Palettal Prose: In Time to Blossom?

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the uncertainty of spring so vast

it swarths the sun.

For millions o years on Earth

plants existed

endless varieties

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and then one morning

114 million years ago,

it happened—

an incredible burst

of fragrance and color

the first flower.

Swollen and aching

like twig ends

all of us know the longingd5a83e6ecead395b5a41df567e755891

to let go

to open, to blossom.

It stirs within each of us

call us to grow

beyond our limitations

tells us there is more

tells us we are more

we are able to give

Water lotus flower blossom

Water lotus flower blossom

what is needed

we can undo

the grip of fear

out-love

the harshness of anger.

Will we take our next step?

The large cloud swirls

spring’s uncertainty so vastRobin calling song

it swaths the sun.

Against this marbled sky

a peach tree reaches

her tender twig ends swollen.

A robin sings.

~Cathy Casper, We’Moon

Palettal Prose: Hygenia Talks Back

     I am Hygieia, Goddess of Health and Healing.

Not so very long ago people revered me and danced, dreamed and prayed with passionate fervor in my name.

And now? My sister called me up yesterday, “Hey girl have you noticed how people are using your name these days? Check out this link.”

Hmmmm…Hygiene. Sleep hygiene. Sleep hygiene rules. A list of rules in my name. Do this, this and this. Do not do that, that or that. Hygiene: antiseptic, clean, controlled, sterile, sanitized. They’ve named damn sleep hygiene rules after me that don’t even seem to work because sixty million people in the United States alone can’t sleep!

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Let me remind you who I really am. I am Hygieia, Goddess of Health and Healing. I lived for centuries with my twin sister Panacea in the temples of our father, Asclepius, the doctor god. People traveled for weeks to our mystery rites to dance, pray and sleep among the priestesses and serpents, They came seeking guidance, miracles and transformation, awakening in the morning reborn, eager to face life with new vigor and vision. Our temples await you each night. You may enter any time.

Let’s go back even further, before the time of Asclepius: I am Hygieia, left breast of Rhea, Great Mother of All Beings. As we roam the earth’s sea islands and deep forests and vast plains, life-giving fluid pours from us–healing, soothing, nourishing and revitalizing.

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Sleep with us and be reborn into eternal kinship with all creatures. Sleep with us in the temple of breast, mountain, ocean, belly. Savor here the messy, rich, potent sleep of body and earth. It is not a regulated, sterilized sleep. You will not find it in a sleep lab. It may just be the sleep your restlessness longs for.

~Lea Bayles, We’Moon

Palettal Prose: Wise Woman’s Friend Gets Interviewed About How the Power Begins

sure she’s a little

different always was

the smallest kid in her class

looks into things

the way a needle slides

clean through scarlet silk

climbed a roof once

where the stars shot gold

into her sixteen years

I’ve heard her sing

on a stage with no one

able to reach her voice

she’s pepper on bread

she’s rain in December

she’s hair that curls beyond curl

catch her dancing

some silent Sunday:

she’ll spin your blood to joy

~Katharyn Howd Machan, We’Moon

Beautiful sensual women with white horse

Beautiful sensual women with white horse

Palettal Prose: The Invitation

It doesn’t interest me
what you do for a living.
I want to know
what you ache for
and if you dare to dream
of meeting your heart’s longing.

It doesn’t interest me
how old you are.
I want to know
if you will risk
looking like a fool
for love
for your dream
for the adventure of being alive.

It doesn’t interest me
what planets are
squaring your moon…
I want to know
if you have touched
the centre of your own sorrow
if you have been opened
by life’s betrayals
or have become shrivelled and closed
from fear of further pain.

I want to know
if you can sit with pain
mine or your own
without moving to hide it
or fade it
or fix it.

I want to know
if you can be with joy
mine or your own
if you can dance with wildness
and let the ecstasy fill you
to the tips of your fingers and toes
without cautioning us
to be careful
to be realistic
to remember the limitations
of being human.

It doesn’t interest me
if the story you are telling me
is true.
I want to know if you can
disappoint another
to be true to yourself.
If you can bear
the accusation of betrayal
and not betray your own soul.
If you can be faithless
and therefore trustworthy.

I want to know if you can see Beauty
even when it is not pretty
every day.
And if you can source your own life
from its presence.

I want to know
if you can live with failure
yours and mine
and still stand at the edge of the lake
and shout to the silver of the full moon,
“Yes.”

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It doesn’t interest me

to know where you live
or how much money you have.
I want to know if you can get up
after the night of grief and despair
weary and bruised to the bone
and do what needs to be done
to feed the children.

It doesn’t interest me
who you know
or how you came to be here.
I want to know if you will stand
in the centre of the fire
with me
and not shrink back.

It doesn’t interest me
where or what or with whom
you have studied.
I want to know
what sustains you
from the inside
when all else falls away.

I want to know
if you can be alone
with yourself
and if you truly like
the company you keep
in the empty moments.

~by Oriah

Palettal Prose: How to Be a Good Ancestor

be still. listen.

slip though the needle eye of silence.

leave behind your preference for red wine, your talent for word games

your grandfather’s watch–your hair, your skin, your teeth

enter naked as bones

ask the furred, the feathered, the finned

how to ford a river, now to scale the rock cliff

how to spin your flax to gold

feel the floor beneath your absence,

the wide planks of the old house

that were once proud firs breathing out cool fog,

touch the skies those trees held up.

stand before gods that are strangers

whose language is harsh in your ears, and do not flinch

trust kindness when you find it–

the flesh surrounding the apple’s seed

the apple carried in the beak of a raven

become the raven’s fingered wings flying through time

sifting wounds and wonders

become your one unbearable wound

cry tears that freeze in six pointed geometry

then fall and fall, until they smooth the mountains

be the unmistakable snowflake

that launches the avalanche and buries the village

become the thaw

uncover a memory of wholeness

drip that sweet clean water

on the growing vine of generations

the vine that will someday flower with the twin stars

of a baby’s open hands

a baby who will cry out to you

from a dense and troubled darkness

and you will answer:

heal child, the way is in your blood.

~Sophia Rosenburg, We’Moon

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