Friday night, I am listening to the Town Hall with the climate change advocates, Chris Hayes, and AOC.
The topic came up about Drumpf and his visit to Michigan last night with his lying and dividing speech. Listening to the discussion and the crowds response - I am uplifted for a moment and think there is a possibility the Democrats, common sense, back to having a moral compass may win in 2020.
Montefiore Medical Center, location of the Town Hall, has some memories for me. Long time GE and Phamis client.
AOC told the hecklers in the crowd "Hey that's not acceptable". We will not become like the Drumpf base yelling "lock her up" even now that she is a private citizen and the Drumpfster who started the chant has been indicted. As Michelle says, when they go low, we go high.
I love the poem below. I love it. It made me wonder about Saint Melangell. I find another spiritual woman to add to the powerful woman spirit guides I hold close.
It is a period of time when we are living in chaos, stressful, depressing times. I cling to the idea of (often mostly an idea, a poem, writing....a painting) those creative, spiritual, woman I have known.
As I heard once again listening to Krista and Elizabeth - I only need to keep moving. Maybe small steps, certainly less than perfect outcomes, but forward motion. I love and acknowledge the idea of "lists" and the kitchen timer. I make a list - I have a list and I execute on the list - even if only for a few timed moments before moving to the next item on the list.
YOU ARE HERE:
HOME / BEARINGS / SAINT MELANGELL AND THE HARE
Melangell sails the Irish sea
to the wilds of Wales,
flees a marriage and seeks time
alone among a storm of hawthorn,
feeds on hazelnuts and dandelions,
gathers lady’s mantle each morning
to sip their dew, plunges her hands
in the river, freezing and fresh,
sleeps on moss in the cave-close stone,
delights at birdsong, seeks
the sacred in hunger and rain.
One warm day, her quiet disrupted,
hot breath of men and hounds
approach, jaws wide.
Teeth gleam, foam sputters,
tails swish as they scrabble
for a hare with brown legs
bounding, a great roar of wet fur
and whiskers –
the hare leaps
into the folds of Melangell’s cloak.
Defiant stands the saint,
draws a circle around herself.
Dogs and men can go no further.
Melangell strokes the hare’s ears,
soothes his clanging heart,
whispers “you are safe now”
as howls recede on the wind
and the valley becomes sanctuary.
You can still glimpse it
on sun-sparkled days when bluebells
sway and oak leaves rustle
from squirrel-scurry-scamper
and you take the soft hare
of your life into your arms,
whisper into those long ears
blessings all down her trembling
length and remind her that
she too no longer needs to run.
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