Lately, I’ve been feeding a greater need to improve my grounding. In the increasingly chaotic and manic world we have stumbled into over the past decade and a half, I feel like I have lost some of the ability I used to have to ground myself. Chances are that it is more likely that my abilities have not changed so much as they have not adapted to the current state of affairs — they are a little off-key might be the better way to think of it.
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i root, now
i sun
i river oak
through
smudge away
smudge away
wash away
stain
i paint, now
i slumber
i stone sit
through
i river oak
through
All that you give returns threefold, or so they say.
Or they used to, anyway. I do not know if that still holds true. Sometimes it does not seem to.
The world has moved on in a lot of ways. Maybe such concepts just refuse to stick around anymore.
I do not know.
Laughter. That uncertain, awkward laughter one uses while scratching their head and looking down at their shoes. Are those my shoes? I suppose they must be. Heh. Alrighty. Hello shoes.
I seem to be staring at my shoes a lot in life. Awkward laughter and all.
Trees… They do not concern themselves with these things. Nor do big granite stones.
And they do not have shoes to awkwardly laugh about.
I then give myself to the wisdom of trees and stones. Perhaps I’ll grok at least some of the things yet.
i shadow as maiden
i shadow as lake
stone waters under
of granite my eye
pock and pit
chip and ash
fleck and form
all bone at song
i blood as my earthing
i blood as my weir
catch acorn when thorn
at river we heart
A fog had descended on camp. It happens at times and, when it does, the fog reflects the flames in such a way that the immediate surroundings appear aglow but the campfire is quickly swallowed by the thick fog standing a few dozen yards away. I did not expect anyone to find me tonight as a result of being well within the betweens. So I warmed my hands and contemplated the thorns still visible on one side of the clearing: daggered things that would have screamed of a sepsis incurred within hours of being pricked by their sharp tips.
The weald likes to keep its secrets. I may be the nominal warden of this place, but that does not mean that I know anything more than I need to about the darker spaces within. Of course, if there were need of the blackthorn’s protection, I would find I could slip within the hedge’s folds like a chickadee or wren. The weald protects its own as much as it wards.
That is when a familiar and small voice spoke in my left ear.
Hey, they said. Thought you could stand some company.
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