Spirals

Spirals, no discernible beginning, no apparent ending. I like to go through life turning upward and outward, fast and slow. Each turn a new vantage point, a new perspective to be taken or left behind. The Grouse is the symbol of the spiral in my Native American medicine cards. The dance of life. The macro of the constant motion of our universe. The micro of the Sufi dancers, swirling themselves into altered states. 

Spirals quest, they seek, like our journey on earth. Their lessons seem limitless to me. I don’t feel boxed in by their form, only bound by my self-imposed restrictions and fears that can stop all movement, cell growth and learning. 

The freedom of the dance can move me to a place where it’s safe to be still, to listen, to rest and to tap into the pulse of the universe where I feel connected to other spirits on our journey as we walk the spiral of life’s labyrinth together. 

Rebekah Spivey for the Poplar Grove Muse

Photos: Pixabay

The Next Chapter

To look outward more often.
To be content with being at the beginning.
To recognize containment as an asset.
To strive for upright excellence and remember the ground.
To know transcendance is birthed from support.
To embrace knowing less and feeling more.
To uplift others on the path to their own relevance.
To sense the merit of one drop at a time.
To live where my heart chooses the path of mind.
To become strong through my eyes.
To deliver through my hands.
To remember, "it is easy to take a human apart -
but not so easy to put them together." Re-member.

Allison
PGM

Redirection

“Wherever we go, there seems to be only one business at hand - that of finding workable compromises between the sublimity of our ideas and the absurdity of the fact of us.”

         ―Annie Dillard, Teaching a Stone to Talk: Expeditions and Encounters

Over time, the workable compromises became unworkable. Even as I made them, I knew in my head that beneath the seductive sheen of calm and simplicity the incremental compromises offered—time for art and reading with the kid(s) and book groups with the interesting moms I would meet, nightly opportunities to try out the recipes I had been clipping since long before I had a stove to cook them on, perhaps the discovery of an interest in homekeeping I had never once experienced, at the very least a reprieve from arranging for work and daycare from a distance while wrapping up the old job—lurked deep downward currents that could drown soul and self.

Compromise, compounded and committed against myself again, and again, and yet again, has left me stripped bare, uncertain of myself. As the children I structured my life around extend the circles they traverse, with me holding an unsteady and often unnecessary center, I barely breathe some days. I am fortunate that my partner in these crimes against myself is, in contrast, circling in tighter, sharing his own loss of self and direction; yet at times I hardly know who he is circling back to, and pray that my lack of an inner life will not be discovered, dismantled, dismissed.

Time to dig in and write my losses, discover the subjects I know I once had, perhaps even rediscover some sublimity of my own ideas. In the upcoming Conscious Feminine Leadership Training 2015, I embark on a new adventure in reading, writing, and (re-)discovering self in the company of brave and determined women.

