Homecoming.

I believe it is more than a drop of Faery in my soul that keeps serving up my luck! This time it was a retreat that combined the comforts of home with the splendor of nature at a time when I dearly needed it. The intention was to excavate through Soul Craft (Bill Plotkin's extraordinary work) for some answers to pervading questions; what are my soul gifts, what is the best way to bring my work to the world, how shall I find my way back into healthy relationship with my body, this preciousl vessel of my soul? For three days and nights I did not interact with anyone but myself and creatures of the avian, insect and flora variety. Hearing only their voices amid only my own delivered solace such as I don't ever remember. I followed each impulse as it arose leading me progressively deeper inside myself.

My eyes flew open as dawn broke the first morning I awakened there. This is unusual as I am not a morning person. Wearing only my skin, I stepped outside to greet the land. Immediately, the shining, waning crescent of the Crone Moon stopped me in my tracks as if She suddenly called my name! I stood spellbound in this encounter for a while, drinking Her in, until the chill persuaded me to return inside and slip back into the still warm luxury of my bed and the safety of slumber.

Just past the garden, fenced against the deer, and before the beckoning forest, is a huge, green meadow. That afternoon, when the sun had burned the clouds away, gold flooded every grassy blade. Within seconds the winged ones came to life. Between the hummingbirds and the butterflies and the dragonflies and the bees, I stood rapt, watching this vector ballet danced to the symphony of nature's deep silence. They swooped and meandered and circled me and one another, and before I knew what was happening, I joined in.

I used to dance ballet when I was young. And now the steps were dancing through me as if I'd never stopped, my body remembering choreography I had long forgotten. I felt free and graceful and beautiful and I couldn't remember the last time I had danced like this, with such abandon, allowing the memory of my muscles to move me, unabashed, undaunted and with complete joy. The spirits of the flora in the garden, and the orchard, and the forest gave audience, all of us delighting in the proceedings. The vectors flew closer and closer past me as I danced, and I curtsied and bowed to them all. And when the dance was through, I felt as if a part of me who had been missing for a very long time had returned; a spontaneous Soul Retrieval, a welcome reunion, a recollection of a long forgotten treasure.

I've been moving from one thing to the next with a dancer's ease since then. The low flying resentment I didn't even know I was feeling for all the work there is to do has evaporated like that afternoon cloud cover. My renewed appreciation for the beauty and the harmony I strive to create and bring to life's party has blossomed. And despite all the bells and whistles of our noise polluted world, I can still hear that symphony's deep and beautiful silence within me.

Bumblebee Slumber

I wait till twilight to harvest the fragrant lavender because of the bees. I am not afraid of them like some people, although I do have a rather traumatic childhood memory of my arm completely swollen and hot to the touch after I got stung by two of them at once; one on my thumb and one on my forearm. I have come to find that bees will leave you be if you return the favor. But during the sunshine hours, the long, graceful lavender stalks bob up and down as the bumblebees move from one to another. It’s more that I don’t want to disturb them as they gather pollen. Bees being so precious and all.

This lavender is over 13 years old. She used to grow in the small apartment garden I tended. I dug her up and moved her here with me and she was one of the first things to go in the ground. She transplanted well and now she is woody with age and prolific in production. Each year at this time I watch the purple of the blossoms and the golden yellow and fuzzy black of the bees in their drowsy dance together.

But now the air chills with evening and the scant light remains. The lavender is motionless. The bees are gone. So I take my clippers and begin. I grab a handful of the stalks and cut. I breathe in the familiar fragrance that soothes me. I take them to the garden table and arrange them for my drying wrack, cutting the stalks the same length, securing them with a rubber band and hang them with a bit of wire. On the next round, I notice something. Two bumblebees are clinging to their own lavender blooms. They are sleeping. I cut some more. Pulling the loose stalks free causes the ones holding them to move, but the bees don’t. Still they cling, regardless of swinging through the air.

Soon I have six bunches drying and just one more to harvest. I have to cut these one by one so I don’t mistakenly take the bee beds. I have to get closer to see in the growing dark and my face comes nearer to the bees than I would ever allow during daylight. But there is nothing to worry about because they are out. They look so cute. I sing them a lullaby as I snip the few remaining stalks. When I am finished, only those two remain. The bees have found their bed for the night. Their perfumed beds in my garden. I imagine they have passed out from too much nectar, and wisely decided the hive was just too far to fly to this intoxicated. I imagine I can hear them snoring.