Archive | Quoth the Raving

March into the Future, Bird by Bird

I’ve learned that there will always be a next time, and that I will submerge in darkness and misery, but that I won’t stay submerged. And each time something has been learned under the waters; something has been gained; and a new kind of love has grown.—Madeleine L’Engle

Hello March! Sometimes, especially in the dreary last days of winter, my clients want to hear about a future that is magically better than their present. It’s human nature to crave a “Santa Clause.” But the truth is that our lives are a mixture of fate and free will—-the culmination of our choices in the face of factors beyond our control.

And entropy is change, too. To avoid it we must work our problems as we sow seeds and till fields. Sun rises, sun sets, but only when we consciously channel its light do we grow something from our shit. This is practical magic at its core–change we manifest rather than passively await and observe. This is love as a verb. This is the self-reckoning that is the foundation of radical self-care.

How I can help is to divine a path on which you thrive—-marching bravely forward (bird by bird step by step) into a future conjured with the good wind of the universe on your back.

To find a path of your own, get in touch. Art (left-right); Jacob Lawrence, Horace Pippen.

The Oyster of Your Desire

It’s been a full lunar cycle since my love affair ended, and after our initial rupture we parted with more peace and kindness than I’ve experienced in any other breakup. I chalk this up to the fact that we were grownups when we found each other, and that it was mostly circumstances that pulled us part. Still, I miss her—voice, mouth, hands, pulse at her throat. Her extraordinary perception and reception.

Her brine.

I often copy out quotes I admire, not just to study them but as a postcard to a Lisa I may someday meet again. Today my computer opened to these words by Amy Bloom, a writer who has helped me understand that what I most crave is what the world tells us is nothing to know, let alone desire.

It’s been seventeen years since we were together and I can still smell her own scent, salt and cucumber. Under our breasts and in the creases, we smelled like fresh-baked bread in the mornings. We slept naked as babies, breasts and bellies rolling toward each other, our legs entwined like climbing roses. We used to say, we’re not beauties, because it was impossible to tell the truth. In bed, we were beauties. We were goddesses. We were the little girls we’d never been: loved, saucy, delighted, and delightful.

The first thing I knew in this world was that I was alone and unseen. Then I knew I was not. You are not just my port in the storm, which is what middle-aged women are supposed to be looking for. You are the dark and sparkling sea and the salt, drying tight on my skin, under a bright, bleaching sun. You are the school of minnows we walk through. You are the small fishing boat, the prow so faded you can hardly tell it’s blue. You are the violet skies, rain spattering the sand until it’s almost mud, and you are the light to come.

I don’t believe in coincidences, but even now I believe in love. The ache comes all at once, a rush of want and wonder, and it subsides slower, nothing like the sea.
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Vintage 1960s photographs, artist unknown.

This Side of the Snow, This Side of the Haze

All stories end in death if you want to tell the truth.–David Simon

I’m afraid of endings, always have been. I am not alone in this fear, of course; many of us fear endings. Not just death but departures, demises, denouements–the invariable deflation of crossing a finish line. But my fear is acute, to the point that I privately view success as dangerous, possibly even fatal, because it will end life as I know it. (Glamourously underachieving is pretty core to my current existence.)

I’ve had so much time to acknowledge this fear since last month’s hunter’s full moon, which was the night my back went out. A catalog of the reasons why it did: loose joints; a rigorous, not entirely mindful exercise practice; shame about my middle-aged midriff; the 10-year anniversary of an acute neck and back injury.

All those contributing factors are real. But if there weren’t a deeper reason, I think I’d be better by now. After all, my list of treatments reads like a 1970s self-help saga: I’ve done acupuncture, astrological readings, Alexander Technique, reiki, physical therapy, and so many herbs and homeopathics. (I”m not really a painkiller girl except for the occasional whiskey.) I’ve meditated, prayed, danced under the light of the (next) full moon. And it’s all helped. Continue Reading →

"All, everything I understand, I understand only because I love."
― Leo Tolstoy