Belonging…

I was very sad one night. I asked for Help. I had been Told I wouldn’t be Alone. But I certainly Felt that way. I was gently prodded outside – a beautiful evening, about an hour before dusk.

All the way to the River…

Signs of my not being Alone

…Gentle reminders from multiple Beings

…Another esoteric book, Wisdom in fiction, in the Little Library

…The busy, busy muskrats tharumping loudly as they built their homes on the Lake edge

The Lilacs embracing me with their scent

…The new leaves, brushing my face

StormBrother sending warnings on the wind when it was time to leave (and I made it home, just in time)

…The smell of rain, the distant thunder

I am never Alone, not really.

But I had to accept that, among humans, I am Outlier. It was the last Lesson of Crazy May, and one I’ve been fighting ever since.

So I come home, finding the Peace and the Solace and the Understanding I needed, and I talk with a friend, and there we are: fellow Outliers. Our own strange community of misfits.

We might not fit in with the muggles, pagan or mundane, but we have each other, even if there are not that many of us. Yet. But each time we find another? A Star lights up in the Darkness, and we are all less lonely.

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Auntie Jade…

I am Auntie Jade. I am the unmarried spinster who sits in the corner and watches the couples dance. I am the one who sees the dalliances and the drama and the turmoil. I am not seen, because I do not exist as part of a couple. I am also the one the young turn to when they want the truth and the old turn away from when they want to avoid it. I seem harsh to some, but it is only a shield for the Warrior I have had to be to survive: independent, opinionated, fierce and brash. I am empathic, and when the morphing to be accepted finally ceased to work because my Soul cried to know its own Truth I became a pariah, an outlier, fitting in nowhere.

So I made my own place. Owned my own heart, loved my own Soul, learned to Dance alone, for there was not another who could, or would, because I would no longer become what they wanted or needed at the cost of my own Being.

You think I am bereft of passion and romance but oh! If you only knew how deeply I love, you would run from the power of that too. Do not mistake a desire to be loved wholly and completely and purely for being the passionate, feral, outrageous Being that I am for one who cannot, will not, does not love. I love with a fierceness and a fire that has rarely been matched. If you love me, you risk burning too.

I fear sometimes I have lost my compassion in my quest for truth, in my search for all that is Real. In my need to be whole, to be Seen, to be loved I have looked in the mirror, and in looking in it can no longer look away from the pain, the heartache, the selfish motivations brought on by deep, hidden needs that we all experience. Having done at least part of this inner reflecting though, has caused me to become impatient with those who refuse to look – at themselves, at their lives, at their choices. It is deeply ironic that at the times I am most angry with my loved ones for their choices it is also the time when the tears fall unbidden because I cannot help them. Becoming whole is a singular path; we cannot be helped along it. It can only be witnessed, and honored as the Sacred act that it is. I pray for patience because their pain breaks my heart.

I am Auntie Jade. I am one of many invisible Aunties and Uncles. Look for us in the corners and along the sides of the walls and in the kitchens making tea. Look behind the stern countenances and the strange exuberances and the oft-times eccentricities that we enact to allow our Souls the freedom they require. Please. Look beyond these things and love us, because our hearts are huge and they break, daily, hourly, for all the grief in the world. See us. We are ever so willing to See you, in all your beautiful Sacred woundedness.

Standard Bearer

“Essence Pool” © J Porter, 2010
Glacier Pothole, Interstate Park, Minnesota

Deep in the Essence pool
I sink
Unencumbered by old ways so that I can find the Old Ways
Locked within self

Waiting

They did not need to wait for ever
And I am so grateful for their song
I dance a slower dance now,
But I still dance

It is woven of fibers of mist and fire
Of sinew and bone
It soars through the air
And hunkers by the fire
It remembers the running, giggling girl
And honors the fickle, fecund maiden
It embraces the mother’s heart
It takes the standard of Crone
With open arms

It is all that I am
Open, bold, free
What I do not give
Cannot be taken

Be careful what you ask for,
and of
me.

 

© J Porter, 13 July 2010

Author’s Note: Resurrected 13 May 2017. Even more pertinent.

Run

“Run” Digital Collage

© J. Porter, 2017

we run, we run

we twist ourselves into fantastical shapes
and pretend to breathe

we run from ourselves
and our world
and what we have done to it.

© J. Porter, 2017

To the Wild Things…

“The Getaway”, Artwork by Kevin Peterson,
Red Hot Chili Peppers Album Cover, 2016

Unfolding my life in all its pretty and not so pretty moments, ratcheting and unratcheting points of view and simplistic notions I bought into and fed like the crazy beasts that they were. Continually monitoring with ‘Am I doing it right? Am I doing it wrong? what am I doing again?” and shoving it back into a drawer to be looked at later in depth and later coming when it’s least expected.

Change. Roaring in on Letting Go and Letting Out and Letting In and just plain Letting. Keeping me off-balanced and putting things back into Balance the way they should be, but all the threads of the old ways getting tangled in the walk back to the Old Ways. I reach the scissors finally and snip! Falling falling falling away…. all the screaming beasties demanding, cajoling, convincing, tempting, guilting, haunting, taunting, beguiling.

There’s a ways to go with threads trailing behind, tripping the steady beat of my feet on this Path I’ve waited, Worked, longed for. I make my way through the Dark of the Unknown To the Wild Things. Because I Love them.

They are the only things left that are Real.

Transition Point

A snowy stream is seen through Glen Span Arch at the southern end of the Ravine, a wooded section of New York's Central Park, Thursday, Feb. 25, 2010.
Glen Span Arch, Central Park, 2010.
(AP Photo/Eric Carvin)

Grasping for Life
death grip
on hand transparent
meeting dark,
beyond dark

light
vague
hope at the end
of tunnel, long

frozen
in place
fear
rooting feet
in the no-place

gentle light
growing
candle flicker
gentle hands
guiding
gentle words
reminding
gentle love
encouraging

blessed
blessed beyond measure

© j. porter 2012-2017 et al

Rise

“The View From a Leaf”
Photo Credit – Kobi Refaeli, 2014

We are not needed
In the Great Forests
Or the Rushing Waters
Or the Deserts Beneath the
Great Full Moon

The Beings that inhabit those spaces
Are Already Awake

We must go where we least desire

Among the humans of the world
Who sleep a sleep so deep
They have forgotten

That it is We who need
The Great Forests
and the Rushing Waters
and the Deserts Beneath the
Great Full Moon

Let us Rattle!
And let us Drum!
Ring the Bells
And light the Twisted Sweet Dried Grasses
Aflame
Within Shells of Ancient Ocean Beings’
Long Hardened Homes

Let us Dance beneath the Moon
Among the humans of the world
Who sleep a sleep so deep
They have forgotten

That without
The Great Forests
and the Rushing Waters
and the Deserts Beneath the
Great Full Moon

There is no reason for us to be here

Rise, Shaman, Rise!
Though your Hearts Break
To Leave the Sacred Spaces

Rise

Rattle your Drums
So that there are no Spaces left
Where Sacred is not ReMembered

© J. Porter 2013 et al