My Operating Manual suggests ~

Create in the vortex, speak in the chaos, dabble with that potion,
explore that note, say the unknown, all in the name of birthing anew.
Bring all of me into this void, and speak from this place, Showing the messy and the true, me.
CA

• ~ •

"through the pain - I saw and felt a profound beauty surrounding me 
beauty imbued with love flowing through every facet of this bewildering creation 

so now – when asked about love  
I feel I have gathered some wisdom 
for love is “a many splendored thing” 
limited only by our imagination " by William Waterway

Imagine tumbling down a hill, like a child, rolling around and around, over leaves recently fallen from the trees above, fearless of what might be at the bottom of this long hill, rolling, giddy with joy.

In a world in which everything could be conceived as having life and sentience ~ fields, stones, grass, vapors, spirits, perhaps even memories of loved ones long past~ then it seems only a small leap of faith to then know that even death is a friendly sentient visitor on the continuum of life. A flow, not a halt. An expression of the exuberance of eternity. When the corn in the field is cut, and the geese arrive to glean, there is beauty in this give and take. I feel the field rejoicing in the new expression of existence.

My thoughts muse on these observations this season. I ask myself, when the rains fall, the sun lowers, and the earth moves to silence, is life less exuberantly experiencing itself? Changes and endings, move life forward into spirals of evolution and ever new expressions of beauty. Life is ending and beginning and cycling in a beautiful dance that is a fractal of infinity.

All in the process of reinventing itself

And the truth is,
no matter how wise these words sound in my head, my heart feels heavy.
I feel the deep quiet as a sadness. I feel absence as loss; and emptiness, at least initially, feels as a breakdown and death.

The mornings are quieter, the bones of the trees are showing through their Autumn skin, the pace is sleepier. The sense of Nature as growth subdued.
Fewer birds, slower pace, more quiet, spiraling inward.
In truth, the lack of sound, the emptiness allows for other feelings to arise. Feelings that are not comfortable. Feelings like ~ what if I won't hear any songs, ever again? What if I have nothing to say? Or worse, if there is no one to hear? What if my voice will not keep the tune of life? Won't rhyme, won't ring true? What if silence lies and embalms all I have known? How will I spend this one an precious life then?

Long practice teaches me that this discomfort is an invitation. An invitation for an exciting journey of peering into the caves and shadows of this pain. I remind myself that peering into the dark is the best way through, indeed the only way through the pain, the fear, the death. So I sit. I feel. I pray.

But, but... But Oh! I so love the noise, the song, the dance, the laughter and exuberance. I love Sunshine through speakers.

Nevertheless, I peek.
I peek furtively into that scary endless pit of unknown, the fear and darkness, the feeling of obsolescence, the faceless void.
And there, I spy a spark of creation. I spy .... me. Just me.
Me, at the end of one story of the moon, and in the beginning of another.
And in that spark of truth, there is enough light to see a glimmer of a trail through. In the shadows, there is a path of beauty in sharing my truth, my voice and my song. That was the spark and is enough. I offer that gift to the Flow of creation.

So, since I take my cues from the trees that have shed their skin, I, like them, stand tall, in my true colors of gold, red and orange.
I let my hair down. I speak, even if it sounds like a croak, I show my dress, even if they are rags, I speak what I hear as true.
My song, my breath. My life.

And the cosmos gave me a gift in return:
Even now, as the sun lowers in our northern sky, and beech leaves brown, there is a glow of in the trees. And beauty in the bareness of authenticity.
And, tonight, as I come home, after working on this piece, the dark is falling along the edges of the forest. And to my surprise, I hear a sound. One I thought was done for now, gone with the frostiness of this season.
A song of life ~ I hear crickets harmonizing and trilling, singing their gift to creation.

This song feels like heaven to me. One song more. Once more. With life.
I leave my door open for the night, to listen, and revel in this many splendored thing.
Only my dark can show me my song, my light, my voice, my song.

What shining thread shimmers in the darkness from the future, to you, calling you forward.... ?

•~•

Black bird singing in the dead of night,
Take these broken wings and learn to fly
All your life,
You were only waiting for this moment to arise

Blackbird singing in the dead of night
Take these sunken eyes and learn to see
All your life,
You were only waiting for this moment to be free

Blackbird fly, blackbird fly
Into the light of a dark black night

You were only waiting for this moment to arise

I wrote this piece over a 24 hour period with little editing. It seemed as though the topic, so raw itself demanded a raw product as well.

I started it before the eclipse and sat with the discomfort of it not finished. Then, the rest emerged, when I spied the beauty of sharing from the authentic unknown that I was experiencing.

I hope you enjoyed it. So much love to you all. ♥️🌑