Then there was the daily dancing for no reason at all. It didn’t matter if things were going well, or the world was crashing down around their ears, they danced together through it all.
I saw firsthand how dancing can instantly change the energy in any situation, shake off stress, tears to laughter, mundane to magic, grumpiness into giggles…
If there exists a land of windswept fairy tales, Skye is it. It feels like you are on the edge of the world. Fog curls around the mountains like gray cotton candy arms wrapping the hills in a hug, pink wildflowers dangle like bells, old stone bridges arch over rushing rivers, the kinds of stone bridges where ancient legends are made, legends of fairies and magical creatures who dance on the bridges at night, bridges from this world to the other world, the magic world.
They’re just little bearded guys, but they are the keepers of the flame. They remind me that no matter how dark and treacherous a storm may seem, no matter how thick the fog of grief around me, when I don’t know which way to turn, I just need to keep my eyes open, watching for the light that will guide me home.
Then again, my Mom is still my Mom, whether she’s able to respond to us in way we understand or not. She is living in a spiritual tender world, a world that doesn’t make sense to me, or those of us currently anchored in the concrete world.
It always takes me by surprise when Mother’s Day rolls around and I feel melancholy. I love being a Mom, but as a daughter, I feel sad.
I want my Mom back.
Will there ever be a time when talking to my ex-husband doesn’t feel like drinking poison?
Even if I’m not sure what I am experiencing, or what it all means, my body tingles madly and something deep inside feels illuminated, something that wasn’t there before.
It was a wild messy gorgeous terrifying journey, the journey of a new life heading into the world over 24 primal hours…
Kim and I were exhausted after our ritual, like we had taken a night ride in the velvet of darkness in a kingdom where the boundaries of space and time were tossed into the sea.
I bought this skirt for $5 in Venice Beach in 1990, and wore it backpacking all over the world for years. Together we drank cappuccinos in Hemingways cafe in Paris, and espressos on the cliffs of Greece with the cafe owner who didn’t speak English. It was always my skirt, my journal, and me, sitting on the train station steps somewhere.
