Back and forth I go. Back and forth. If this were the forest and I were a wild creature I'd have a hearty game trail forged from one watering hole to the next. Only in this case, it's closets. My closet in the trailer to the closet in the house. And vice versa. The route is easily scouted. Down two trailer steps that wobble a bit when my weight hits them. Across gravel, about 25 steps around the garage and through the door of the house. Into the kitchen I go and take an immediate right up two landings of stairs and across the living room to the closet door where I'm storing the things I'm not taking with me.
I open the hollow plywood door. On the inside I've taped a full page ad that Yoko Ono took out in the NY Times on New Years Day 2006. The page is blank except for one line of text across the center that reads: "Imagine all the people, living life in peace." When I read it back then, it moved me to tears. I also took a marker and crossed out 'people' and wrote above it: 'Christina & Tom." I taped it to the sliding bedroom door in our RV and never heard a peep.
I figure that's probably when the relationship should have ended. But the old saying about hindsight is in play. I had many layers to sift through. At that point we'd been together 11 years, the longest for either of us. We'd weathered some big storms; none 'perfect,' but they tossed us good as I wondered in the pages of my journals, "How much of an aging relationship is held in place by inertia?" "Wasn't this the way things were after such a long time together?" A long list of explanations were hidden within that four letter word, this. And, I loved Tom. I wasn't ready to give up on us despite a languishing sex life that I chalked up to various stages of menopause and fights that were fueled by too much Cabernet. The fact was, despite arguments, discussion and agreements, nothing shifted for long. Bottom line?...'THIS' was not what I wanted.
And so today I take clothes from the closet in the trailer that I don't want to take on the road. Out go the work clothes cuz I won't be needing those. And I don't need ump-teen hundred (slight exaggeration) long-sleeved and sleeveless shirts. I'll take about half that many. I bring out a couple of outfits that I'll wear for speaking engagements. And workshop presentations. With the exception of some fine tuning, my website and the description of my work is finished. Everyday I scratch a couple more things off my list as I near my June 12th departure date.
This is ponderously exciting and scary as I pass Yoko Ono's reminder of John's guiding words. As I prepare to move from one 'this' to another that is unknown.
(www.christinanealson.com)
Friday, May 28, 2010
Monday, May 24, 2010
Table Talk
It is the fourth day of wind. 30 mph steady with gusts in the 60's. The air is putrid pink with dust and anything that isn't tied down down gets pushed into the next county. Forced movement is the metaphor. This, as I box and move the the contents of the little visitors center that I manage. When I'm not doing that I'm packing and boxing the my contents of the "house of Tom and I", 15 years of shared memories through objects. I shoehorn things into the 19-foot travel trailer I jokingly call My-Pod, trying hard to keep to those things that speak to my soul. Does a carrot grater do that? Yes, this one does; I bought it last summer when I went back to Iowa for my dad's memorial party. My sister Judy, mom, a friend Marie and I made a trip to the Amana Colonies. That's where I bought the carrot grater; and a square yard stick that hangs in the bathroom closet.
The wind. I do what I can to steady myself. Yesterday Babette gave me the massage she had gifted me for my birthday in October that I'd never collected. I kept getting cold on the table; testament to the roiling going on inside. I don't like to talk during massage; prefer to be silent and see what's pushed to the surface as the flesh is worked. Babette just lets it happen. I rolled over onto my back and she put a warm cloth on my jelly-belly womb. My voice broke silence after several minutes: I wonder what she's feeling these days? Now that the blood has stopped; now that she's no longer nesting month after month. What's going on inside this primo receiver that is lined with more receptors per milli-meter than our eye?
I envisioned dark space. She's a caldron, I said. Babette said she liked that. Goes hand in hand with Creatrix, 'Female Creator,' the name I give to women 50-70. Post-children, pre-Crone, we set out on behalf of ourselves, earth and spirit.
We reach into that 'call-dron' to finish the work of the soul. Learn the art of riding wind.
The wind. I do what I can to steady myself. Yesterday Babette gave me the massage she had gifted me for my birthday in October that I'd never collected. I kept getting cold on the table; testament to the roiling going on inside. I don't like to talk during massage; prefer to be silent and see what's pushed to the surface as the flesh is worked. Babette just lets it happen. I rolled over onto my back and she put a warm cloth on my jelly-belly womb. My voice broke silence after several minutes: I wonder what she's feeling these days? Now that the blood has stopped; now that she's no longer nesting month after month. What's going on inside this primo receiver that is lined with more receptors per milli-meter than our eye?
