Trees Lose Parts of themselves inside a circle of fog, Francis Ponge, translated by Robert Bly
Inside the fog that encloses the trees, they undergo a stripping...Thrown into confusion by a slow oxidation, and humiliated by the sap's withdrawal for the sake of the flowers and fruits, the leaves, following the hot spells of August, cling less anyway.
The up-and-down tunnels inside the bark deepen, and guide the moisture down to earth so as to break off with the more animated parts of the tree.
The flowers are scattered, the fruits brought down. This giving up of their more animated parts, and even of parts of their body, has become, since their earliest days, a familiar pattern for trees.
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Ok, what I want to do is invite you to re-read the poem, inserting the word 'menopausal woman' for the word 'tree'. Instead of oxidation, insert, peri-menopause. Imagine the fruits and flowers, leaves and bark as parts of a woman's body, analagous to female organs and body parts. The fact is that, losing moisture and 'giving up of the more animated parts' has been a familiar pattern for menopausal women for years.
Women lose parts of themselves inside the fog of menopause, but it's all for a good cause.
How devastating and beautiful the process of losing one's reliance on the outer 'fertility machine', the bloom and growth parts of the female cycle, and cycling down into the slower, more interior space of 'over-50', even if it's only a temporary slow down. For many women it's the best, most productive time of their lives, once they get past the turbulence and upheaval of hormonal changes, aptly called "The Change". Life choices, marriage choices, career, children - all are called into question. The Authentic Voice is longing to surface. The voice that doesn't care what 'other people' (read 'women') think, and that longs to run barefoot through the morning grass again in her underwear. The Voice that is rooted in the body.
I'm still waiting for that "most productive time" to kick in. Right now, it's rest and renewal, and more rest. I'm even curing myself of my addiction to emails. A stiff neck and shoulder has helped me avoid the slavery that the computer demands.
Right now, I'm preparing for a full retreat, a Writer's Spa in Taos New Mexico with the comfort queen. Kiss the sky for me, as Georgia O'Keeffe would say. I'm heading for that open sky in two days. Last night's double rainbow in flourescent colours against a dark grey sky (over Calabogie Lake, Ontario) was a good omen. I may meet my Self on the way back.
jenn
musemother
Gently guiding you to become your own oracle. Listen to your inner wisdom with journaling and SoulCollage(R).
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Monday, July 24, 2006
Wednesday, July 05, 2006
bare bones and motherfamine
we are the bones of our mothers, we come from the bones of our mothers, we are starved for the cellular lustre of our mother's listening, our hearts crave mothering, and it feels good to read about Mary Magdalene as part of the Divine Mother that was 'x'd out of our conscious worship/awe eons ago, after the mother goddesses (read: pagan idols) were destroyed, burned, defiled, and the Father gods enthroned in her place - we lost the couple-ness, the duality. Life is duality, life is dual, egg and sperm, yin and yang. Night and day.
this motherfamine is our song of loss and ache of being for somehting deep, rooted inside our female bodies (and our male bodies), a call or longing for wholeness.
she was lost to us before we were born, as Adrienne Rich says. this honey nectar of mother love - how love the self, if you are woman, and are not in love with the feminine?
some musings on the brink of thunder, under a darkening sky, this July morning, watching the wind in the oak leaves frolic and blow. Remember the anointing, the sacred ointment poured out over Jesus, 'wasted' some said, the bride of the king giving him a special symbolic bathing in rich perfumed oils, and then her tears, and her hair rubbing his feet dry. the sensuality of spirit marrying spirit, inside the flesh.
Manna, breath of life, says the Dolphin in my cards this morning. Connect with divine energy through breath. Sacred Breath.
Dear reader, come play in the great ocean! Breathe, dance, dive deep. Open your heart and receive. Life.
this motherfamine is our song of loss and ache of being for somehting deep, rooted inside our female bodies (and our male bodies), a call or longing for wholeness.
she was lost to us before we were born, as Adrienne Rich says. this honey nectar of mother love - how love the self, if you are woman, and are not in love with the feminine?
some musings on the brink of thunder, under a darkening sky, this July morning, watching the wind in the oak leaves frolic and blow. Remember the anointing, the sacred ointment poured out over Jesus, 'wasted' some said, the bride of the king giving him a special symbolic bathing in rich perfumed oils, and then her tears, and her hair rubbing his feet dry. the sensuality of spirit marrying spirit, inside the flesh.
Manna, breath of life, says the Dolphin in my cards this morning. Connect with divine energy through breath. Sacred Breath.
Dear reader, come play in the great ocean! Breathe, dance, dive deep. Open your heart and receive. Life.
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