I stare at my vision board. I understand little in the way of peace, except that I am peaceful. And besides my aches are all mine, my medicine would never work for anyone else. If I have a goal right now, it is just to sit and listen without wondering how I might explain it later. To listen without creating a poem about it, or a painting, or a blog post. To just listen.
I make a medicine bundle for dreams and body acceptance, and wrap it with sari silk and a black feather. If tuck it into a pocket or my purse, wonder if my medicine is enough. I keep it close to my heart at any rate, just to know I sat and tried to heal myself. I love myself enough to do that. We await the Wolf Moon. Our souls howling for courage and movement, but it is a stillness we need. I hold a hunk of orange calcite, and wonder about courage. It's not my favorite stone. It looks waxy and like something someone might keep in a dish on a bathroom counter. But it works to build my legs into trunks of oak, unmoving and sure of themselves. There is a sense of fear now. Fear of things that seem most benign, and courage in the things that seem most scary. I am turned around and around and around again. A new perspective of a new perspective. The reversed Hanged Man.
On our birthday, my sister and I had readings. In the past, ten of swords. "I feel this has been a cycle for the last two years. You are very hard on yourself. Brutally honest, and exacting. You are punishing yourself. Taking inventory. Reaching out to find out what you did to people. You are not letting yourself get away with anything."
That is true. I have done that the last two years, since I quit drinking. I had to, they said, or I would drink again.
She says there is some of that still to come, but less and less, and I come into my time to rule. I am the Emperor, and it is a good place to be. In the future, she sees the reversed Hanged Man, a change of perspective from a change of perspective. I know what she is saying. I love how the Hanged Man has a halo and seems so relaxed, even though his name implies he's condemned. We are all condemned, but can we still achieve that enlightenment? It reminds me of Camus. One must imagine Sisyphus happy.
There is a weak snow covering the yard. Beezus made a snow angel in the middle of it all. It is like the Nazca plains, only visible from inside the house on the second floor. We hear the snow is coming this afternoon, and plan on creating Valentines, and crayons. We need a day of downtime and restoration. Just the three of us, waiting for Papa to come home. The fire roars and barely fights off the cold, maintaining a refreshing 63 degrees in the house. I don't mind. We snuggle and tell stories, and wear large sweaters.
I have to study. I sit and listen to a teacher again, and remember this dance of notebook and pen and young women texting and discussing texts. Learning and wondering about what next year will look like. I feel old. Too old to sit still for four hour lectures. And yet there is an excitement in me. Everything is new. And I am afraid of being too old and fat to learn. And still I just want to listen. For the snow. For the howling. For courage. For presence. Sometimes I may seem far, but I am only quiet.