I envisioned dark space. She's a caldron, I said. Babette said she liked that. Goes hand in hand with Creatrix, 'Female Creator,' the name I give to women 50-70. Post-children, pre-Crone, we set out on behalf of ourselves, earth and spirit.
We reach into that 'call-dron' to finish the work of the soul. Learn the art of riding wind.
Friday, May 21, 2010
Snip. No Tethers.
The Rio Grande
Chama River
Navajo
Coyote Creek
Blanca River
San Juan
Cat Creek
I departed Taos; left behind adobe walls framed with apricot blossoms, splintered window frames of faded turquoise, horse pastures of peace in the middle of town. I drove across the Rio Grande Gorge bridge steeped in memory of my pilgrimage into the Sangre de Cristo's and my homecoming with Grandmother Tree. Her advice: don't rush. Don't push the river. I'd been doing just that. Squeezing my brain cells for answers to the discontent that roiled around inside. I didn't need to worry. Metaphor gushed from spring thaw in the southern Rockies. Snow melt, overflowing ditches, impromptu streams of riled waters. The forces of nature combined and surrounded me as I traveled west towards Mancos and frozen energies let loose.
Devil Creek
Piedra River
Saul's Creek
One by one I crossed their cold wetness. I was Mancos-bound on May 10. Mercury, ruler of communications and travel, came out of retrograde the next day; added cosmic heat to the energies of thaw. Five days later I gave 3 weeks notice on my job and made plans for a pilgrimage to British Colombia and Alaska. Christina unleashed.
I am unbearably excited; I am paralyzed, at times, with fear when I think of money. Or lack of. But the constant faith in this decision holds firm. Something unexplainable is at the helm. It's called the soul and I need to stay out of her way.
Los Pinos
Dry Creek
Florida River
The Animas
Huge cosmic shifts are set to occur this summer, especially from June 26-August 21st, sparking volatility in the earth, weather, personal relationships, political and economic realms. "Be careful out there," writes my sister-friend Carole as I load the trailer and prepare to depart for her home in Kaslo, BC. Tensions begin to heat up June 5th but I find it fascinating that the day of my departure, new moon on June 12th, is the only easy time predicted for this time period. June 12-18th is relegated as a good travel window.
Lightner Creek
Cherry Creek.
The precious Mancos River.
Three weeks and counting. I need to make an appointment with the vet for Teak's certificate of good health for the Canadian border crossing. The list grows.
Chama River
Navajo
Coyote Creek
Blanca River
San Juan
Cat Creek
I departed Taos; left behind adobe walls framed with apricot blossoms, splintered window frames of faded turquoise, horse pastures of peace in the middle of town. I drove across the Rio Grande Gorge bridge steeped in memory of my pilgrimage into the Sangre de Cristo's and my homecoming with Grandmother Tree. Her advice: don't rush. Don't push the river. I'd been doing just that. Squeezing my brain cells for answers to the discontent that roiled around inside. I didn't need to worry. Metaphor gushed from spring thaw in the southern Rockies. Snow melt, overflowing ditches, impromptu streams of riled waters. The forces of nature combined and surrounded me as I traveled west towards Mancos and frozen energies let loose.
Devil Creek
Piedra River
Saul's Creek
One by one I crossed their cold wetness. I was Mancos-bound on May 10. Mercury, ruler of communications and travel, came out of retrograde the next day; added cosmic heat to the energies of thaw. Five days later I gave 3 weeks notice on my job and made plans for a pilgrimage to British Colombia and Alaska. Christina unleashed.
I am unbearably excited; I am paralyzed, at times, with fear when I think of money. Or lack of. But the constant faith in this decision holds firm. Something unexplainable is at the helm. It's called the soul and I need to stay out of her way.
Los Pinos
Dry Creek
Florida River
The Animas
Huge cosmic shifts are set to occur this summer, especially from June 26-August 21st, sparking volatility in the earth, weather, personal relationships, political and economic realms. "Be careful out there," writes my sister-friend Carole as I load the trailer and prepare to depart for her home in Kaslo, BC. Tensions begin to heat up June 5th but I find it fascinating that the day of my departure, new moon on June 12th, is the only easy time predicted for this time period. June 12-18th is relegated as a good travel window.
Lightner Creek
Cherry Creek.
The precious Mancos River.
Three weeks and counting. I need to make an appointment with the vet for Teak's certificate of good health for the Canadian border crossing. The list grows.
