I went up high, into a cloud, looking for freedom in the dark cold. When you stand alone in the haunting, dull edges of dimness, it can be easy to feel the tiny kindled flame of the heart burning merrily, underneath it all. Unwavered. It can be a simple thing to comprehend, there in the darkness, that there is the light within. Other times, there in the dark, I suffer a moment when I doubt my identity, I feel I’ve been divided, and divided again, to the point of spoils. I feel the need to reinvent myself after so many pieces of me have been taken, crushed, used, spent like tinny, small currency, passed to and from weak hands that do not bear callouses from dedicated, hard work. I have been used. I have been kind. I have been gracious. I have believed in kindness and graciousness. I still believe. I hate my anger. I lick my wounds. I am a wild beast tired of biting at my own foot. I forgive myself. I motion myself to kindness once again. I divorce myself repeatedly, cut the chains away, until I lay in jagged, unfettered pieces, strewn about on the forest floor. A large hand reaches down from low clouds, meets me where I am, puts me back together again, holds me upright until I find my legs once more. I stand. I reach out my skinny arms, brace myself and sing into the void. My voice falls back into my open mouth. I swallow. I tremble. I plant my feet. I roll my cold fingers into icy fists. I close my eyes. I shake the water from my mane. I sing out, louder this time, I believe in the music, and my voice carries like gold, right and true.
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They say we are made of two wolves.
From the forest, from the night, comes a long legged pair of wolves, stepping quick, ruffs whipped by the gale. I place the palm of my left hand on the gentle slope between two golden eyes, dig my fingertips down into thick, white fur. With my right hand, I reach into the endless pocket on the edge of my hip, bring forth something good and rich and I feed the good and holy wolf. I send the other away, slinking and black as night, hungry and alone. I rest then and I realize that not everything in me has been used to death. There is something in me that continues to unfold, something that is valuable and meaningful, worthy and sacred. It is mine for the finding. It is mine to actualize.
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[There is a tree on the side slope, upended, root ball exposed, ripe with mosses, and from its horizontal trunk grows a strand of green. Sky reaching in newness. Lit living even in the dim. New comes from the old.]
I am new. I am old.
There in the dark, where I can feel the light, I don’t doubt myself, I don’t recreate myself, I simply am.
Who am I. Oh. Who. What am I.
Pared down, cut to ribbons by the knives of the wind, peeled and scraped, washed and wiped, swaddled in fog. I am not much more than all that has come before.
Elemental.
Underwing.
I rise up. I fall to earth. I rise up. I push off with all my strength. The stones shatter beneath my feet.
I am not afraid of this storm, of this hulking black cloud pierced by mountain peak. I am not scared of the wind that threatens to undo me, cell by cell, or the rain soaking through wool to the tight plains of my skin, the deluge that turns my hair to whips. I do not fear the thing with wild eyes that watches me from the shadows. I starve that thing, even though it is a portion of myself. I won’t be moved. I have no pity. I am washed in rain. I am thin, wasted, bare twigged, free of rust, flexing, shifting, alive and new. I am whittled to bone, alabaster curve, spirit sigh. I am the stone that reaches the sky. I am the stone they say rises forever. I am that stone, igneous and slow to fade. My roots dive through the earth, emerge into a new sky and summit the sun. I am anchored there, tethered to light, drinking it from two directions. My hands howl. My tongue is meek. My eyes are wide bowls filled to the brim with the tilt and spill of milky moons. I shoot through the loops of myself until I am atomic, aware of an ancient energy that binds me in, covalently bonded to the elements around me, held in the palm of the broadest hand.
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Every year, no matter the season, I know a thousand springtimes, and all the autumns to match — endless births and deaths, a crown of sorrow that gives way to truth. I am dressed in leaves, curling and unfurling and dropping away.
I am a beggar. I am a queen. I am normal. All this wrestling is beautiful and human.
I named joy when I first came into this world, like every child of God does, when they first arrive. So I name it again, as is my right and my privilege, each time I am reborn.
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I left the mountain. Night came fast. I drove through billows of cloud, dropped away over jagged precipices, fell like a river from the lips of stone and beneath my hands the truck growled, purred and lit the way, as all good old trucks do when you find yourself out late and on your way home.
You take the most gorgeous pictures.
Wrestling with soul…such earnest, unseen work that is so utterly essential. Beautiful, beautiful words. (I will carry them with me as I carry my first story over the finish line *wahoo*)
xxx
Wrestling indeed. I think it may be easier (as it can be) to do so in the witching hours. In the twilight and dark it seems easier to be bare, safer, shielded a bit from the very things that rattle you.
xx
Thank you. Thank you. Thank you for your stunning words…it is not the first time that I have read a post of yours that brought tears to my eyes. Serendipitous with things that I am struggling with. Thank you for being you, and for expressing so much truth, pain, beauty and love.
