The winter is here, and I seek to reclaim the voice I have lost, through fear and shock. Winter is cold, dark, bleak, and all around life lays bare, death obvious. I watch the moon wax and wane as we reach the darkest point of the year.. what is strange though is that in the very darkness truth can be found, like the bare trees it seems that our very soul is laid bare this time, it is harder to fool ourselves. Death and coldness make it apparent that life and warmth is a transient thing, and this can lead us to despair or perhaps a new awe?
I’ve tried to express this in poetry format; it is hard not to sound pretenious but I’m glad I’ve at least attempted
A December Day;
Bleakness engulfs and embraces me
as I stand, ears frosted, regarding a Beech.
She clutches fretfully at the few remaining, distant leaves
Branches extended, reaching to twig-tips,
touching, connected tenously to a yellow leaf
clinging so far from her sturdy trunk. She strains to hold on.
A gust of wind; and it’s all in vain – now free from her grasp
the leaf joins triumphantly
a rotting pile at her feet.
Without them, she stands bare, a skeleton exposed
to the batterings of rain and element.
Wild wind whipping through naked branches;
gone is the gentle swaying of spring and summer.
Her garments, her life, her exuberance – expended
and still on forest floor, the year’s efforts gone to ground
only good for bugs and beetles.
I wonder : given the power of sight,
would she gaze sorrowfully downwards at her year’s efforts
remembering, nostalgically, emerald growth and the headiness of flowers?
Or, given movement, would she bend down and gather up her fallen,
grasping handfuls tight with twiggy fingers,
trying to cover her bareness with a rustling mask?
Pausing, I rub hands together, breath crystallising in the biting wind,
my heart cold with the starkness of the year’s death,
eyes numbed by the life diminishing and falling around me.
I take a breath.
And look again at the Tree.
This time though, a different sight.
The twists of her branches, visible now, contain a sharpness of form,
a reflection and reminder of the roots that delve into dark earth.
Reaching to the sky, her chaotic symmetry holds the memory of leaf-laden boughs
Scaffold of Life;
at the tips already there are buds for next year.
She has taken in the vitality of her leaves,
What remains contains the toxins of the year
To be released gladly to the soil
and transmuted into future sustenance
She stands, not ashamed or grasping,
But calmly defiant to the winter chill.
Break off her branches, she will not bleed –
Her Life breathed inwards to green embers
and held secure within a wooden womb
Building in strength for the birth of her spring.
I need to howl. I need to sing.I need to find my voice and the courage to speak it.
In my blood runs wolves. I felt them there chasing and growling at what needs to go. Last friday I worked with a healer and we released physical and energetic shock that my pelvis, pubis, sacram have been holding for years. Time alone does NOT heal all wounds. Sometimes you have to walk their labyrinth pathways to the source and release it there… I had built a wall in my diaphragm, cutting my soul in two, the area below a black void…now replaced by light and a renewed connection to my heart. As we released this, my back muscles spasmed and my heart ached, I struggled to vocalise and shake it out. I STILL lacked the courage to make much of a sound, and this tension is now stuck in a spasmed jaw muscle. I can hardly eat! But I think I can get it out, if I allow myself to howl…tonight is a full moon. hmm
Howling is a primal noise, a defiant mark upon the world, saying “I am here and I am loud and I am not afraid to be part of life and all that entails”. It is also so expressive, beyond what I can do with these words.
Half-healed, my body is connected together now and I feel renewed, the sense of bodily-sexual shame lifted. I touched on my centre and it is so strong! and willfull! Can I truly start to live as myself? If I have the courage, yes
But it is winter, and I am still afraid.