Wednesday, May 12, 2010
When Old Lovers Turn Old
He walked into my talk, body hunched over. An old black stocking cap upon his head, he sat his spindly body into a chair. I was surprised to see him. He wrote all night, didn't go to bed until 7:00 a.m. and slept until 2:00. It was noon. And there he was. I began my talk as always, thanking people for being there. Today's frenzied world tears and shoves upon what little free time we have; it's amazing that people would walk into a florescent-lit room at noon on a gorgeous Taos-spring day to hear me speak. I measure my life by who shows up. The room was packed and there he was.
It had been 15 years since he dumped for me for a 21 yr. old flamenco dancer. Our passion had burned the mail carrier's hands from Taos to my cabin perched on a mountainside in the San Luis Valley. It was before the internet; I had no phone. He pecked on an old manual typewriter and I on a keyboard that produced dot matrix printouts. Stone age stuff by today's electronic standards, as envelopes carried pages of our determination to discover a 'different kind of love;' paragraphs peppered every few weeks with rug-burned meetings between the sheets. He was in his 50's when he fell for his dancer; I in my early 40's. They married in a predictable chaos that lasted only a couple of years; I married too.
I had recently found the inches-thick folder of our letters and sent him a short note telling him of my talk. His pale, peeked presence shocked. I began my talk with the drum, reminding the audience that it is the same vibration of the earth and of its capacity to take us into sacred space. Then we embarked on lively exploration of what makes a place sacred. He raised his hand and offered that he thought the dumpster behind the post office was sacred to the ravens, being that they fed there; as was the gray jay family in the forest that ate organic raisins from his hand.
He approached me after the talk as I signed books. The last available copy of my book in his hand, he wanted to buy it. "It's yours," I said as I smiled into his blue eyes. He said he wouldn't accept it without paying for it. I said no. He said he wouldn't take it for free. I said tell you what, let's trade. He had given me an inscribed collection of his books years before and I had angrily dumped them on the counter of a used bookstore in the flamenco dancer's shadow.
We had a deal. I met him at his house later that day where he signed a half dozen books at his kitchen table that was buried under stacks of papers, files and Alice Walker's latest tome. He watchfully drove us to a local pizza joint in his paint-faded car with a duct-taped tail light. I took his arm and helped him across the street as he began to lose his balance. As the couple next to us each talked simultaneously to others on cell phones he told me about his congenital heart disease; how he must lay down and put his feet in the air when his heart takes off on rampant voyages and he doesn't know if he'll live or die. How he writes like a mad man to finish his final two books. And yes, we talked about love but not about ours. How he believes it's steeped in biology and doomed to fail. I, convinced this was the genesis of his failed heart. "Half of my friends have died in their 60's," he said. He was 69.
Bittersweet is the feel as I re-member our past and how the late afternoon sun cast shadows on his cracked adobe walls. How he rose from bed in the wake of ardor, drew a warm bath, took my hand and lowered me into amniotic waters. How the next morning I reached under his bed to retrieve my bra and pulled out a stranger's 38 DD.
It had been 15 years since he dumped for me for a 21 yr. old flamenco dancer. Our passion had burned the mail carrier's hands from Taos to my cabin perched on a mountainside in the San Luis Valley. It was before the internet; I had no phone. He pecked on an old manual typewriter and I on a keyboard that produced dot matrix printouts. Stone age stuff by today's electronic standards, as envelopes carried pages of our determination to discover a 'different kind of love;' paragraphs peppered every few weeks with rug-burned meetings between the sheets. He was in his 50's when he fell for his dancer; I in my early 40's. They married in a predictable chaos that lasted only a couple of years; I married too.
I had recently found the inches-thick folder of our letters and sent him a short note telling him of my talk. His pale, peeked presence shocked. I began my talk with the drum, reminding the audience that it is the same vibration of the earth and of its capacity to take us into sacred space. Then we embarked on lively exploration of what makes a place sacred. He raised his hand and offered that he thought the dumpster behind the post office was sacred to the ravens, being that they fed there; as was the gray jay family in the forest that ate organic raisins from his hand.
He approached me after the talk as I signed books. The last available copy of my book in his hand, he wanted to buy it. "It's yours," I said as I smiled into his blue eyes. He said he wouldn't accept it without paying for it. I said no. He said he wouldn't take it for free. I said tell you what, let's trade. He had given me an inscribed collection of his books years before and I had angrily dumped them on the counter of a used bookstore in the flamenco dancer's shadow.
