Sometimes life leaves you wordless. You drift in obligations or little multiplied tasks. You grasp for every syllable. You slide through the mud of lost words. Until you sit with yourself and listen. Your heart still beats. You pick up your pen and write your name. One word. The beginning of all that was lost.
The mystic blackforest
The sky threw a shroud
Too flimsy to cover it all
The colourful tree tops
That root in brooked valleys
Thread autumn to grey-cold
The gust of wind-strewn
Time-worm ochre, sienna
Tinged sap and wine
This is the fabric of fairy-tales
Through my eyes my soul flies to glints of reflection. A mosaic opens a window that is there and is not there. Drawn to an artists impression of a crowned lady. Connection in my heart to our lady. Angels flutter and kneel. The king, the queen, human beings and yet not so much. An image of believing, belonging and longing. Out of the blue I wish I could see what I feel what is real on a different invisible level. – 17th July 2018 by Andrea Connolly
We want to retain what we cannot. We feel the velvet of summer, the tenderness of living and the depth of warmth. Fragrance lingers but for a while. Our eyes drink and our mind holds dear connecting senses to heart. The heart of May. The woman in us, all of us, unfolding our gentle hearts and there is the gift of giving, the bloodline of love.
Sometimes we are clouded. Our own judgement or others. We have lost the blue and bright. We drift before an obscured sun. Approaching Loreley was playing it all out. What is the meaning of this? How can I understand what is so unclear. High up I try to make out features, form, shapes as the boat of life turns slowly. Then, the clouds are suddenly in our backs, the open stream in front of us beckoning to move. Forward!
Resolve and resilience is at the heart of a living being.
Growing old with burdens, pain and oppression, yet, growing.
There is a map on your body that tells stories of utmost treasure. It is most visible at dawn, in the softest light. You extended your roots. What once was in your infanthood and by vernal adventures reached a threshold. Now you reach up to the sky, out wide to be stark.
Roots want to see the light and you make your story seen to the attentive eye.
There are subtle signs of winter breathing his last breath for this cycle. Some go by calendar, by moon, by folklore or by the lengthening of days.
Some say winter is coming in any season.
Antarctica is covered in ice and snow never to loose most of its cap.
The globe is frost in relations, fire in war. World leaders struggle in winter minds of eternal frost and one might think spring will never be the same again. Human minds will never be just lead by words. Appearances and guises of the mind lead to believe. Truth is true or twisted. Alternative was once organic. Now it is fiction. Will we ever shed our winter minds to admire snow drops, blue bells and daffodils again? It seems naïve to even wish such a thing. And yet, nature helps us cope with changes. It gives us hope to find other human beings believing in the future. Beyond all human machinations there is another world awaiting where love is not just a word. We live in a vast galaxy hoping to be somehow held by divine intervention .