Christmas

Is there anything more prone to salvage than rememberances of events gone by? More symbolically salvageable than Christmas ornaments?

Once something is realized as "the last" so often the last is already gone. Had, done, passing without notice. And so, I think of this Christmas as the last, but really, it was the first, the last being the Christmas before--2009. And to silently commemorate the first-ness of this year the children cut down the tree in our woods. Usually we go to a tree farm and get one there. Strangely, last year, as Tom was tying the tree to the top of the car, the thought: "I will never see him do this again," flashed through my mind. At the time I simultaneously took a couple of pictures and shook my head as if to throw that thought off; toss it back into the snow and trees where it could be forgotten.

But forgotten that moment was not. It came, a haunt in the day and the night, sneaking into my thoughts like a wisp of mist between firs.

Kite (draft--may be edited later)

in a tree a kite. wind pulled and wind ripped, shreds and shards breaking, diminishing the overall. the (once) entirety of it.

For here is a kite, long ago made by hand, tissue paper colours chosen for their liveliness and compatibility, for their exclamation of joy! which the kite enlivened as it bounced and twirled and soared high, until  laughing, it returned to earth,  to loving hands and loving hearts. Hand made. Yes. Each frame-piece measured and cut with care, tied together in a perfect diamond. archetypal. And then the tissue, once picked out, cut and smoothed over the frame with fingertip gentle care, so it would not tear,then pasted. flour and water.

kite
string attached, reeled out, sent forth:  at first bouncing low, reaching toward currents and eddies, falling, reaching, falling reaching and then with a shout, pulling up into the blue against the blue and the clouds and the gentle chimes of the trees and the laughter of people below. And it was loved, that kite, and it loved in return, soaring--a smudge of bright in the air. the invisible air.

then.
a downdraft
the tree.
snared.
shredding.
rain and wind and time pull at the kite, crumpled, discarded, left to dissolve, disappearing fiber by fiber scrap by scrap, shard by shard until it will cease--surely and entirely--to exist;
until its very existence is forgotten altogether
& the sky closes up around the space it occupied.
seamless blue.

Post-time and Ghost time

So, here I am, past Christmas, the calendar new year, the winter, and into an as yet two-crocus-still-snow-on-the-ground spring. Or, rather, what is called "spring" in New England, which I do not consider a real spring, but nevertheless, an end and a beginning. Me, Kali, and the Hanged Man.

In a typical-for-me new agey action I had my tarot read near the end of the year, both the calendar year and my birthday year. Not surprisingly, the card for the coming year was the Hanged Man. The Kali of the tarot, it is an interesting card, one that portends a year of questioning all one believes to be true, that held close as given, and the coming of events that will require re-evaluation of those ideals.

I did not ask for this situation, that is certain, but it is not really negative per se, just uncomfortable. A life shaken up and spread in pieces, but in the way of all equivalent topological figures not torn, just changed.

Okay, okay so there are those of you who may laugh at my new age (what a term--deserts and crystals!) stuff, and at my always looking for the proverbial bright side sort of thinking, but really, what is the option? Dragged down and dismal, bemoaning fate and cursing the gods? I-don't-think-so. I couldn't sustain that for long. And why would I want to? After all, there are two small flowers in the front garden, and two new lambs, and a massive flock of snow buntings visited on their way north, appearing suddenly, a bushel of identical & perfect origamied handkerchiefs thrown against the sky.

And what else did the reading offer in the way of providing a different angle from which to contemplate my life, you ask.

A gift. Quite simply, a gift.

The Ace of Swords illustrates a gift offered, held out for the taking. A gift. I hadn't thought I was being offered a gift. After all, it is not exactly what comes to mind when life seems tsunami-overwhelming, but then again, me being me, it is sort of surprising I didn't, because it is so in my nature to tell others that there is (most likely) an upside to difficult circumstances. (Pollyanna-ish? And why is that said so often with such disdain? Another post for sure) Evidently--thank you again, tarot--this stuff is necessary for me to find peace with myself and the life I am living. Hey, I can agree that sounds good (yeah, those crystals and chanting again) but couldn't it just be beamed into me or something? Isn't there a pill for this???

Whatever. Here I am, and I suppose then I may as well try to find something....well...at least okay in it all. How American, isn't it? To say that?

Still.....you sure no pill? Tincture?? Puh-leese????

Guess not, and so, here we are then: Look ahead. It is post time; the horses are in the starting gate. Turn around and ghosts whisper. And the air between is thin. Very thin, and very fine.


(Title credit: "Post-time and ghost time" inspired by John Stewart, Golden Gate Fields: "..the junkies and jockeys, at post-time and coast time..." on The Day the River Sang.)