In Raven's Shadow

While waiting

for song of quiet night

I wandered away

You got married

twice

 

What happened

to barefoot girl

in the white dress

 

She fell

then dreamed herself

to life, to light

 

Now she walks

with the sun

is Whispering Wind

 

Archangel

do you still find zen

playing Pooh Sticks

on English bridges

 

 

Found this little entry in my journal from 2011. Just thought I’d share it.

April 8, 2011

As an author, I am the divine entity to the characters in my story. I exist outside of “time” as they know it because I exist outside the pages of the manuscript that I have written. The characters in my novels are bound to the “timeline” as it is contained between the covers of the book, the beginning and the end. To them all the events they experience are past, present, or future but to me, the creator, they happen simultaneously. I am present, all at once, in every event I’ve created in the story, regardless of where it happens on the timeline as my characters know it in the universe that I created. I don’t have to jump backward or forward in the story, because I’m already there. My characters exist in the story I have written, but they also continue existing in me even when they leave the pages of the novel (get killed off, move away, etc.) All characters that I create remain alive in me, the author. As the author, I have no random events in my story. Everything that happens has a purpose. Sometimes my purpose is to cause growth in a character or characters. Sometimes it is to help open one character’s eyes to the nature or doings of another character. Sometimes it is to propel the plot.

 

(painting is a watercolor I did long ago)

 

When you understand wind

where she blows

why she blows

how she blows

 

when you understand flowers

their need for light

why they stretch

 

when you understand earth

when she moves

why she moves

how she moves

 

when you understand

the ways of bats

why they must hang

 

when you understand water

where she flows

why she flows

how she flows

 

the methods of spiders

what makes them spin

their appetite for flies

 

when you understand colors

where they are

what they are

why they are

 

the flight

of hummingbirds

how they alone fly backwards

 

when you understand fire

how it is

what it is

why it is

 

the feel of cool grass

on bare feet

 

when you understand spirit songs

of the ancestors

how they call

raise me

from simplicity

to simplicity

to oneness

 

then

you begin

to know me.

 

My energy is not

from others

not from things I do

 

it is

a fueling light

emanating from

 

moments spent

walking barefoot

in fields

 

watching

orange fish

dart under cattails

 

from flint

unearthed

in soybean patches

 

it is

from late night hours

spent crying

 

“Creator

Here I am

Make me.”

I am more than fog

melted by

mid-morning sun–

more than smoke

scattered by wind

dwindled by time–

more than a footprint

left on a beach

washed away by tides–

I am a song played

on eternal strings,

sounding endlessly

through halls

of forever.

 

Note: “If you strike me down, I shall become more powerful than you could possibly imagine.” Obi Wan Kenobi (Star Wars)

“The secrets of the master are not found in his ashes, but rather in the flame he ignites in others.” Master Rick Pickens (He may have gotten it from somewhere else but I heard it from him.)

 

A friend calls me Country Bumpkin. I don’t mind. I find the most simple things in this world are also the most complex and far-reaching. I have a need to be surrounded by those complex simplicities. I do my best thinking when I’m alone, surrounded by nature. That’s when I have my epiphanies, my eureka-sparks, my moments of brilliance (okay, well, they’re brilliant to me.)

I need to touch the earth, to feel the sun on my face and the wind on my lips. I need the smell of soil and the sounds of birds. I need dragonflies and butterflies and tiny garden snakes. I need crickets and snails and random centipedes. I need to see the stars at night and wonder at the moon. I need the magic of trees. I need the sound of rain falling on the leaves and scent of a wet woodland floor, spring peepers and fire-flies.

When I am surrounded by the natural world, it doesn’t matter what I look like or sound like. It doesn’t matter what accomplishments I’ve made or failures I’ve experienced. All that matters is that I make like a flower, grow, bloom and produce some sort of seed for future flowers to grow, so that there will always be flowers on the earth. A seed can be an idea, an invention, an investment into the lives of others. A seed can be a song, a poem, a book. A seed can be a simple act of kindness. Flowers don’t compare themselves to other flowers. They just grow and bloom, according to whatever kind of plants they are.

 

When I was a little girl

Daddy played guitar

sang off-key

to me, he was a star.

He’d sing

Mary Don’t you Weep

There’s an Unclouded Day

Be Careful of the Stones You Throw

and Jesus is the Way.

But my favorite song of the hour

was when he’d sing

The  Wildwood Flower.

Then he’d stop and say,

“You’re my wildwood flower

bloom where God plans

I’ll be watching over you

but our lives-

are in His hands.”

Years came and went

my  little girl days were spent

roaming woods

skipping rocks

climbing trees.

There never was a time

I wasn’t free.

I suppose we don’t know

what we’ve got until it’s gone.

We forget life is as fragile as a weed

I held my daddy’s hand

as I squatted on my knees

The man who sang to me

was a flower all along.

For as long as I live

I’ll be listening to his songs,

Mary Don’t you Weep and

There’s an Unclouded Day

Be Careful of the Stones you Throw

And Jesus is the Way.

But my favorite song of the hour

Was when he’d sing

The  Wildwood Flower

Then he’d stop and say,

“You’re my wildwood flower

blooming where God plans

I’m always watching you

but our lives-

are in God’s hands