She

The hearth-light licked my face and a warmth soaked through my clothes and glowed in my body. She sat in silhouette, a little to the left of the hearth, bent over her mending, humming a deep tune. Her hair, once deep red, was streaked through with silver and tied in a loose plait down the middle of her long back. The earth-room felt like a golden bowl that held us both.

She did not speak. She did not turn. I was drawn to her and sat on a small hand-made stool beside her.

Suddenly she lifted her face, as if she hadn't heard me coming, dropped her mending and threw her arms out wide in an invitation to embrace. As I fell against her and locked my arms around her full body, I sighed into a sea of gentleness. All weight fell from my shoulders and the tight lines in my face softened. I wanted to stay just like this forever.

She grasped my shoulders in her strong bony hands and held me back at arms length, looking deeply into my eyes. I felt like she was drinking me, though I was also drinking her. Instead of crumpling under scrutiny, I sat tall and knew I was beloved.

Florence's staircase

a small door

and while I was waiting...I noticed, to my left, a small door in the foot of a tree. It was blue, with a golden handle. I didn't think I would fit through it. As I pondered how to fold myself in order to get in, all kinds of wondrous cooking smells floated out through the wee key hole. Without further hesitation I leapt up, took hold of the handle and was through the door, before I could notice how.

It was very dark. I stood completely still. All the hairs of my body stood on end.

As I stood, my eyes adjusted to the darkness and I could make out a rickety wooden staircase going down in the very centre of the tree, deep into the earth, in a beautiful spirally way. I stepped toward the top stair and held the worn-smooth wooden rail in my left hand. The first step creaked, stopping me in fear that I may be heard and thought to be a rogue intruder. As I paused, a voice droned up from below, singing a low lilting chant that drew me down. The deeper I went the lighter it grew. It was the bright orange light of hearth fire and the yellow licking light of many candles.

With each step down, I grew younger. When finally, after what seemed to be forever, I stepped off the last step, to the next floor down, I was a girl of eight. My hair was short and straight and brown, cut in a blunt fringe above my eyebrows. I was wearing my old favourite loose brown corduroy pants and a pale blue crew neck jumper that my mother had knitted. This was not as surprising as who I was about to meet.

Surrender

She has not arrived, though Her signs surround me. Again I practise waiting. In this quiet place, wings folded neatly, walking boots polished bright, I hear a quiet echo on the breeze. "Surrender!" she whispers, "Surrender!" I am not good at this. "Surrender!" I sit uncomfortably on a small stool with no back. I can't sit like this forever. "Surrender!" How many times can I be given a lesson and still resist learning? This presence is her gift.

I inhale deeply and smell the honey sweet pollen of a thousand blooms.

I feel Her feathers and hear Her feet

I lay tucked in, head under my own warm arm, shutting out the thin light and piercing cold of this aching Winter. Waking suddenly, I wonder what disturbed my coiled slumber. It was the scent of her, the brush of Her feathers and the sound of Her soft feet.

My head lifts and my eyes scan all horizons. She is coming! There will be a transformation of great spectacle, not to be missed. The magnolias in great enthusiasm push out blooms, even before they have bothered to organise their leaves. Eyes start to weep, unlocked by her seed carried on the breeze. Dormant things clench against their inner reserves and burst into budding. Even the Sun is excited by her coming, getting up earlier and lingering longer at the end of day, hoping to catch sight of her.

She will not come in state, like queens of old. No heavy carpets and braying trumpets. She is all delicacy. Her wings linger in the air as She emerges from the Underworld and touches Her small pink foot upon the earth. Her pinkness spreads and glows in the newness of multitudinous things. The sound is tender when petals part and innocent green shoots break through the soil.
Young creatures wobble into life, but soon learn the tumbling and bouncing steps of Her joyous dance. She calls us out into the brightness of springing days. Everything that was bound is to be loosed and shaken. Our appetites awaken and She invites us to prepare feasts to celebrate Her coming.

I rise up from my Winter nest of comfort and find my walking boots. Cloaked in my finest feathers, I go out to greet Her.

Shedding feathers

I have been away a long time. My shoulders ache with flight. My heart is torn between them. The journey has been testing. It has been a long migration turning back on itself without touching the earth. Even my bones are dry. My eyes are caked in salt. I have seen things and perhaps that was worth the journey. I could not touch them though and I so wanted to touch them. Right now I would be happy if I never flew again. I lean in against the walls of my nest, letting a brusque breeze flow over my head. I am warm. I am safe. Here is enough.

Early in the journey I felt the excitement of a 5 year old. Anything was possible and most things probable. A vibrant energy coursed through my plump body and I felt juicy and ripe. Every little ordinary thing was a marvel. My enthusiasm fed itself. Colours were more colourful. Scents were more sharply defined. The shapes of things impressed me without effort. There came a time though when I grew deadly tired of looking. I was tired of new. I was tired of other. It didn't matter how beautiful, how ancient or how ingenuous anything was all I longed for was the familiar sight of my own scruffy nest.

My imagination has run out of batteries. Sleep refuses to assist. I hunger for a fruit that I have never tasted.