Compost Your Pain and Sew Wildflowers #801

Sew Wildflowers into the Linoleum

 

I am alone in my kitchen washing dishes

I hear footsteps running behind the house

My husband is not home

Panic rises

 

I turn to see a dark form

crashing through the back door

without so much as a knock

 

A giant-winged black creature

with red wrinkly head

is perched on the shoulder

of none other than the Muse

Clearly the beast

is chummy with Her

 

I may lose my macaroni and cheeseI feel queasy

Harbingers of death often show up

unannounced and certainly unwelcome

 

I had forgotten the Muse existed

That anyone could forget

is ridiculous

Yet I hear it happens all the time!

Women forgetting entirely the force,

the source of creative prowess,

the great forgetting that

happens when you go numb

 

Yet

If you leave a crack in the door

of your consciousness for Her,

the Muse will find you

 

She will bring you her creatures,

bad manners, disturb your denial,

raid your cookie jar, drink your whiskey

and reset your default settings,

If you are lucky

 

She looks at me expectantly,

Endlessly impoloring me with her eyes,

waiting for me to speak

 

I search myself

for what wants to be said

My voice shaking

“When death visited my house,

I went into a funk

I only feel

The extremity of not feeling

and then feeling too much”

 

“Yup, Death can funk you up…”

She offers

 

I continue, feeling shy

“I don’t know how I exist,

going through the motions

Strangely, almost no one notices,

that I have disappeared

Except the dog,

he who knows all our family secrets

He licks my feet at night

His tender devotion reminds me

love is here…yet…“

 

The Muse nods

She already knew

She opens the high cupboard

and selects the peach brandy

 

I tell her

“Yes, I could use a nip

I had begun to think

my new normal was sleepwalking

midday and dream salad at night

where nothing goes together

and you wake with a stomach ache

It doesn’t help

that our world is going

to hell in a handbasket”

 

I know I am talking too much

Then I notice

Her black leather jacket

has a skull and crossbones

embroidered with flame-red roses,

and spiky thorns sewn

deep inside the leather

 

As if the big bird of death

was not enough of a warning?

 

The room is moving in slow motion

I am afraid of the hidden truths

enmeshing themselves in my flesh

The Muse carries strange medicine

 

She straddles her chair, I glimpse

Her black and white striped stockings

and the boots? Damn!

Red cowgirl boots!

 

“I might need some of those!”

I exclaim, pointing to the boots

 

“You and every other woman

in mid-life-meltdown”

She quips, flicking her hair

I see a dragonfly emerge

from behind her ear

and disappear

 

“I don’t know if I am ready

for whatever it is you came here

to tell me” I say as I sit down

 

I hear a screechy-scratching sound

as the vulture opens

the door under the sink

with a clawfoot

and starts digging

through the garbage

He pulls out dried bacon,

holding it in his beak,

watching us, watching him

He turns his back

and snacks loudly

I want to laugh

but I want to cry too

 

Have you ever felt like that?

 

I am not sure how

to tell a vulture,

not to eat my trash

He poops a sloshy plop

right onto the linoleum

“Bad BOY!!!” I yell

 

The dog comes running

to see what he did wrong

and begins to bark at big bird

 

I panic,

What if the children walk in?

 

The Muse sees my horror,

she gets up

opens the backdoor

and gestures to the beast

“Git on outta’ here Josephine

I’ll catch up with YOU later.”

She turns to me,

“Oh and by the way, it’s a girl.

Josephine is a lady bird”

 

Clearly miffed, Josephine,

fly-walks out with a crashing-cracking

her wings dragging on the hinges

her claws – fingernails on chalkboard

Her somber beady glance

telling me

I am so uncool

 

“Josephine is named after

Napoleon’s wife,” She says

as if that will have meaning for me

 

She tunes into the Bon Iver station

We are both big on mood music

I hear his melancholy voice

 

“Skinny Love…

my my my my my

I told you to be patient

I told you to be fine

I told you to be balanced

I told you to be kind

Now all your love is wasted?

Then who the hell was I?”

 

My ugly cry begins

 

To my surprise, she cries with me

her tears fall onto her black lace skirt

They begin to bloom into wildflowers

lavender, yellow, periwinkle

Mesmerized, I watch the flowers spread

across her thighs

 

“My skirts are made of compost,” She tells me

“my blouse is the lace of forbidden lovers

my hat is woven from the tears of old women

my jewels cast from spiderwebs and moss

my boots? Hand-tooled from Mexico”

 

We clink our glasses, raised,

even though I am not sure

what we are toasting

 

I look down at my own getup

I don’t tell her my lumpy blue sweater

is from Target on sale,

my yoga pants are from Amazon online

I don’t tell her, I haven’t dressed in a week

 

Instead I tell her what they tell me

about my grief, my dismay that

“I should get over it,

get on with it, live my life,

put my past behind me”

 

She shakes her head

“Lies. You don’t get over death.

