The 25th of this month was the 300th day in a row that I’ve made my way out to visit water, most often larger bodies of water, but sometimes weather, too. There has been so much to notice... the relief of rain after a long dry stretch... feeling the winter’s first ice on the sidewalk... seagulls bathing in a flooded park... amazing clouds... listening to the sea in the dark... the seasonal migration of people and birds... so much to be curious about...
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Day 265 visiting water. So many changes these last couple weeks here... praise to the first ice edged puddles and sparkling snow. Praise to the buffleheads as they return to the shelter of the bay. And marveling at the simple, yet deeply stirring gifts that have come from showing up. I’ve been doing my best to retreat from social media for a time, as I was starting to feel like I was being pulled out of myself. It’s been lovely and strange to let my heart rest, and I miss knowing things friends have shared. But I'm finding that it makes me want to reach out directly, and actually spend time together.
 221 days in a row visiting water. Today, water was all around. Such a deep, soaking rain. And still now, hours after standing by the swelling bay, I’m listening, and the rain again is dropping thick against the roof/leaves/grass.  The Weaving ritual, October 5, 2019. Photograph captured by Michael Bérubé. We sought vision in community at the Weaving ritual, now a few days past. I saw paradox... water and mud and fire and good roots in unlikely places. It’s not yet clear to me what the water is saying or asking. And I recognize, now, that old anthropocentric, self reliant, hubris that is so easy to slide into around here. But I’ve been trusting water’s invitation, and that it’s important to respect and respond the call. I’m realizing that I’m feeling a new subtle pull after 200plus days of visiting. Especially when the tide is high. And I’m feeling a bit rude, having waited so long to share an actual conversation. But maybe the conversation couldn’t happen with out the consistency of all those visits. And maybe, like Percival and the Fisher King, it’s finally time to ask. We’ll see... |
Sylvan ThorncraftPracticing mother, weedwife, animist, human, who's very thankful to live on the coastal plain of Southern Maine, in Wabanaki terretory, near a place called Owascoag. Archives
August 2020
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