windthread

Alyssia picked it up last Sunday in a nearby town.   A family makes them.    They talk about it on the buy sell trade page as a picnic table.  They must be tall.  It's tall.   But this makes it a perfect work table.   Cloth can be layed out and bundled.   One of the benches can be for Jars of brew.  It's light enough that i can move it around.   It could easily be  moved to B if the time comes.  It's just right.  I applied the water seal,  turned them upside down,  to get the underneath.  Right side up then.  Emrie had no experience with painting,  but when told not to touch she just said  OK  and went a ways away to work on her moves.  Running, fast both down and up hill.  Jumping straight up in the air,  hopping.  Hopping is her favorite, maybe.   She will be 2 at the end of July.

then,  as i was lost in thought and painting,  i realized i didn't hear her.  She'd gone to sit with Tay who was chewing a stick.  I watched a while,  she was also lost in thought.  She moves her hands  over and through the grasses,  feeling them.  She picks some and eats them,  picks the seed pods from the rattlesnake grass and eats them,  one at a time.   I think that the grass people are engaging in Transmission,  like buddhist Teachers do.  Direct Transmission.  She is so lost in the being there.  Next i saw her she was lying flat on her back in the dirt driveway road,  looking up into the trees and sky her hands up stretched,  her fingers moving.  Earthing.   My great wish is that she stays this way.  It would be such a gift for me,  but i know it might not happen,  they change around this time,  take on a different persona.  So i just wish and hope.

sometimes the images are so much There.  This,  probably  the most of any.   There was no effort.

Which is WonderFULL.  But also which brings the  reality that there really is little else that is needed.  And,  more, wanted.  Stitches or the addition of cloth fragments feel almost intrusive,  and  for no good reason.   

so Beauty Fully,  sharing space.  Of their own accord.  Tall Grass People,  Sky Lupine.   Next to.   Sharing.  Each complete.

when i went to the top gate of B yesterday,  to go In,   through the fence gate so i could hang the Love Pennant,  so i could plant the little pots of spindly Indigo and Madder,  i was not expecting what i found.  Instantly,  there before me was a Fine and Brilliant world of Beings…all reaching UP and so so BEING.   I immediately stopped and looked.

I have been talking about language.  Of finding the way this Place might be communicating…and what I experienced was so different than how i had been able to imagine it.  

the Language of this Place,  this Hill,  is that of Being.  So many hundreds of so small plants spoke their Beingness.  As i stood there,  just inside the fence,  i could FEEL it.   A vibration?…that's a word that 

can work in the moment…a vibration?,  but it's different than that and i don't know how to speak of it.  

but what i felt was a Welcoming.   A welcoming of some kind of sense of WE.    But also an asking to go Slow.  To let go of Knowing and just find what Is.  Everything here on this small hill of the Hill is different than it was the last spring.  How many springs might there be,  to understand anything at all?

and then i hung the Cloth and planted the little peat pots.   Things are patient.

it was nothing less than magical.  I'd not gone in,  from the back of B for over a week.  Everything had changed.  Everywhere were small,  tiny,  blooming plant people…so many it was breathtaking.  In the bag,  on the arm of the New Mex chair,  the bag from Deb Lacativa,  i brought Mo's Pennant.   Today was the day.  I pinned it with cloths pins to the line there.  There was Wind and it fluttered.

the cast iron pot.  Oak Galls.  All through the Rain Season,  which is Winter here,  it sat.  Lid closed.

i took off the lid and almost fainted with Thrill!!!!!  What IS this??????,  an iron/rust bloom?  What might that mean?  to cloth?  I have no idea.  But the Beauty of it was more than i might ever have imagined.   I'll take cloth there.  string to bind it.  Set it in.  Wait.

more fully realizing,  and maybe not really Realizing yet,  the difference of the Making here.  Now that Out Side has opened from the rain,  from the continuing of familiar ways that a season of rain allows,  or,  encourages….Now that Out is most where Life takes place,  in putting pieces together here today,  i realized that it is Very different,  the arrangement of How It Is on a ground cloth.  No longer the defined figure upon lean and spare horizons.  Looking here,  there is forest.   In certain places here,  a kind of horizon can be seen,  but it too is forested.  Forest and Sky.  I need to open to a different way of making.  I don't know how to do that.  

i had mended these worn spots on this pillow Cover,  was so happy with the mending and then it went into the wash and, o, eeeee,   the extent of the wear became clear.  The Other side was fine.  So i just kept putting the Other side out,  visible,  leaving this soft worn side quiet and turned.  No amount of mending is going to make it ok.  It will need to have some good sized cloth sewn on.  Ok,  but….i wasn't ready for that yet.  Not ready to say goodbye.  

What makes things ok.    ?    What small, really,  things,  make such a difference that stuff all of a sudden, is  just enough OK.? I brought back,  from the Storage Unit  the Sister Pillow of the above.  This one not having wear and remaining very whole,  even tho old too.  The pale blue pillow and the Old Grandmother Pillow.  This small pile of books.  And i am leaving this basket of scraps Out.  

Each night,  i need to move these things over to the table bench seat,  to make my bed.   Each morning,  i roll  up my sheet and quilt,  pillow and  bring them back.  Like you see them in the pic above.  And it's all just Fine.  It's all feeling very OK.  Books.  A basket of cloth.  Pillows.   It doesn't take much.

9 months since they have roamed the Hill.   the doe Goats

Since it is Thinking Back Time,   i spend some time Remembering them in New Mex.  Their world there of sand within Fence.  No view.  They had no view.   or,  a single Point of View.  Fence.  they had their migratory corridor from one fenced yard to another.  The corridor was fenced.   I had the horizon.  They did not.

Then here,  for  8 months they had their very amazing Forest.   So full,  so Wild,  so free.  But then,  they were let loose.  I went back in the calendar…last July.  Let loose.  6 acres.  Many views.  Their paths are woven and worn.  This is their first Spring,  free.   Yesterday,  we saw that Arctica's lower jaw was very swollen.  down to her neck.  Being this time of year,  the first thought,  or first Fear is snake bite.   But at evening feed for the Bucks,  when the doe Goats get a small amount of the baled alfalfa,  she ate as usual,  swelling and all.  Wait till morning.  Morning,  it's much less swollen.  This eve as i write this,  much less.  Maybe a bee or wasp sting.   

I have been so lucky.  Having animals,  "livestock"  is always fraught with things.  We did lose Cinderella.  We did evacuate to Gridley for the Fire  and come back with mites and probably parasites,  which took a general deworming a while ago.  But really,  we have been so so very lucky.    Everytime i am Out There,  they come around,  even if they are far off,  they come around and commune.  We are so Same,  me, them,  them, me.  I was able to leave the door open last night,  just the screen door and this brings me close to them again.  I hear their movement in the deep dark.  I hear them stir before First Light.  Living with Goats.  I can feel one of my pupils horizontal,  feel the horns on my skull.  Feel their nostrils and lips.  How their lips are finger tips.

copper pot and lilacs

Looking cloth.   roots.    Birds above….what below?

and this Cloth…now,  in Celebration of the Spirit of Emily Dickenson

If you want to be SURPRISED and AMAZED,  go…Listen to  Future Primitive    podcast of 4-20-2019

interview with Steven Herrmann about the "prophetic visionary",  Emily Dickinson.   His book:  Emily Dickinson:  A Medicine Woman for Our Times.

I never imagined.