from
the sea (5) – merging and menopause, raga intro, part 2 of 2 by freda karpf
Stirring soup is a lot
like spinning yarn. Everything in your
life can seem to be about winding and unwinding. Turn the spices into the water. The vortex
will take them. But for the ball of yarn that her mother would have her
unravel, a rhythmic order was a necessity. The arms acting like spindles,
moving slightly to the left and then to the right to catch the next loop. This process automated by machines leaves out
the connection that the unwinding and winding created with her mother. In this way, or in the everyday housework of
folding required for sheets, she was connected. Every time she made that walk
she smiled through the distance to her mother while holding her half of the
sheets. This way of being in the dailies
with her mother was built into her bones.
We know these rhythms so well that our movement, if not like the ocean,
which is fickle and fond of the influence of the wind, can take us back to that
speechless love that put your being into the strands of yarn, and the folds of
the cotton sheets when you knew with certainty that you were loved.
~
The goddesses, the weavers of fate were
often spinners. They spun wool and stories, yarn and yarns. This idea of turning and cycles comes
naturally to us, of course, because of our experience of the days, and the
cycling of the sun and the moon. But we also know it from the turning in pots
and the small coves of water near the shores where rocks and hollows create whirlpool
patterns of their own. Spinning is life on the upswing. It is soup being spooned on the stove. Mrs.
Scattergood thanked god for wooden spoons, recipes on bags of beans and the
aromatics that claim their divinity in the steam and turning of the soup.
~
Despite what seemed a frequent need to
count her stitches her mother would knit lengths of yarn. The quilts that Mrs. Scattergood has now
emerged from those counts. All the stitches she dropped trying to learn to knit
were picked up in the warmth of the quilt by her mother’s hands; and were
knitted into Mrs. Scattergood’s bones and probably even worked their ways into
her dreaming. Look at your hands, your
skin is like a net. We catch minnows
here; mummichogs and spearing. Some
people just call them baitfish. Is it possible they catch the water’s dreams
and weave them into the ripples and splashes?
~
Moving in circles never seems to be a part
of necessity and yet. Do we not see the
nests of birds, whether fiber oriented with dried leaves and grasses, whether
from wetlands when the tide is low or the grasses that border them, slapped by
the wind and smarted by the sun; grasses from every location moved to the
nesting site and there, woven into a round place? Or the egg shaped depressions in the sand;
enough for soft eggs to land and move through their time in the shelter;
covered by eel grass or just enough brush to protect and to deceive. This is part of the world that is built here
on the beach head, in the small bumps of land that seem too small to be called islands
but carry the salt water’s streaming to the fresh water’s hollows.
~
A part of the world of necessity is its
many distractions. Some are deliberate to protect; some to deceive. Some
distractions are just the sheer coincidence that is beauty. What else could
account for the unaccountable way that beauty comes into our lives through
patterns, dance and rhythms; through currents and the red paint on the palette;
through the bones left at the wetlands; the deer skull at the base of the tall
grasses; the skate’s egg casing on the beach?
~
These remains, our memories, the recipe
that is known but not written, all somehow a part of this great life. Ananke, necessity, because without the one we
don’t know the other. Because of the other, we know the one. Our mother, our loves, the tastes that tickle
our tongue and make us want more. The combinations of words said and music; or
the mozzarella and the fresh basil on the tomato that’s still warm from the sun
and drizzled with olive oil create the sense of life’s sweetness happening
right now.
~
If you find yourself lost or forgetful,
sometimes it is the small things, the little pieces you’ve saved that bring you
back. These might seem like trifles to others; or collections of dust and
unearthly belongings; but they may be the skeleton that you can build your days
on until the sun moves through its arc and you move through the necessity of
whatever it was that held you.
~
Were you ever on a ship where
dolphins rode along? Mrs. Scattergood
went on the Cape May ferry a few years ago and the bow became the sweet
cavorting of two river dolphins in the Delaware Bay. The ferry pushed after
their wake. There’s a good chance they’ll be there again on another crossing.
But the longest river in Asia, the third longest river in the world will not
have its white dolphins. China's white
river dolphin swam the Yangtze River for 20 million years. That river has lost
its white dolphins for good. What does this mean? Where in the fabric of our being will this
tear show? Many are aware of the animals and their rhythms that used to be a
part of their life but no longer weave into the waters they live near. We
live in a world where we are used to the news of extinction. What a word. Such
a wide open scale is beyond comprehension but we feel pain when we hear
it. Anything you can name is dwarfed by
this news.
~
We are grieving these losses
but we will remember them in our collective tapestry so that we can stop
further living beings, whether animal or plant, from extinction. We must live
with what is but we will bring ourselves forward and listen to those with
wisdom; and learn what has to improve to keep the world as rich and varied as
it is. We’re the weavers now.
~
So many chances for beauty.
Just look at the butterflies. Each year
more birders are lost to the love of butterflies and moths. The birders migrate
from one love to another. Imagine our
journeys to the now. From our ancestors
to where we stand in the now of the moment, connected to our past and the paths
of those before us. All roads lead to
roaming. In what ways, if any, do we
mimic the monarch’s journey through space and time, across generations,
returning to their land in Mexico? When traveling north again it is a different
monarch laying an egg on the milkweed plant that its ancestor was born on. We are living in sacred times. If we stop in
the moment, all our history is there, right there, all our journeying and
movement, our loves and woes, the misbegotten, the insults and injuries, the
small quiet beautiful moments, the hand on our shoulder, the confirmation of our
talents, the fresh butter biscuits are all there with us. Never doubt there is love for you. All along the way, some seed, a small
thought, a tender moment touched your being and is a part of your life that is
there in the now with you. Long journeys
have deep roots.
~
When Mrs. Scattergood had
moments of clarity, of knowing, and that "aha" feeling, when life
stirred within her again, she knew everything is about the natural world around
her and relationship is the key. If you
can't relate to your physical world how can you save it? No connection to the animal in us; no
connection to our nature means you will not know your true self. As far as
people and their abilities, we have reached new heights. Baubo knew some
abilities were covered over in time like layers of Troy. But even some of those
are being uncovered now. Some feel the
world is dying. This is not necessity. This is from many causes. We can do something here, as a people, we can
do something here to bring back life. We are new people. We are old
people. We are the same people moving
through our tundra of archetypes.
~
If your friend can't share
their woes with you what good is sharing their joy? You won't know how high
their joys can be without the measure of quality assurance that a woe can do. Baubo pointed out the stained glass wings of
the monarch to Mrs. Scattergood when Mrs. Scattergood could only focus on the
fifth molting lying on the floor of the tank, black, shriveled and compressed
like an accordion. Sometimes Baubo
wanted to shake Mrs. Scattergood by the shoulders and shout, “Mira, mira.”
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