Wind stirs things in ways that I can’t, and the outcome is usually things I never expected. Letting both wolves sing you hear things you’d never hear from either alone. xo
Thanks for expressing all the wrestling so beautifully. We are so strong and malleable and it is indeed as you said, beautiful and human to wrestle with it all.
May peace fill your heart and mind through whatever it is that you’re dealing with.
The photos look as if they are from a film masterpiece.
Wow. What a meditation in the middle of a storm…!
Lit livin in the dim…so true…I really love trees and all they express. This will help me hold on strong thru these seasons of change. Thank you so for shining your light out here. I just came across this marvelous “blog” of yours…simply marvelous, thank you Jillian(:
I can find myself so perfectly well in your words this morning, as a new day begins. I walk through the cold air and wait for whatever it may bring. I’m ready.
Thank you so much for this post.
xx
Kathrin
dang.
hauntingly honest emotions and words.
you’re right where i am many times in any given month.
as of this moment, i am strong, i am alive.
that’s the beauty of it all: we feel it, we reach out, others validate who we are and who we are meant to be. and then we put one foot in front of the other and go forth.
sometimes i think others do not know you.
sometimes i think others do not know me.
but please know this: your rawness strikes me where i am. right now.
wonderful pray in the middle of the dark, and i love read it now in my morning, in the city, with my soul maybe in the Woods…
you little shamen, you!
when we feel we are broken (but not exclusively) we come to feel the interlacing of fingers and remember we, that is everything alive with spirit if not heartbeat,are all connected. a web of endless root connections. and still we grow like the green shooting from your fallen tree.
beauty is beauty, whether savage or pretty.
Beautiful Jillian, thank you. XX
I stumbled upon your blog a few years ago and have been an avid reader ever since. Your words and pictures are transporting and much needed for a city dweller who loves the woods. You are truly a gift and food for the soul. To sum it up, wow!
With each and every word and photo, I’m swept up and carried away from this concrete, studio jungle of mine. You’ve truly perfected curating a mood. And that TRUCK – WANT. SWOOOOOOOOONNN. WANT! Thank you, friend.
You sing like a swan. Your spirit is wolf.
Hunker down, you wild thing, under pondi or truck.
I hear your howls, through the rain and snow,
I am your friend, like the mountains, and I
hear you.
O’ be joyful. I am filled with gratitude for you and your words and how they wrap around my heart and hold me up. You are vastness and the infinitesimally small beauty of spirit. Thank you.
Oh, and it you are not familiar with the duo Shovels and Rope. Please, acquaint yourself with them. So good.
hauntingly beautiful.
(write a book please, you are ridiculously talented)
yes, I agree– I want your book for christmas…
it is at the very top of my wish list (whatever year that will be).
your photos and writing transport me to landscapes rich in diversity, emotional depth, sensory awareness, and vivid colors. on cold winter nights it is something I want to hold in my hands and experience more tangibly, be carried away through.
but i repeat myself…
you already know these things.
xx
Hauntingly gorgeous.
Sometimes we fight so hard to figure ourselves and our purpose out. But we are a vessel. We are a book that has been written. He knows. Isn’t it strange? To be trying to find your way through a tale already told? I feel like that sometimes, when I am deep in the muddle.
These photos strike me. Once a week I escape the city and spend a day at my parents’ in farmland. I spend dusk out there on my own, thinking, praying, resting. Gaining perspective and listening for His way.
Rhapsody in words and images that delight and tantalize the eyes. When is that book ready? 😉
wow….I heard you…I see you
…beauty beyond measure
…honesty that cuts deep
…truth that rumbles in my own bones
wow….I heard you….I see you
love and light…always
What a treasure you are, i agree a book must be in your future. Your gifts are immense. We all have the ability to writhe or revel in the moments, joys and pain we feel, but you capture the essence of it, that speaks to soul. That last photo looks like an ethereal painting capturing a sacred moment.
Two wolves, a tree and you. Stunning.. c
Thank you all so much for being here, for your kindness, for your encouragement.
Love having you in my world.
And YES. I will continue to move in a book direction. I love it when you tell me to. 🙂
XX
Your words leave me speechless, which is a good thing as they could never compare to yours. Breathtaking imagery, so glad I found your blog so I can continue to to read your inspired writing. Thank you,
Deb