Page Lambert's Blog (15)

The Return

 

When the hero comes back from her journey she is in the greatest danger of all.

The jaws of the ordinary close

around her ankles. The tendrils

 

of her other stories fill her mouth.

That shape she left behind, empty,

slides up around her

and snaps to. 

 

She might never have gone.

 

Odysseus went away again, then,

to a place where no one had ever heard

of the sea, his home,…

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The Quechua Puck's flute dancing amongst the Pisac ruins,

sending his prayers to the APUs. Rocky, uneven steps

to the sky were a challenge accomplished. The warmth of the land

lifted into her soul and to her heart, spreading

through to her arms as she hugged me "buenas dias."

Circular moon, Now crescent luna bowl. Hands stretched to center,

gathering and sharing aini. Short brown-skinned gardener

with the snaggle-toothed grin, sharing delight

in…

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To wake up and be already immersed in this sacred place, even using the groover takes on a holy significance worthy of ritual observance. The passing of the key, the communion vessel, with a quiet smile from the sister who bears it; the walk along the river's edge to the shelter of the confessional (though not of sins, but of humility); the opening of the key box that yields unto the women acknowledgement of their sacred bodily fluids.

To sit on the throne, contemplating the…

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"We might as well say we are organs of the world." David Abram, The Spell of the Sensuous

A deep breath--inhale, exhale--tension leaving my muscles, the lines in my face, more relaxed, the heart muscle less constrained. Lungs of the Canyons. Cottonwood trees and willows--aspiring into the air--river water moving up through their roots to the capillaries in their stems and branches, into the leaves, the river transformed into the air we breathe as the cottonwoods exhale their…

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"I have been thinking a lot about how to go about living my life as it's happening and in such a way that I can leave it with no regrets. Toward the end of our journey down the Colorado on the course Page Lambert and I called The Heroine's Journey, Page had this great idea. She gave all of us cards and envelopes which she told us to address to ourselves. She told us to write our future selves a card, something that we would want to remember from the trip, and then put it into the…

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As far back as I can remember, my mind has raced like a river running full bore.  Thoughts stream through my consciousness like thundering whitewater. Flash floods of ideas bombard me from all sides. Unexpected currents of reckoning pour in from ephemeral tributaries muddying my mainstream and stirring up my already turbid focus.  On a good day, I pick up a question here, a validation there, and sometimes an entirely new mix of temperature, scent, taste, and vision come together to form a…

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Stetson snorted, his head lowered only inches from the ground, the white plastic hoop a round and unknown thing, foreign smelling, a "man" thing.  He snorted again and blew. Small whirlwinds of dust rose from his nostrils. He dipped his nose toward the curve of the PVC pipe, flared his nostrils again, inhaling then blowing the scent back out. 

Puffs of dust rose as Stetson sniffed up and around the length of the hoop, first by his left hoof, then by his right hoof.  Tentatively, stiff…

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The memory of all our voices joining together in this song our last night on the river will stay with me always. Thank you Joy, Alice, Amy, Ann, Barbara and Carmel (you were with us in spirit), Cheryl, Donna, Jessica, Jules, Julie, Kathie, Kerri, Marlette, and Shari.

The river is flowing, flowing and growing.

The river is flowing, down to the sea.

Mother carry me, child I will always be.

Mother carry me, down to the sea....

He pranced. He danced. He shifted his weight.

Stones skittered away under his feet.

 

She bumped. He jumped.

She clucked. He bucked.

 …

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"We have recognized ourselves in the stranger," writes Joseph Dispenza in The Way of the Traveler.  "Now we move to take what we first  saw as foreign in the stranger and to make these things part of the familiar. When we incorporate the truths we have discovered, we transform ourselves.  We are renewed. But how do we accomplish this?"

This morning, greeting a friend and neighbor as we walked to the community barn, I thought of what Joseph Dispenza's asked us. 

Maybe…

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Syncopated hoof beats

Rhapsody in horse

Wyoming I miss you

We walk along the high altitude timber trail passing tall stands of Aspen with florescent green leaves unfurling into spring.  We come upon four fallen Aspen their wide trunks crossing our way, ..creamy white  and black striped bark like animal skin.



Our riding boots and chaps swish along the grass filled lane dressed with fresh dung droppings.  I raise my eyes across the horizon in search of silent standing elk.  I breathe.



Red willow branches stretch alongside bright…

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River washing down canyons

echoing with women.

My hands touch clay, touch stone,

touch ropes, touch water, touch

sand.......touch each other.

My hands hold on to the other for

support, for familiarity.

Shaky I float down this river

watching my daughter, young and

energetically challenge rapids....

I know this place within me, but not

today. My hands hold tighter to

each other, feels the bones and dry

skin that darken in the sun. I… Continue

An ancient river, a tribal princess touched me up on the high walls of the canyon near the petro glyphs.



The beauty and freshness of Rosie and her heart-felt song seemed to represent the youth and vigor of an ancient tribe and the everlasting heritage of her people and their link to the river below.



Rosie and the river were my connection to the beauty and spirituality of this land, to this special circle of sisters and to the continuing circle of life. May our paths cross… Continue

My first humble attempts at haiku...it seemed an appropriate form for a

touchstone. And a wonderful quote from Roxanne that caught my ear early

in the trip....



*Dawn on the River*



Red cliffs warm with light.

In this place of no-naming

I sit in wonder.



*Petro glyphs with Rose*



Sun to moon unfolds

Hands shadowed on the wall

Heart song echoes their cries.



*Roxanne’s Lesson from the Clay*

If you try to work it… Continue