the fire within has a language of its own

I just spilled over the edge of who I held myself to be,

again.

Now, it doesn’t matter what I think.

again.

I stopped ignoring what I didn’t like to do and realized I had changed,

again.

I was googling me from the inside.

The knife wanted to cut.

I let it feel like cutting.

But I couldn’t cut what I loved any longer

His (this) skin is too thin

His (this) heart too tender

His (this) love too wild and true.

So I put down the knife

and used my hand.

My hands love the body of life

My hands love to support the body of life

My hands love to bring oil to the dry places

And they needed no imagery to do so.

I feel like I just climbed Mount Everest

I am nearly breathless

The air quality here is pure

And I am loosened by the only means I have at my fingertips:

Touch.

I had to get closer 

to feel the touch of myself,

for direct contact with me.

My fingertips and the palm of my hand felt the paint moving with me

Gliding, scratching, slower and more slowly

I listened to the feel of it

this pulse of my life

Living.

Sensual.

Free of the rules I had mistaken for truth

I was listening

and became silent

being the silence

for one pulse.

and another.

Saturated

Red

Permanent rose

Flaming cadmium yellow engulfed a red birch

The black charred trunk remains

Able to hold the glow 

Of the fire that burns in me

Of the fire that moves me out of the old rooms of this house.

All I want to do is follow this thread

It has a language of my own making.

It is in my hands.

who am i?

I’m in the kitchen

Making love

I’m at the keyboard

Making love

I’m a thought

Making love

I’m a mother

Making love

I’m a woman,

A votive candle 

lit daily by the sun.

our love

the gift

croning woman
falls in love.

agape flowers
from beyond
within.

the expression
as outflow
is
as endless
as the unfathomable depth
of the inside
of the inside.

space laced

hell no longer breaks loose here

though heaven is blowing all asunder

leaving me feeling fully saturated 

by space

laced in loving.

hanging out

when i hang out with writers
i write
when i hang out with painters
i paint
when i hang out in the woods
i breathe with the trees
when i hang out with the masculine
my feminine deepens, gladly.

when i am alone
i seem to float
quiet or not
breathing
in and out
and gladly.

spirit nourishment

It is the silence in everything that feeds my spirit.
This silence has so many qualities and always the same quality of depth.

When a tree stands before me, feeding me with the spirit of branch and root, trunk and presence, the silence is the container for this nourishment.

When a spring flower opens before me, the delicacy of its spirit often belies its own fine rooted system of being grounded and nourished through the soil.

When my Friend looks into my eyes, all the ages are held in his gaze, feeding my spirit through his loving eyes.

Those who have read my words feed my spirit in their open response of hearing and reception.

My family feeds my spirit. In their blood knowing of me I am unconditionally being embraced.

published in wild woman rising

http://www.wildwomanrising.com/magazine/