Moonfield – Awakening

It seemed like forever before the rains came. I know better than to anticipate; waiting like this makes me somewhat edgy. The air was still and the energy thick, influencing the tone within.


I mistook the wind for rain more than once, rejoicing prematurely only to be humbled by my impatience and expectations. It was a wise choice to go berry picking, barefoot, under a fickle sky.

I passed by the once perfect, now departed daisies, whilst following my well worn path. The mints seemed to be reaching out like eager school children, “Pick me! Pick me!” But it simply was not their turn.

I avoided the drama of the Blue Jays’ agitated clamor just beyond the fringes of the trees, the protective, persistent chirping of a chipmunk and the telltale signal of the approaching end of summer from the drone of the Cicada. Clearly in it together, we shared our tension.

However, my breathing came easier with the picking of each berry. From each passing, wordless song in the nearby wood, I reclaimed my inspired center and optimism. I stayed with the task, reeling myself back in when I wanted to wander somewhere else (but I did check on the flowering Milkweed on behalf of the Monarchs).

I considered powerful connections initiated in the New Moon, pondering limitless possibilities. I fought the impulse to retreat to safety, determined to tap into the fullest extent of my potential and higher souled aspirations.

I fell asleep to the sound of falling rain and awoke to the same – a gentle reassuring melody quenching both the parched earth and my spirit. Against my better judgment, I found myself amongst the black raspberries, barefoot (again) and with a tee shirt. My flesh provided a feast for ravenous mosquitoes. Ah, but I did well just the same. I encountered a few spots of mud that squished agreeably between my toes.

The rain stopped, giving way to tightfisted clouds, unwilling to surrender. I took note of a very unique spider that I tried to capture on film but just could not bring myself as close as need be. My peering at him and positioning of the camera caused us both to wonder.

Today I will leave my comfort zone in nature and on the page, and return to my canvas, which has been waiting far too long. It is through various mediums that we find new channels of creative expression and a deeper connection to the source. The seeds have been planted. The time for new growth and creation in the Moonfield awakens.
Journal: Scarlett Lily

 

Creativity and a Killing Frost - Nature and Art

Thawing and re-freezing can certainly shake the creative energy of a natural artist. The imbalance of our environment may prove to be a challenge if not acknowledged and treated suitably. I found myself wondering why I froze, which is a quandary since I do not believe in writer's block (and the like) and prefer to accept nature in Her raw form (pertaining to myself as well).

So, I decided to allow the blank page to serve as a tool for re-opening the passageway to my creative essence, trusting that I would get to the bottom of it [deep creative freeze]; and I did. Apparently, my bond to nature is reflected in my reaction to the recent thawing and refreezing of my surroundings. As much as we [as a species] separate ourselves from and try to harness nature; we are very much a part of Her. We have strayed away from our original state of being; however our authentic connection to Our Mother still resonates deeply within. For some this force is more profound than in others.

When allowing myself to merge with the record breaking temperatures by digging in the earth, planting, meandering curiously through the woods, walking barefoot in the mud and snowfield – I started a flow that was promptly interrupted by Our Mother as She reeled us all back in, maintaining balance and returning us to where we should be.

Like the early opening buds of trees, plants and bushes; I responded to the premature warmth, light and melting away of winter. I sat outdoors under the clear canopy of stars while the thunderous night chorus of peepers stirred my heart. I acknowledged how wrong high temperatures [reaching the upper 80’s] are in Northern New England in mid-March. The innocent, childlike part of me wanted to enjoy it, but the intelligent, knowing part of me was aware of the reality of this radical climate change.

I surrendered. I finally removed the sap buckets from the Maple trees and aligned my thinking towards gratitude rather than loss of what could have been. In a tank top and shorts, I planted seeds that were okay to plant when the ground is workable and can handle a frost. I rejoiced that there were no bugs. I went with the insanity and waited for what came next.

With the return of frigid temperatures, (well beyond a killing frost) strong north winds blow hard through the swaying pines. I bundle up in my flannel shirt, winter hat and collect dead wood to stoke the fire.

The crocuses and snowdrops, which wilted in unfamiliar heat, are thriving now. Except for the deepest part of the shaded woods, the snow is gone. Strewn about like abandoned wreckage, autumn remains in decayed brownish remnants. The pond is freezing again.

The night chorus, which was double forte a few nights ago, has diminished into regretful silence. The mountain streams that rushed over and under ground have been humbled to reassuring, melodious quietude. My footsteps – faithful to the cold, frozen in the mud – follow the old logging road, leaving a memory of what was, promising to flourish again. Together we wait.

Journal: Babies Breath