My thoughts – scattered like strewn Mah Jongg pieces prior to building the walls – cannot shape themselves into a strong and protective frame in which to contain the wisps and shawls of mist, the phantasms and edgy spectres which have been released in recent days. I watch clouds, vast and pronged like latter-day dragons, cruising in grey splendour in the heavens, their eyes palely golden, their wings delicately edged with sun’s final fistful of deep flame sequins; I watch my Guardian tree, a vast Eucalyptus providing protection in the West. In truth, it is not mine (though no tree truly belongs to a single human, no matter what the man-made boundaries may claim). I watch it and feel the raw sting of its denuding, feel the sudden exposure of its branches – and am torn between delight in the gift of an increased view and sadness that this enormous eco-system has been so brutally culled.
The thoughts which weave, currently single skeins of silk in discrete colours, cannot, as yet, bring to life the tapestry of the weekend just gone; it is too close, too sore, too personal. Sore? Yes. Because deep ritual experiences peel away the superfluous dermal layers of artifice, exposing the bare bone of who and what we are underneath – and, for all the exultant moments, this is a profoundly painful and vulnerable time. We are naked, unarmed, unable to grow another epidermal layer sufficiently speedily to save us from the tiny thorns of life, the harsh beauty of a sky turning to metal, the wonderful bravery and determination of nature.
The weather system inspired by The Feathered Seer is gathering pace, a storm in abeyance. Climatic conditions are topsy-turvy, as if in tune with the emotional uncertainty principle: Snow alights upon gardens in Scotland, threatening the newly-born wildlife; sudden hail storms pock my blue chair (left, unwisely, in the garden) and tangle, like momentary jewels, in my hair. Winds gust and moan. Sharply sly slivers of sunlight promise much and deliver illusion.
I, like the weather, am unsettled. So tired I can barely move. Unable to focus on the sequential slides of life’s cine film. Caught, often, in a dream or an absence, the latter inhabited by voices whispering sotto voce and physical responses which, somehow, transcend much of what I have always believed myself to be.
I am in transition. I have shucked off my old skin, snake-like, and watched its oddly-transparent surfaces, with the markings fading with scary speed, wither beneath my frightened gaze. New skin waits, its patterns razor-sharp, its colours vibrant and young. But the gap is long – or seems so to me – and the desire to hide, to huddle under brightly-hued snuggly velveteen throws, is incredibly strong.
I am exposed in all my ungainly, new-hatched chick hairlessness. I am needy as a babe, all metaphorical arms and legs, my feathers still damp and sticky from the birth process. I cheep. Dangerously, Attention attracted is not always good. My open mouth is both lure and invitation to feed and protect. I can explain it no other way.
Thoughts, like snow flakes, will, I hope, eventually settle upon the mind’s ground. There is much to say – and no real way of saying it. Yet.