Listening to Cassandra Wilson again, just calm and mellow on a Snow Day, where the sun peaks thrugh the clouds on occasion and reminds me again how nasty snow-blindness can be. It's cold in my house but warm in my heart, where I am preparing for a nice, quite weekend without much chaos or panic.
Today is the first of December, rent day (which I don't have), World AIDS day (which I thankfully do not have), and the first day of lasting snow here in the Mad City. I woke up to snow on the inside of my window, between the outside glass and the part I raise to let in the breeze. And I mean SNOW. Not just frost, or ice, but actual tufts of snow in the space between. Strange, I tell you. And it was only 54 degrees in my room last night, almost too cold to fall asleep. I know, because I was up until at least 3am.
I had been doing really well with the notebook a month task, until about the middle of November, when I became very afraid of writing about things I experience with others, primarily because I like posting my writing here, but situations have caused me to fear the abuse of my words by others for their own selfish and manipulative means. I'm not okay with that. So I figured, why put my writing out there at all?
But that's not who being a writer is, really. The words of writers have been used and interpreted and mis-interpreted and abused for centuries. The bible, the holy books, early Greek poetry, Sappho, the Oracle at Delphi, the words have all been cut and copied and re-written so many times it is a wonder we can believe them at all. I believe it is the role of the writer to put hir words out into the world, to be read and heard by many or few, and to defend those words in their truth as long as that truth exists.
However, it doesn't make it any easier, or any less terrifying.
Last night, in my last class of the Feminist Witchcraft series I have been taking, I brought Sarasvati to visit the womyn. We each brought a Goddess: Danu, Juno, Ercea, the Lady of the Lake, Spider Womyn, Lilith; a circle of Goddesses in the womyn I have come to know and cherish these last six weeks or so. Each Goddess brought a message to the womyn gathered.
Sarasvati's message was to remember the breath in everything, and remember the ink, the permanency of ink, the lasting-staying of words written down and carried forward. Sarasvati is the breath which maintains that ink, which keeps it permanent. We must write, we must write down our words, our stories, our memories.
Sarasvati will keep the ink alive.
And so, even through the fear, I must remember Hir words, and write.
My tea's gone cold, my arms are icicles, my heart is chilly and seems frozen in fear. The ivy on the neighbor's house is solid now until the next thaw, tendrils stuck in place as if they looked into the eyes of Medusa. My skull is spinning -- quiet, fierce -- my own gravitational field rotating on the axes of spine and heart. The words, the words, they slip like penguins on the first ice of the winter journey.
I'm drawing inward, catching breath, storing it in cells and organs, waiting for the moment to release, to breathe deep again, to let it go.
Welcome ... to the Dream Time.
**Photo from here.**