You can’t put the past behind you”

 

My head jerks back

I whimper

“WHAATTTT? Then what???”

 

“Grief is what hollows

and shapes us

You can’t be rid of it

you wouldn’t want to,

even if you could

Death is the essential deep thread

woven into colorful fabric

Grief is a worthy part of you

Without death you can’t become

a real human being, an Anthropos

That’s Greek for real human being,

you know”

 

I wonder if everyone else’s Muse knows Greek

and has feathered friends named Josephine?

 

“Okay,” I say, “but the suffering…the pain”

 

“Trying to get over it is a fool’s errand,

instead you get into it,

make friends with it

a wound becomes a scar to be honored

 

When light pierces through the opening,

watch for it, wait, be patient, be kind,

You cause more suffering

by acting like it should be otherwise”

 

Her counterintuitive counsel confuses me

“I don’t get it,” I shake my head.

 

Her eyes throw sparks

She glistens in a strange hazy glow

How fascinatingly beautiful She is to me

 

She changes the radio station.

Oh no, I hear the first cords of Kate Wolf

singing and my crying goes deeper

 

“You must give yourself to love if love is what you’re after;

Open up your hearts to the tears and laughter

And give yourself to love, give yourself to love.”

 

In an uncharacteristic act of tenderness,

She uses her sleeve to wipe my tears

She looks me in the eye and whispers,

 

“Love requires everything you got,

you have to give yourself to it

No one can put the past behind them

Put your past beneath you

Compost your pain

into the rich soil of life

Stand on it, walk on it,

Grow things out of it!

 

Your past is a foundation for strength

With your past located behind you,

it chases you, a demon at every turn

reminding you, that you have been broken

Yes, you are broken – broken OPEN

a seed sprouting out of its hull

a baby bird cracking out of its egg

Not broken up, like glass breaking

or a marriage crashing down”

 

I imagine the tangle of death

that chases me begin to move

under my feet instead of chasing me

 

My guts relax their gripped position

How long have I been holding that?

 

The Muse begins to rant…

 

“This metaphor ‘put the past behind you’

must be put in the do-gooder dungeon

in this catch-phrase-assumptive-spirituality-age

with all the other faulty psychology

 

Like how you say –

‘Everything happens for a reason’

when you feel good,

and when you feel bad,

the logic doesn’t hold up

and you are mad,

as if betrayed by life itself!

 

Bullsh*t! Stop trying

to tidy up the chaos

Which is part of everything

There IS a plan, dear one,

A plan that includes chaos,

glory and grace

all smooshed up together

and you don’t get to know the plan!”

 

I laugh a little

and exhale

The safety pin on my heart

unhooks

with a pop,

I inhale fully

 

She walks to a kitchen drawer,

digs through the soy sauce packets,

the rubber bands, the coupons,

the lockless keys

and retrieves my Notebook

from the junk drawer

She hands it to me with gravity

 

“Your Notebook

is an extension of your consciousness

Bring it everywhere

Keep it alive

and you will keep yourself alive,

even in the face of death”

 

She jabs the book with her finger

“Draw here,

write here,

tell stories here

This is how you get

what is within,

through the fire

to be alchemized into gold”

 

I nod my yes

I stop crying

I am listening

 

Why do I stop creating when I know

making things

is how I stay sane

in a world that often feels insane?

 

I hear the children in the other room

begin to squeal,

I run to see

They are pointing out the window

at the large black vulture

 

Josephine is gnawing at something

on the dotted yellow line of our street

The automatic porch light flickering eerily

every time she moves

 

The children squeal and stare

watching and wondering

what animal is being eaten

I hear the music in the kitchen

change to Buena Vista Social club,

I rush the kids upstairs,

“Time for bed! Let’s go!”

 

They can’t stop talking

about the big black bird in the street

I am afraid the Muse will leave

They don’t want me to turn off the light

 

“What would you like to ask the vulture?”

I venture, tenuous with my approach

 

My little girl says,

“What are you eating Mr. Vulture,

and does it taste good?

I hope it is not a kitten”

 

Her older brother offers,

“Tastes just like chicken!”

 

They laugh

I laugh too

I see how beautiful they are

It pains me to know

they won’t escape this feeling in life

Since death visited my house

I have not really looked at my children

 

My daughter says

”Why is his head red?

Is it from eating blood?”

My son says,

“Why does Mr. Vulture want to eat death?”

