Red Thread Letter #884
Crossroads Woman
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Crossroads Woman
by Shiloh Sophia
I am not the sound
of a clear bell ringing
on a clear day
that you can hear
with human ears
I am the slow low hum
of moss on ocean wood
A remnant of an ancient tree
from a faraway land
washed so far up shore
one day
that I landed at the edge
of a forest
I started to grow myself an
elegant green garment
intricate like lace on the hand
of a woman about to be wed
in a green-dappled land
Both salamander and tiny crab
may be found having a tiny tea
upon an extended branch of me
(Oh how I love their dialogue)
I am not the sweet dance
of the maiden with her tiny
feet tapping the earth
for all to see her glory
I am hips swung low
in cycles of birth and mourning
My curves are those of
mountains of wildflowers
over a vast expanse of
meadow with tiny brown
rabbits running free in me
and the honeybee, happy
I am not the scent of jasmine,
or pale pink rose,
(although at times I wish I was)
I am more like the intoxicating
scent of sun on hot skin
sun-kissed and salted-water dancing
I am the scent in nostril
of a hidden cave
with a small river running
You smell the water
before you know
it is there
Your body just
moves towards the hidden vitality
in me,
I know why…
because you are seeking it in you
I remind you of your hidden power
I am a tributary of streams gathering
and moving on again in
different directions
I am fresh loam
a fresh green so dark is it blue
Promises of
of chosen change shine
from the dark side of the moon
Shhhh….
can you hear the moss growing?
We have stories to tell
I carry not the spells of a shiny
magician who can tell you
the future with wit and wonder
(Sometimes I wish I was)
Once I dreamed I could raise
the dead with prayer,
the Christed one told me so
but alas,
not this time, not me
I am the guttural incantations
of the old woman
who comes from the
Carpathian mountains
She lives in my bone house
and makes mystery alive for me
She doesn’t make spells anymore
She only breaks them
Illusions fall away in her gaze
I give praise!
I have always been an old woman
Even the oldest woman I knew,
my Grandmother, called me
‘Little Old Lady Mine’ from the time
I started worrying
about the nature
of things and
taking care of small
creatures and broken hearts
I used to make up language
to speak with those
who did not speak my own
so they would not feel alone
Some try to find a name for me,
and I do try a theme or two
to discern my location or vocation
I am neither medicine woman
or shamaness,
I am something
I have no name for,
with a wisdom
I know little about,
from a place I cannot name
Yet from this place, I see you
Yes I am a seer
yet I will hang no shingle
but this poem
written on the underside
of the bark on the tree
I am also blue,
the deepest blue
when night falls on a hot day
The night-blooming flowers
turn crimson with my longing
to love
To love with all my being
I know where the portals are
I will show you the way through
You can come sit with me
to see what I see in you
and remind you of who you are
Not who you can
earn yourself to become
Rather remind you of
your own version of mossy, brilliant blue
or your bell-like nature
What blooms in you?
We are in a sanctuary
when we choose to be
I live in my
stardust blood-red ochre body
You know
that is a rare thing these days,
to actually live in your own
skin temple,
to take up residence
At least for now
as if you own the place
and just love it so very much
I am not a whim or a statement
or a place to ask for directions
I am a crossroads woman
standing between here and there,
between forest and sea
A tree woman with hummingbirds
drinking from my crisp blooms
and oh so many rooms
to explore,
we have time
Should you find yourself
at the threshold between there
and here and everywhere
I will make you a cup of tea
and invite you to tell your story
to me
The salamander and the crab
make good company
in the moss-green destiny
I am here
I am there
I am everywhere
I am not nowhere
I am here
and so are you
Let’s walk hand in hand
in this new land,
the one we choose together
Shiloh Sophia
Dear Ones,
Dear One Sarah,
Sometimes in the discovery
of who you are
it can be a curiosity to
discover who you are not.
I haven’t woken up with a line
from a poem for a long long while.
This morning,
“I am not a clear bell
I am the low hum of moss”
woke me from slumber.
I am at a crossroads.
And in this place, I choose
to work day by day on chosen
well-being and well-doing.
I have embarked on a 5-week
shift for myself with 50 or so
other women to claim ourselves
as temples. Creating a framework
for chosen change is my love balm.
This week…
We opened the gallery on Beltane
I taught our first in-person class to the public
I led my first sip and paint at a
locally owned restaurant and bar
all in the past five days
and today I teach transformation
with a pen and a whiteboard.
Today is the anniversary of
my grandmother Helen walking on.
She is my Ukrainian matriarchal root.
And tomorrow I stream for Temple,
painting live with many women
around the world.
My life is full and big right now.
My life is ceremony.
I am a reluctant priestess.
And yet here I am
with my mossy hum
showing up for work.
Each day I swim and pray
for you, for us, for me,
and to be agile enough
to keep answering the call.
I keep showing up.
The challenges keep coming,
but then, so do I.
I keep on coming.
I happen to life,
life isn’t just happening to me.
Love to each one of you
wherever you are
or wherever you are not
This love is real
and is moving towards
you from me.
