Scratchings of the heart and mind
Years ago, someone shared with me that a ring around the moon meant a forecast of rain. When I've remembered to pay attention, I've seen a pattern of consistency to support that...
Two nights ago, I saw a ring form around the moon; it was large and evident.
Then, last night, I saw one again... to a lesser degree.
Tonight, I woke to the sky stirring. The heavens cried; they heaved relentlessly... and I wept with them. A storm of surrendering.
And when all became calm and quiet, I acknowledged an internal serenity. I felt cleansed. But, I wonder how the earth feels; the remnants of chaos can find no place to go... other than to shift itself from one part of the planet to another: from the toxic cauldron of the fires... to the tears of the sky...the rivers to the ocean. I'm reminded that the Earth always has a 'back yard.'
The language of Earth... and Spirit.
I grew up on a farm in South Africa where it was normal for us to collect eggs from our large chicken coop out back... and to have a pet crow.
When we drove home from school after our long thirty minute drive, “Jo” would hear our mustard-colored station wagon crackle along the long, winding dirt road then align himself perfectly with our car whilst flying beside us - racing with us till we reached the house.
Years later we had a pet pig and a pet donkey on a different farm. The pig, “Miss Piggy,” would slide with us down the Slip’n’Slide; “Ee-Aw,” the donkey, would stand at the front door and bray while peering his head into the house over the double, divided farm door. He would walk with us down the road to the little shop, “The Kaffi,” where we could buy 2 gummy feet for a cent.
We did all of this barefooted and adult-free: the days of miracle and wonder.
After several decades, I landed up in this beautiful, hilly place of Topanga... like a seed that finds the perfect environment to grow its roots. It's the place I’ve been living for the past few years, raising three young girls who walk barefooted along the quiet street of our neighborhood and collect various feathers from our front garden -- over 500 acres of State Park -- that juts up against our little home. They pick foliage from the ground and make ‘potion.’ They build fairy gardens and track the hawks that fly above the park, circling the dry, pale grass while giving out occasional screeches. They fall asleep to the sound of owls, the transcendental rhythm of crickets and the quiet tick of a clock in the kitchen, where the baby mice waltz upon the quiet, dark floor with squeals of delight once all is quiet.
Sometimes, the girls wake to the curdling cries of coyotes in the middle of the night... a celebration of their bounty. And, who now, as I write these very words, howl to the passing by of a siren along the hills of Topanga.
It is here, in this wonderful community, where I live the life of the farm that resides in my heart and of my early childhood memories. It is here that, for the most part, we are woven into the same cloth of consciousness and are catalysts for magic. It is here that we hear nature’s gentle call to the importance of Earth on our spirit and wellbeing, allowing us to slow ourselves down... to breathe... to sit quietly... to go within. And, to find ourselves.
It is here where we pick Dandelions... and make wishes.
Multiple ripples into the Universe.
My sister, Gaby, and I (around age six).
A warrior in training. Traveler, author/writer, poet, photographer & designer. A mother to three warrior girls who are the mirrors to mastery.