Mary, for The Poplar Grove Muse

July 1991

must’ve been the driest, thickest day of July

when we dismantled the tipi

dust rested on plants and sitting-logs

thick and gray

like some hellish frost

come to blight our paradise

dogs were walking powder puffs

of earth’s sloughing off

95% humidity sent sweaty rivulets

coursing between women’s breasts

drew smooth steady patterns

on kids’ dirty faces

paintings on tipi canvas

looked faded and dull

 from six years of pounding weather

and six weeks of no rain

teenaged son shinnied

up and up

like some four-legged creature

at home in his jungle

tugged each lacing pin from its moorings                                                                                              

where canvas was lashed together

some slid out just right

others took yanking, cussing

before they let go

one after another, till all were out

he roared as he grabbed the top edge

of tired, mildewed canvas

            awakened it from its comfortable resting place

and with one mighty shove

sent it sliding down slick debarked pine poles

like a giant skirt

slipping slowly, provocatively

            around the ankles of a mountain of a woman

it landed in folds and heaps

on the dry cracked ground

someone beat a drum, someone cried

someone  moaned—I think it was me

dogs and cats ran

someone played a flute

someone howled like a wolf

strong-shouldered husband and neighbors

heaved loosely rolled  tipi canvas

to edge of tree-line

seventeen poles stood naked and strong

skeletal remains of our Brown County era

they sprawled in a circle 28 feet wide

leaned into each other at the conical top

bound together with thick sisal rope

thirty feet above hard clay-packed floor

above plywood platform

where beds had held our family

close to earth’s steady heartbeat

someone played guitar

someone hooted—crazy, insane

like barred owls carrying on psychotic

conversations in the dark of the night

someone yip, yip, yipped

like coyotes on prowl  

daughter and friend arrived

full of  young woman sensuality

            began dancing on plywood platform

pounding feet drummed steady rhythm

more feet, more drumming

more feet dancing, drumming

hoot, hoot, hooting

kicking up dust

sweating, laughing

crying out for rain

drinking cheap wine

smoking last year’s harvest

stomping, thumping

with bare feet, booted feet

on hollow wooden floor

wild and free

caught up in primal celebration

the moving of the lodge

the feasting of the tribe

prayers for rain, rain, rain

distant thunder, was it? did you hear it?

was that lightning? did you see it?

thunder again—closer

we danced harder, faster

drummed, sang

drummed, danced

rain sprinkled, showered

poured from the skies

mothers and others carried drums

guitars, babies to nearby shack—

door and windows swung wide open

storm-crazed dancers

undaunted by nature’s pelting

perpetuated rain-soaked plywood vibration

with unrestrained ecstasy  

we slung off dripping clothes

to rhythm of pounding feet

everything

everything

t-shirts, shorts

jeans, skirts

tossed into one colorful

soggy, sloppy heap

naked skin like naked tipi poles

shining wet, clean, cool

thunder boomed

dogs barked, babies cried

we drummed our moving-on dance

till slippery plywood threatened to break fragile bones

and massive electric bolts

too close for comfort

shoved us indoors

pounding rain continued to drum

the rusty metal roof as we

panted our thanksgiving

and fed one another

from the multi-purpose

stainless steel dishpan

heaped to overflowing

with July’s ripe, juicy blackberries

                                  Glenda Breeden

                                   2005

I Am Gannet

Photo: Seabirds /VisitScotland

I Am Gannet

I am gannet, seabird,

soaring with my gray,

white and yellow-feathered body

off the volcanic shore of Iona.

The sparkling waters

in Martyrs Bay

tempt and tease me

as they race over

their bounty 

hidden deep below the surface.

I climb skyward high

over the bouncing waves

as they strive for shore.

Now. Turn. Spiral.

Beak first, speeding straight down

wings sleek along my body,

needle-like.

Capture one shiny silver fish.

Burst up through the waves.

Slowly and steadily I balance

on top of the water. One gulp.

Fish gone, sustenance begins.

As I’m being nourished

rich nutrients coursing through me,

my mind clears, my eyesight sharpens

I open my beak to call out gratitude.

Rebekah for The Poplar Grove Muse

She was a Tough Old Broad

When I die, I want to be cremated

And buried in an urn

That will turn me into a tree

I don't really care what kind

My loved ones should grieve

However they need to 

That is their chore to complete

I won’t have a gravestone

But if I did, I would want it to say;

“Beloved by many,

She was a tough old broad"

Diana, for the Poplar Grove Muse 

More Than Gold

Today I walked slowly,

small hand in my hand,

and chatted with the kid,

who agreed we MUST have kale for chips

and begged for honey sticks.

Today as we meandered crowded aisles of grains and greens,

overflowing crates of yellows and reds,

I watched the people who picked this food-

soon to be piled on our plates-

watched as they chatted and smiled about the food they knew,

like a child they’d raised.

Today as I peered into the overfilling basket hung on my arm,

I knew the extra minutes it was taking to gather our meals,

the extra minutes it would take to chop and simmer,

the waiting time for rising and kneading,

would always be worth more than any minute or dollar I might save.

Today I walked slowly.

~KGS
www.sagetribe02.com