We had a deal. I met him at his house later that day where he signed a half dozen books at his kitchen table that was buried under stacks of papers, files and Alice Walker's latest tome. He watchfully drove us to a local pizza joint in his paint-faded car with a duct-taped tail light. I took his arm and helped him across the street as he began to lose his balance. As the couple next to us each talked simultaneously to others on cell phones he told me about his congenital heart disease; how he must lay down and put his feet in the air when his heart takes off on rampant voyages and he doesn't know if he'll live or die. How he writes like a mad man to finish his final two books. And yes, we talked about love but not about ours. How he believes it's steeped in biology and doomed to fail. I, convinced this was the genesis of his failed heart. "Half of my friends have died in their 60's," he said. He was 69.
Bittersweet is the feel as I re-member our past and how the late afternoon sun cast shadows on his cracked adobe walls. How he rose from bed in the wake of ardor, drew a warm bath, took my hand and lowered me into amniotic waters. How the next morning I reached under his bed to retrieve my bra and pulled out a stranger's 38 DD.
Friday, May 7, 2010
Taos-bound
The thick crescent moon hangs high in the eastern sky as I gather what I need for Taos. Toothbrush, drum, my moka pot for fresh espresso. It is my first visit in five years and I brim with curiosity; wonder how it will feel to walk her adobe-lined streets once again. My two best woman-friends are gone. One lives in Mexico and one south of Santa Fe. Both are, interestingly like myself, in the shadow of a divorce. One as recent as this week.
I return to speak as part of the town's, "Return to the Sacred," series and wonder how much of that title applies to myself. I will talk about sacred sites of NM and no doubt sell my last two remaining books on the subject as I lead a discussion on what makes a place sacred and move into the realm of my passion: the connection of the wild and the sacred.
I wonder who I will see as I look out at the audience. Past clients and workshop students? Women who I taught to use a handgun? An old lover? A girlfriend I used to horseback ride with? Hell, may be no one will show up on a beauty-full spring Saturday afternoon to sit under florescent lights. If there's anything that book tour taught me, it's to never be bothered by the count. Many years ago one nun traveled 150 miles to hear me read from Living on the Spine. She and I sat, I read only to her and we shared our lives in an unforgettably touching way.
Sometime during my 3-day visit I will drive into the Sangre de Cristo mountains and return to 'my' Grandmother Tree, an old growth Ponderosa pine. On this steep mountainside, under her vast canopy of long-needled branches is where I sought solace for so many years; listened for deeper voices. My sacred, wild place.
And so here I sit on the bed as dawn lands upon soul. I take the large crystal and tuning fork, ping one to the other and hold it over my heart until the sound and vibration cease. Ping, my third eye; ping, my cunt. Crown chakra opened and energized as I run a spiral out the top of my head. I save the throat for last, that sacred passage for giving voice. I am cleared for take-off.
I return to speak as part of the town's, "Return to the Sacred," series and wonder how much of that title applies to myself. I will talk about sacred sites of NM and no doubt sell my last two remaining books on the subject as I lead a discussion on what makes a place sacred and move into the realm of my passion: the connection of the wild and the sacred.
I wonder who I will see as I look out at the audience. Past clients and workshop students? Women who I taught to use a handgun? An old lover? A girlfriend I used to horseback ride with? Hell, may be no one will show up on a beauty-full spring Saturday afternoon to sit under florescent lights. If there's anything that book tour taught me, it's to never be bothered by the count. Many years ago one nun traveled 150 miles to hear me read from Living on the Spine. She and I sat, I read only to her and we shared our lives in an unforgettably touching way.
Sometime during my 3-day visit I will drive into the Sangre de Cristo mountains and return to 'my' Grandmother Tree, an old growth Ponderosa pine. On this steep mountainside, under her vast canopy of long-needled branches is where I sought solace for so many years; listened for deeper voices. My sacred, wild place.
And so here I sit on the bed as dawn lands upon soul. I take the large crystal and tuning fork, ping one to the other and hold it over my heart until the sound and vibration cease. Ping, my third eye; ping, my cunt. Crown chakra opened and energized as I run a spiral out the top of my head. I save the throat for last, that sacred passage for giving voice. I am cleared for take-off.
Saturday, May 1, 2010
Stoned and Amazed
I don't wear a lot of jewelry. There's the silver pendant that I picked up from a hippie jeweler on Telegraph Ave back in the 1970's. It's sterling silver, a little larger than a nickel coin and is sculpted with the head of an Artemis-like long-haired woman. The wind blows through her long hair and she's holding out her hand to a bird. An opal adorns her neck. I've worn this piece every day for 30 years. She is my wild woman.
