ask her again
Put the lights out around the castle.
Attend to the being in front of you-
What does she wear?
A dress of cinders shielding the flame,
She glides over the floor in socks, knitted
Silk by the butterflies.
There is a fountain where people gather
Trading stories in exchange for a
Bit of attention: Love!
Gravity is the Earth’s breath
The exhale takes us downward,
Into the imperishable.
Open the door—bang, bang, bang!
She hesitates to answer
Unwilling to sacrifice a single step.
Eventual eventide; she will
Surrender to a question
Ask her again.
— Seraphina Dawn
My dreams have been filled with the faces of old friends.
Thanks to my elders, Marion Woodman and Clarissa Pinkola Estes, I know that each part of the dream—the people and objects—represents a different aspect of the individual psyche.
I’m traveling backward, through the nest of nostalgia, as I prepare for the next phase.
The primary question I always ask of my dreams is: what is the feeling? What is the overall sensation of the dream, and what is it attached to in the waking world?
I am very invested in dream psychology. It illuminates the subconscious, a.k .a. our blindspots.
One of the daily practices I’ve developed and maintained is to ask the same question several times.
The first time I ask, my conscious mind answers.
The second time I inquire (or maybe the sixth or seventh), I get to the deeper layer where my soul feels safe speaking her mind.
So, I invite you to ask her again.
Observe how you feel and the quality of your breath. Your body’s position: the shape of your shoulders, the angle of your neck, the sensation at your belly.
A question I’ve been sitting more deeply this week is how I will appear online. I stopped posting on social media and sharing my work in 2021.
What I create is composed for me and enjoyed by a small list of readers.
As I ready myself for the next phase, I feel prepared to put myself out in the world, though I am skittish.
Last week, I realized that I am very critical of what people share of themselves on the internet. I followed this thread for a few days and discovered that I am judgemental of others because I am unsure of how to present myself.
I deeply desire to share my poetry, practices, and gifts with others.
I want to present the things I’ve learned—the things that have helped me feel more centered, confident, and clear about who I am and what I have to offer.
I have a deep-rooted fear of being judged because I have no control over how others perceive me.
It took me two years to discover this agitation and why I stopped sharing on social media. It’s tied to perception and control.
It’s challenging to assume a position outside the signals designed by class, gender, race, age, and culture.
One of the reasons I love writing is that I can remain unseen.
There is something inside of me that screams: don’t let people see you! They will assume a response based on how you appear to them.
Ask Her Again….
How do we step out of the hierarchies, the preconditioned fantasies and fallacies designed by unconscious minds?
Appearance is significant: how we care for ourselves, dress, hold our bodies, speak, and leave space for silence.
I want my emergence to be colorful, passionate, and compassionate.
I want to appear graceful and at ease within my home, my body, this nesting place between heaven and earth.
I am aiming for a place I have never been before and bidding farewell to the personas of my past. My dreams show me that the way through is to bid ciao to my old ways of thinking, acting, and perceiving.
So farewell, au revoir, adeus, mae alsalama, and tot ziens!
I am making space for something to reveal itself.
Sending you sweet dreams,
Seraphina
Twameva - performed by Janet Stone
Twameva translates from Sanskrit into more than just a word: it is a blessing, an offering, and an invocation.
Meaning:
1: You Truly are my Mother And You Truly are my Father.
2: You Truly are my Relative And You Truly are my Friend.
3: You Truly are my Knowledge and You Truly are my Wealth.
4: You Truly are my All, My God of Gods.
I listened to this song repeatedly for nine days after my last breakup.
I’d moved to Morocco because it was where my mate lived. We had planned a three-month trip through Turkey to camp, hike, and explore the generous topography. We booked the trip in the wintering months for the upcoming summer.
Our concluding conversation was at the beach. It was springtime, and the waves were as high as the wind! I’d brought a bag of cherries and a bag of the little almond cookies we liked. I laid my orange scarf on the sand and sat in the sun to watch him body surf.
He shook his salty hair over me when he came to my side, as he usually did, to tease me. It was the same sequence of events: snacks, swimming, and solitude, even as we sat so close to each other.
Yet, much had changed; we both felt it.
I spoke what neither of us wanted to say. Full of desire to flee, I sat in the discomfort: his anger, my sadness, our pain. A dissolution of affairs that manifested as we cycled in opposite directions.
I felt like someone had tipped the bucket over, and all the contents spilled and rolled to the corners where I could not reach.
Once home in the small studio apartment I’d been renting, I lit incense, stood with my hands on my heart, and cried. I stood like that for some time. Then I put on some music (my mantra playlist on Spotify), sang along as I made tea, and got on with living. As soon as Twameva came on, I stopped what I had been doing. I felt reassured, held, and LOVED, which is ultimately what I desired and needed in that vulnerable circumstance.
Heartache is its own wild.
I hit repeat for over a week, and when that time had passed, I’d released the man who’d claimed my heart in the golden desert.
And I did the trek through the Turkish mountains on my own.
Quote to F O C US Your Attention -
≌
It is not worth denying, ignoring, or decapitating this oceanic feeling and this need to believe: it is childish or criminal. But there is also a desire to know: question your fantasies to the root of the imaginary, which is the need to believe. It is painful, it is violent.
—Julia Kristeva.
3 questions to brew on:
Where does your heart live? Is there a place or time it enjoys being in the most?
What song/songs do you listen to when you’re sad?
How do you reconsile loneliness versus aloneness?