I feel oddly shy to write.  It feels so…public.  I write pages and pages in my journal, but the thought of putting my thoughts out in this blog - well, all I want to do is to post images.  
So, here is what has been happening, as the days pass and bring me closer and closer to departure.
I'm just back from 5 days on Whidbey Island with my BodySoul sisters.  


We have been in dream time, with music and masks, with tears and hysterical laughter….doing "our work".

 For me, that means tuning in to the inner life, the voices that speak in a whisper, guiding and urging me to live in the most true and full way I possibly can.  It means sharing thoughts and ideas - this year we worked with "Lament for the Dead", the text of a conversation between James Hillman and Sonu Shamdasani.  It is a conversation about Jung's Red Book.  There are words in that text I have never seen before, and ideas I have never had.  

So, as usual, I return with my mind and my imagination expanded, my heart and soul opened, and a determination
to maintain this dedication to depth and to the "stream of images" which speak from the "mouths of the dead".
It was a rich time; I feel as though I am set up for these
next 10 days leading up to June 1st, when I am booked to
fly (one way) to Montreal. 

  

Whidbey Island, Washington State

BodySoul Retreat, 2014

#3

 Another peony…..luscious and in full bloom

Whidbey Island, Washington State

BodySoul Retreat, 2014

#2 Peony

Peonies       by Mary Oliver

This morning the green fists of the peonies are getting ready
to break my heart
as the sun rises,
as the sun strokes them with his old, buttery fingers

and they open -
pools of lace, 
white and pink -
and all day the black ants climb over them,

boring their deep and mysterious holes
into the curls,
craving the sweet sap,
taking it away

to their dark, underground cities -
and all day
under the shifty wind,
as in a dance to the great wedding,

the flowers bend their bright bodies,
and tip their fragrance to the air,
and rise,
their red stems holding

all that dampness and recklessness
gladly and lightly,
and there it is again - 
beauty the brave, the exemplary,

blazing open.
Do you love this world?
Do you cherish your humble and silky life?
Do you adore the green grass, with its terror beneath?

Do you also hurry, half-dressed and barefoot, into the garden,
and softly,
and exclaiming of their dearness,
fill your arms with the white and pink flowers,

with their honeyed heaviness, their lush trembling,
their eagerness
to be wild and perfect for a moment, before they are
nothing, forever?

Whidbey Island, Washington State.

Bodysoul Retreat, 2014

#1 The Woods

Five Bags Full….

I am still clearing out.                           
This morning there are these 5 bags     
full of: sweaters                                    
           summer tank tops                      
           scarves                                       
           sheets                                         
           shoes                                          
           socks                                          
           odd bits of fabric                        
These are BIG bags!!  As I set them     
out by the front door for pick-up, I        
hoped that some of the lovely things     
inside would bring other people            
pleasure.                                                
                                                      
I wonder why we hang on to stuff?       
"I'll use this again/wear this again         
some day…."                                        
"This might come in handy…."            
"Oh, this came from….."                      
Memories and associations with each   
single thing.                                          
                                                             
Now that I have begun, the urge to clear 
is powerful.  I haven't even started on      
books, papers, precious objects, photos.  
And time is now starting to press just      
a little at my back.                                   
I have just a little over 3 weeks before     
I get on the plane, one-way, to                 
Montreal.                                                  
                                                                 
I realize, though, that the journey has already begun.  This clearing, this sorting, this saying goodbye to "things" is me moving into the next part of my life.             
One great big green bag at a time.                  

Clearing

I've started the clearing.
I seem to need loud music to do it properly.

It is surprising how much is wrapped up in an old sweatshirt.  
I've had it for years, and not worn it for a long time.  I forgot it was there, and 
when I took it out I remembered its comfort , how many times I would throw 
it on just to stay warm, to feel protected, to take the dog out, to run and pick up 
the kids from somewhere.
And I smell it, and hold it, then I fold it, and it goes in the "give away" pile.

And shoes.
Anyone who knows me knows that I have a weakness for shoes.  Maybe it's 
the Montrealer in me.  But I can't take 13 pairs of shoes with me, and in fact 
now that I'm really looking at them, I see that I haven't worn half of them for 
3, 4, 5 years.  And that these ones have a sole that's coming apart - I've held on,
thinking I'd get them repaired for sure.  Gone. And those ones have always 
hurt to wear - why did I ever buy them?  Gone.  Oh, right, these ones have a hole 
in the heel, and the water always comes in and soaks my socks.  Gone.

Socks.  I have a basket of socks.  A big basket.  How did I get so many socks?  
And when will I ever wear them?  I also have a basket of winter scarves, and 
a basket of summer scarves.  
Not to mention the journals.
And books.

Humbling. 
I always thought I was a minimalist.  How did this happen?
I've only barely started.  
It feels good.  And risky, somehow.  
I suppose there's always a risk in letting go.
Which is what this is about, really.  Letting go.  Trusting.  Believing that I can 
do with less.
That I will be safe. 


Wayfarer, the only way 
is your footsteps, there is no other.
Wayfarer, there is no way.
You make the way by walking…..
                           Antonio Machado