The Return of The Muse

He climbs the hill behind her house wondering if it can be true. Did he really hear her voice, the voice he knew so well from so long ago? Her song fills the air around him, blue and misty like the twilight that he pushes through on his way back into her life, a life she pushed him out of when her fears became too real, when she convinced herself she wasn’t good enough. Then when death came knocking, knocking so hard it broke down the door and she was never the same after that, no amount of prodding or cajoling could convince her otherwise. She simply put away her brushes and her paper, rolled up the unfinished canvases, closed the pan of watercolors, tucked her guitars and drums in the closet behind the winter coats. She was finished. He was abandoned to wander the green lands where they use to meet, where he whispered in her ear of the beauty she could create with her mind, her heart, her hands. He could still feel the hole it left inside her, see the hollowness in her eyes that only knew how to weep after that, could not see any of the beauty they use to, only the fear and the grief – only the emptiness in her heart where love had once lived.
His hands dig into the soft cool earth as he climbs the last few feet out of the ravine. Then he sees her. She is sitting in the flowers singing so softly he knows he is the only one who can hear her. He knows he is the only one she wanted to hear her. So he sits down beside her, fills in the words she can’t think of, touches a few notes she hasn’t thought of, fills her head with all the lost days between them, whispers his joy to be back in her thoughts again, back in her life.
Colors of dawn and summer wrap around them shielding them from the past and a life that could have been. Her music is golden yellow with wings taking it up into the early morning sky, a song of renewal. She is the phoenix and he the ashes. They soar into the rest of her life and neither of them cares anymore if anyone notices their creations. They have the trees for their museum, the birds for their audience. The wind applauses a standing ovation.
He follows her inside happy just to be floating next to her again, filling the hole in her heart, drying the stale tears that have left stains on her cheeks. A whisper, a touch, a breath of midnight blue and she pulls out her brushes, dusts off the yellowed paper, smoothes color and life across its surface. When she is finished he looks down at the image, she whispers and he hears,”For you my beloved Muse – for you.” And glowing off the paper he recognizes the face he has seen reflected in pools of water, off dragonfly wings and her glistening eyes. He sees himself. He sees her muse. And she picks up a river cane flute she has made with her own hands and plays for him.

Seeds

Seeds. Those wonderful tiny creatures that have the ability to pull my tired old bones up and out the door each spring to start life anew.

The Wheel of the Year has finally turned again and I bid the death of winter goodbye and welcome the rebirth of spring. Every year around this time I get into a manic state about growing things. I dig through containers that I’ve saved that seem ideal seed starting receptacles, fill them with soil and begin tenderly dropping all manor of seeds onto their surfaces. My house becomes a greenhouse and I become giddy with anticipation.

This year is a little different in that it is my first spring in a new place surrounded by woods instead of streets and houses. The fallow land encircling me calls me to fill it with herbs, flowers, vegetables and fruit. My mind is reeling with the possibilities around me! This little piece of earth I’ve been granted has become my new canvas, fresh, clean and empty, waiting to be filled. The seeds in those containers waiting to push their way up through the dark earth have become the paint that my hands, the brushes, will use to create a lush exhibition for the woodland spectators around me. New earthy faerie acquaintances have been slowly manifesting themselves to me and seem eager to discover what this mortal will help to give birth to on this land they have nurtured. In a way this is a new beginning for them as well as myself. I will introduce them to new plants with colors and textures they may never have seen before as well as the new faerie beings that most definitely will accompany the new residents. It will be a delicate state of affairs as the old native inhabitants strive to welcome the new teaching them the ways of the woodland as they are teaching me as well.

Now that the seeds are all nestled in their dark beds and I wait to see their tiny heads pop out of the earth I am reminded of the metaphor of the seed that speaks of the circle of life and new beginnings. Just as death is not the end of life so the seed that dropped off the dead plant was not its end. This tiny bit of life, the essence of the plant, holds the life force that now is pushing up through the darkness, going toward the light, knowing that when it reaches it a new life will begin.

One day I will be that seed…again.

 

 

The Well Traveled Road

Grief is a road we all must travel during our stay on this earth plane. It doesn’t matter who you are or what your position in the world is, you will know this heavy grey cloud that sits upon your chest trying to steal the air from it. I am walking that path at the moment. I have been on this road many times in my life and each time I learn something new about its trail of sorrow. Each time I grow a little closer to understanding how to cope with it.

My first venture onto this road was when I was 12 years old and my maternal grandfather died. I wasn’t allowed to go to the funeral because my parents thought I was too young and they didn’t want me to remember him that way. What I do remember was being very upset and crying more than I probably would have had I been allowed to go. My memories of that time are mostly of the sorrow my mother was experiencing for what seemed like years, a sorrow that I felt as well, being a young empath, something I would not know anything about until I was much older.

The road did not call to me again for many years but when it finally did it exploded into my life with four deaths within three years. I walked into the deepest parts of the forest of grief with no one to hold my hand. The path was winding, dark and fog covered. I tripped on many holes and got snagged by twisted vines that reached up and grabbed my ankles. The sound of this grief was like a tornado rushing above the trees in a deafening roar threatening to suck me up into its empty vortex. There were times when I feared I would never find my way out. It was during this walk that I was made aware of the powers that come from those who have passed through the veil of death. I discovered that they can ease our pain if we will let them. It was during this time that I also discovered I was a medium although I never called it that until much later. To me it was just simply me talking to them and them talking back. They showed me the way out of that darkest part of the forest into a clearing where the road became straighter and smoother and although it would take quite a few years before the end could be reached, I never felt alone after that.

Good planning always makes for a better journey. So when it was clearly obvious that my dad was nearing the end of his stay here on the physical plane, I began preparing for another sojourn into that forest upon the road of grief. My past experiences were such that I had felt shoved forcefully onto it. This time I wanted to step softly onto it of my own free will. My ancestors and Fae guides from the other side helped by giving me signs and staying close enough that I knew it was imminent. All my preparations were put to the test a week ago when my sweet father finally stepped into the other world.

This time I stepped onto the road of my own volition knowing full well that what lay ahead of me was still just as uncertain as it ever was but at least this time I am somewhat prepared. My backpack is filled with loving friends, family and guides, long walks by the lake and reams of poetry written in the dark of night by candlelight. My hands are being held by the spirit guides I have grown to love and depend on and the faeries are scouting ahead to warn of any holes and or vines in the path ahead. The heavy grey cloud is still sitting on my chest but I have learned a different way of breathing through this grief so that its power to steal my breath has greatly diminished. And as an empath I have learned how to put the proper shields up so that I don’t have to feel everyone else’s grief as well as my own during this time of family mourning.

I know that the path ahead is long and may wind into places yet unknown but I also know that there is an end. One day I will awake to find the sky a little brighter, the breeze a little softer and my mind a little lighter. I know because I have walked this road before and shall walk it again but I will never walk it alone. My guides and ancestors, including my dad, walk with me.