the rising

Of course, I’d known for some time that she was down there, beneath the surface of my life, waiting patiently for her time to rise. After all, just last fall I’d been summoning her, even calling her by name, this”Lady of the Lake’ whom I sensed hiding down there somewhere. What I hadn’t realized was that I’d set an actual alarm for her all those years ago, or that she would awaken so very hungry.

Famished.
Demanding food.
Now.

She seems to be intent (and intense !) on finding something, as if a treasure was buried deep in that lake 30 years ago, a treasure I promised her we’d go back to find, and the alarm that awakened her also has her ‘alarmed’. I sense her urgency, her almost frantic nature, as if this me, who has been long buried at the bottom of this sea is thrashing for life, not sure how to swim and afraid at the same time of being swallowed up again, pulled under and drowned. She won’t let that happen. She wants her chance to be alive.

This promise that was made, this soul-contract to which she agreed, was signed not with the devil but with Love. Her time has come due. She kept her end of the bargain- 30 years – and expects me now to keep mine. . The thing is I really do want to…. It’s complicated, as they say.

I trust she won’t let me off the hook,  I mean I truly TRUST she won’t. You see, I need her to hold me accountable to my promise. My life depends on it.

The pardox is that she’s really the one on the hook, snagged-and-dragged up to the surface as she is, entangled in the debris dredged up with her, flailing frantically about on the end of that hook, wanting to be pulled aboard, afraid of being pushed back under, drowned in it all again.

Wisdom always comes tangled in shadows.
God, she is hungry.

——-
We watched a movie in which a woman was burying yet another dead infant in her makeshift backyard cemetery (it was her third or fourth pregnancy loss), planting a rose bush along with each beloved body, right in the same damn hole. We both cried at that scene. You see, we did that too, she and I.

A tender kind of beauty blossoms from that kind of watery grave…..

——-

I am alone in my house for the first time in over 2 months. We have a few hours, she and I, not nearly enough time to get re-acquainted, but I know I need to sit down, be still, make space for her. Show up, so she needn’t scream so to get my attention. That’s the thing, making space to listen has become so difficult. Like the proverbial mercy f**k, it feels like I offer a space for everyone’s needs to be met but my own. A piece here, a piece there, till there’s no room at all left in this brothel. No room at the inn for this long-buried child of mine to be brought forth.

I have imaged that there is something in me that has been waiting, biding its time, to be born, to be expressed into being, a life yet to be lived.   Something that I alone can bring forth from this body of mine, something vital and real, something that wants to flow uniquely through me as a gift.

Clarissa Pinkola Estes envisions the creative force as springing from the Wild Woman, ‘that river beneath the river, which flows and flows into our lives… looking for the natural hollows and channels that exist in us. This wild creative force flows into whatever beds we have for it, those we are born with as well as those we dig with our own hands. We don’t have to fill them,  we have to build them…Once that great underground river finds its estuaries and branches in our psyches, our creative lives fill and empty, rise and fall in seasons just like a wild river (to) feed those who come to the river, feed creatures downstream, and yet others in the deep.  Wild Woman’s river nurtures and grows us into beings that are like her: life givers. Thus, this force is a woman’s most valuable asset, for it gives outwardly and feeds inwardly.… Clearly creativity emanates from something that rises, rolls, spills and surges into us. It either fills us or collides with whatever obstacles we put in its way. In which case, it backs up, gathers energy, and rams forward again until it breaks through ’. (Of course, it can be diverted, misused and polluted, too)

So, THAT’S what I’ve been feeling, rising in me, urgent and forceful, this ramming of energy inside of me, insistent and meeting with too many obstacles, demanding its chance to flow. I felt Her aliveness in me, in that alarm-like awakening, release from the dam. I’ve no idea really what She will express, for that is the great Mystery, that Great Unknown that I suspect something in me confronts with great fear. And I wonder if it isn’t this very fear that keeps her at bay.

Can I create a space for Her? Given even the tiniest space, might she not completely breach this dam, flow full force into my life, and at long last slake this persistent thirst in me?

3 Comments (+add yours?)

  1. Trackback: the midwifery « Emmaatlast’s Weblog
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  3. Trackback: A canoe of her own | Emmaatlast's Weblog

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M.C. Reardon

photographer~painter~poet

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