 

“They are God’s vacuum cleaners,

cleaning up the animals that have died

Oh, and, it’s a girl -the bird. it is a lady bird,” I say

“How do you know”? My boy asks

“Mothers know these things,” I say with a wink

 

“Sweet Dreams Only,” I say hugging them

hard to my beating heart

 

“Sweet Dreams Only”

They say back in unison

We started saying that

to fend off nightmares

 

I can’t tell them

Josephine was eating the death

that I was dragging behind me

helping me compost my pain

so I can grow wildflowers too

 

~

 

Downstairs in the kitchen

Buena Vista Social club is playing

The chairs are back in place,

and the brandy glasses are rinsed

The leftover macaroni and cheese

tupperware on the counter has a fork in it

 

I notice the backdoor is cracked,

I look out,

The red cowgirl boots

are there, waiting for me

 

Maybe she left in a hurry?

Maybe they are on loan?

I bring them inside,

I lock the door

I draw the curtains

 

My dog sniffs the boots of the Muse

and whimpers at all of the places

those boots have been

Then he sees the vulture poop

and in a single lick,

it’s gone,

lovely…

 

The light of joy I have always known

moves through me now

I have been on a journey

I am now home

 

I reach for my Notebook on the table.

A black feather is marking a page

with perfect gothic penwomanship,

I read the Muse’s note

 

“We are picked clean by death

Write a letter to death

Ask it to become part of your ecosystem

Not behind you, but beneath you

 

More death is coming

You cannot choose when,

Honor the mystery

Grief is the remnant

that you loved this hard

 

You’ve earned this depth of love

do not dismiss it,

Death is no punishment

Grief may be an unwelcome guest

Consider inviting grief to tea”

Signed,

M

~

I make green jasmine tea,

I put it in my Grandmother’s rose tea cup

 

I feel the pages beneath my hands,

finally I am ready to write:

 

There will be no tombstone

There will only be wildflowers

where you live in the

garden of my heart

 

When death comes,

love changes form

This love just goes on and on

 

I claim kinship with the

shifted forms of love

 

You are everywhere I am

a single drop, an ocean

a single seed, an orchard

 

May my past move

beneath my feet

and my heart

move in front of me

 

Wherever you are

may you be free

Ancestor,

of my family

~

Now I slip on the boots

The Muse is just my size!

I slow dance to the

Buena Vista Social Club

alone in the kitchen

finding myself again

 

“Two gardenias for you

With them I want to say

I love you, I adore you, my life”

~

Later

When I hear my husband pull

into the garage I wonder…

 

How shall I greet him?

What would the Muse do?

I don’t want him to see me,

in these sweatpants again

I don’t have time to change

So

I undress

except for the red boots

 

He walks in, surprised, and grins

“There you are!” he says

“Here I am!” I say

 

I undress him

He does not resist

After death

he is hungry for life

and

I have life to give

 

We sew

wildflowers

into the linoleum

 

April 11, 2020

Muse at the Back Doors Series

From the Mythic Media department at Musea : Intentional Creativity

 

“Grief is not a feeling it is a capacity.

It is not something that disables you,

we are not on the receiving end of grief

we are on the practising end of grief.”

~ Stephen Jenkinson

 

Song Links

Bon Iver – Skinny Love

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=IxMHjTMkLHw

Kate Wolf – Give Yourself to Love

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=BHD2aPTjqNM

Buena Vista Social Club

https://youtu.be/zisqTN9mrqo

Red Thread Letter #801 from Shiloh Sophia
Sew Wildflowers into the Linoleum

Dear One,

This is for you. For us. A story time to enter another world where the life death life cycle is a natural ecosystem.

I have just come from sewing ashes with wildflowers of my beloved teacher, Sue Hoya Sellars. It was harrowing.

This writing has been my obsessive salvation. Art transforms pain into possibility.

This 2020 series is part of Musea – our Mythic Media department. While Muse at the Back Door is fictional, it contains the emotions of my life and story. I just let it pour out almost in a fever of love – I can barely keep up with the Muse and all she has to say with how I am feeling.

I kept writing songs in and taking them out. In the end I included them for you to enjoy –

As I close – I am thinking of two things. The day she ‘accelerated into the future’ as she called aging, our dear friend Alice Walker came bringing arm fulls of lemon balm to be wrapped in her linen burial cloth. Alice brought her laptop too, so that she could play a song they both loved, a song by the Dalai Lama about death. Every time she pressed play – all that came out was the Buena Vista Social Club, which Sue loved tremendously.

Then, when I was spreading ashes on the hill with seeds, and on the womb of a great wooden sculpture, I smelled it. Lemon balm. It hasn’t been here before. At the base of the giant sculpture, which actually was made for Alice, there is wild lemon balm growing.

There is beauty everywhere, even in grief if we look.

For the first time, we collected all of the unfinished paintings that she was working on when she left – about ten of them in her little house. We will be having a show when our new website for our virtual and physical Living Museum opens this Summer.

Bless you, deeply truly and really – bless you in this moment. Feel my love? Love is here.

---

Recent Red Thread Letters from Shiloh Sophia:

The Hieroglyph of the Human Soul Conversation #800

Out after dark looking for the Muse #799

Create a healing focus for April #798