Enclosure …

All about me is the hustle and bustle of discovery, the request for insight, the clamoring for more and yet I find myself incased today in clouds. Thick clouds that hold, not suffocate that welcome not introspection but inclusion and blanket the trees in an ethereal busyness.

The busyness isn’t the hustle bustle that lives outside this space. It is the business of creation. The creation of what is to come. A recipe sits dangling from the outstretched arms of the birch moving precariously in anticipation of what might be hidden within the clouds. The pines stand as sentinels to the meandering of the soup witness to the regal ingredients as they march one by one towards their destination. Each ingredient carries its key to the final creation. There is a dab of whispering, a 1/4 cup of anticipation, never too much for that could spoil the final product, 1 cup of inspiration lightly warmed, 2 cups of wisdom sifted twice, 1/2 cup of joy, 2/3 cup of ancestral juice, and 2 Tbs. of valor. The rowan holds out its cauldron for each to find their place within. Slowly the Spirit of the Clouds begins to swirl the ingredients singing ever so softly lulling them into collaboration. Placing them within the enclosure what is thought to be the door is slowly closed.

Raven alights upon the enclosure standing guard awaiting direction. Soon he is joined by a flicker and more ravens. The murder begin to dance upon the enclosure to the beat of flicker as she moves first down one side and then the other. Abruptly the murder departs leaving the enclosure unguarded. From the distance a parting of the clouds is detected. It appears that the parting is moving through the clouds approaching the enclosure. Stillness comes as what breath is present leaves. Squirrel takes a gallant leap towards the enclosure and misses landing abruptly just beneath. In dazed realization, squirrel scurries off. The parting now reaches out towards the enclosure. Wrapping it deep within itself it removes it from the rowan branches. Gliding forward I watch from the corner of my eye, wondering what brings this cauldron to me. Taking my seat upon the floor I notice that the parting is not a stranger. No this parting I recognize. I have spent many a day, many an hour, and dare I say many a minute with this parting. What I think to be a parting is really my soul bringing back to me the recipe that has been deep within and is not a stranger to me. A recipe that warms and delights.

With a squeal of glee, I accept this cauldron of creation brought to me by my soul. I honor this gift through ritual and whisper my love of thanks.

Dance forever

“May I have this dance?” reaching out his hand to me, I trembled with a nervous excitement.  Dad had helped me to learn the few steps necessary.  I never really imagined anyone would come and actually ask me.  Stuttering my acceptance I reached for his hand rising as if I had lead feet I found myself jerking towards the dance floor.  Gracefully he returned me to my seat, thanking me for the dance and moving on to the next girl.  Excited from completing a task well practiced I was surprised to see how I felt.  Invigorated, twinkling, elated I marveled at the complexity of emotions.  The desire to continue to twirl was so overpowering.  Concerned I would slip and succumb to my inner urges I excused myself from the dance.  Standing outside I danced in the moonlight releasing the emotions to the world.  I trembled afterwards and knew that what had just happened opened me to a very special place.  It was a secret place deep within me.

Hearing the music call me I returned hoping to be invited to the dance floor once again.  It wasn’t long before the invitation arrived.  Music reverberates through the room requesting I return to my secret place.  Darting glances at the others on the floor, hoping to receive permission, I noticed the boy across from me was dancing with abandon.  My body moves in response to him.  Raw ancient excitement fills me granting permission to myself I spin and move to the music.  Smiling we move in sync enjoying the communion.  Together we return to my seat, ‘how did you learn to dance like that? You are fantastic.  Could you teach me?’ breathlessly he asks.  Amazed at his statement I begin to giggle a reply of my 2 weeks of lessons with my dad.  He shakes his head, ‘well you are really good’, and wanders to the next chair.

Heading home I relinquish any doubt that this newly found desire can be squished back into the unknown.  I have discovered that dance is me.  It is a way to express myself, to connect to something I can feel but has no name, and allows me a connection to myself .  Now the question is how can I get more?

Discover the wealth of adventure, the mystery of intrigue, the spontaneity of self, and the delight of laughter in dance.  One can through dance find an inner connection to self.

Move it baby, move it!  Don’t let anything delay you!  Keep that rhythm, keep that soul!  Take it deeper!

Buckwheat???

Seriously buckwheat?  Why in the world would that be the word for my “B” post?  Because!

“I want pancakes, I want pancakes!”  Screamed my inner child as I yawned and stretched pouring liquid gold into my cup.  The older saner adult perused the request for flaws.  Pancakes are consumed at the risk of hips and hearts.  Filling the stomach with all matters of putrid ingredients unbecoming a highly educated adult and lacking the sensible choices of a refined palate, I chose to go with the adult.  Completely non-plussed, “I want pancakes, I want pancakes!!”  chirped the inner child.  Strolling upon the scene the always wise 20-something chimed in, ‘Buckwheat is nectar from heaven.  It is not a wheat.  It is actually a fruit and grrreat for your cholesterol!  Lots of fiber, top with sliced pear to sweeten and Bam you’ve hit a home run. Or we could just play

and perhaps distract her?’

Not knowing what I truly wanted to do except to consume more liquid gold, I gave in and began the search.  My inner child distracted by the morning dance with 20-something missed the compilation of ingredients for buckwheat pancakes the nectar of adults.  Amidst the jubilation of her inner most desires being met once again, I turned and pondered, what had I been feeding myself.  Was the food worth the effort?  Was my strict adherence to “all things best” really what fed my soul?  Could combining all the wisdom and desires of all aspects of self be the super nutrient?  What was I lacking in my soul diet?

Sitting and savoring this incredible often misunderstood food, I realized what fed me …  joy.

 

 

Copyright © 2014 Teri Connolly. All Rights Reserved