic lights because a couple of older people were crossing with their walking frames. But the funny thing was, no one was impatient. The cars stuck in the middle were given plenty of space to move out of the intersection before traffic flowed again. It’s like we all knew, that something important was happening. …