Back in 1976, when I finished graduate school, I trotted down to the local jeweler in Iowa City, Iowa and bought myself a garnet ring set in gold. My reward. My symbol of accomplishment. I was never into class rings. Like the pendant, I have worn it religiously. I began to wear this ring with my wedding band when Tom and I were married. This winter when we separated I caught it on the motorhome door as I exited down the stairs and almost pulled my finger off. Startled and in pain I ran inside and immediately pulled my rings off as my finger swelled and turned black and blue. The gold setting of the garnet was badly bent. The wedding ring never returned to my finger.
I recently delivered the garnet to a Navajo jeweler to get it re-shaped and was advised to protect the unusually beautiful piece; that garnets this large are now rare. I decided to reset it to ensure I would not lose it. I picked up the ring on the day that Tom and I filed our final stack of divorce papers. It was as if this ring had led me through the process of separation.
The third piece of jewelry I wear is a turquoise and silver antique Navajo ring. This ring has ten little turquoise in-lays that periodically fall out. I recently had this ring repaired as well; after a year of looking for someone to do the inlay, the missing stones were dropped in place and on my finger. Again, the week we filed those papers.
My three pieces: old friends. I am in awe at the energies my soul called forth and what appeared; what I chose to wear without 'knowing.' First came garnet, known as the warriors stone, protective talisman against death or injury. It is the stone of love and passion, enhancing sensuality, sexuality and intimacy. Garnet brings constancy to friendships. Magically, it rebounds negative energy back to the source, protecting its wearer from malicious energy. A few years later came the wild woman and her opal, which sparks imagination, promotes introspection and awakens intuition. This corresponded to my serious pursuit of writing. Ten years later came turquoise. Like garnet, it also shields from harmful influences. Its energy attracts love and friendship. Ultimately, it brings peace and serene energy to its wearer. This ring was given me on the cusp of my 5-year solo retreat at the edge of wilderness.
Here's the clincher. Last year I was drawn to replace two pieces of the turquoise with red coral. Land with sea. Now I read that red coral stimulates the energetic pursuit of pre-determined goals. What did my soul know that my mind did not? It is linked to the base chakra---passion and creativity are her energetic realms.
All is energy.
Back in 1976, when I finished graduate school, I trotted down to the local jeweler in Iowa City, Iowa and bought myself a garnet ring set in gold. My reward. My symbol of accomplishment. I was never into class rings. Like the pendant, I have worn it religiously. I began to wear this ring with my wedding band when Tom and I were married. This winter when we separated I caught it on the motorhome door as I exited down the stairs and almost pulled my finger off. Startled and in pain I ran inside and immediately pulled my rings off as my finger swelled and turned black and blue. The gold setting of the garnet was badly bent. The wedding ring never returned to my finger.
I recently delivered the garnet to a Navajo jeweler to get it re-shaped and was advised to protect the unusually beautiful piece; that garnets this large are now rare. I decided to reset it to ensure I would not lose it. I picked up the ring on the day that Tom and I filed our final stack of divorce papers. It was as if this ring had led me through the process of separation.
The third piece of jewelry I wear is a turquoise and silver antique Navajo ring. This ring has ten little turquoise in-lays that periodically fall out. I recently had this ring repaired as well; after a year of looking for someone to do the inlay, the missing stones were dropped in place and on my finger. Again, the week we filed those papers.
My three pieces: old friends. I am in awe at the energies my soul called forth and what appeared; what I chose to wear without 'knowing.' First came garnet, known as the warriors stone, protective talisman against death or injury. It is the stone of love and passion, enhancing sensuality, sexuality and intimacy. Garnet brings constancy to friendships. Magically, it rebounds negative energy back to the source, protecting its wearer from malicious energy. A few years later came the wild woman and her opal, which sparks imagination, promotes introspection and awakens intuition. This corresponded to my serious pursuit of writing. Ten years later came turquoise. Like garnet, it also shields from harmful influences. Its energy attracts love and friendship. Ultimately, it brings peace and serene energy to its wearer. This ring was given me on the cusp of my 5-year solo retreat at the edge of wilderness.
Here's the clincher. Last year I was drawn to replace two pieces of the turquoise with red coral. Land with sea. Now I read that red coral stimulates the energetic pursuit of pre-determined goals. What did my soul know that my mind did not? It is linked to the base chakra---passion and creativity are her energetic realms.
All is energy.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)