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| "Die Sentimentale" ca. 1846-47, by Johann Peter Hasenclever. Image courtesy WikiCommons. |
Was there poetry this Esbat? Yes. Yes there was. Was it Windy? Why, yes. Yes, it was uncharacteristically windy here... But you see, I have been struggling -- so much so that I have made a slightly desperate & very conscious shift towards cultivation. Hence, this Moon's moniker.
cultivate |ˈkəltəˌvāt|verb [ trans. ]1 prepare and use (land) for crops or gardening.• break up (soil) in preparation for sowing or planting.• raise or grow (plants), esp. on a large scale for commercial purposes.• Biology grow or maintain (living cells or tissue) in culture.2 try to acquire or develop (a quality, sentiment, or skill) : he cultivated an air of indifference.• try to win the friendship or favor of (someone) : it helps if you go out of your way tocultivate the local people.• [usu. as adj. ] ( cultivated) apply oneself to improving or developing (one's mind or manners) : he was a remarkably cultivated and educated man.ORIGIN mid 17th cent.: from medieval Latin cultivat- ‘prepared for crops,’ from the verb cultivare, from cultiva (terra) ‘arable (land),’ from colere ‘cultivate, inhabit.’ -- Apple Dictionary
There are layers upon layers to which this applies. Bioregionally speaking (since I do so love to "think locally" about the Moons), it has been the waxing Moon window for planting in the house for transfer to the greenhouse -- a task I have dutifully accomplished, much to the neglect of other things, like writing. Seeds are now in soil, crowded on a tabletop in the living room, while a temperature data logger keeps watch for signs of Spring in the greenhouse. Let it be soon, please.This cultivation of flora segues seamlessly into another bioregional theme: SADD. It's a bioregional plague. I am officially SADD incarnate. Some of my friends are too; they say things like, "It took everything I had to get out of bed today..." This climate is not for the faint of heart. On Earth Day, the Changeling & I were planting in the sunny greenhouse which reached a sweaty 80° F by late afternoon. The following day it snowed, so I cried. The next day, staring balefully at another rainy, cold day, I cried. About two or three weeks ago my body declared it was done with Alaska & informed me that the neurotransmitters were spent. Those of us who have a hereditary predisposition for the drying up of dopamine & sequestration of serotonin develop a knack for catching the cues quickly. So, with all this waxing, I went to work on cultivating mental health, planting precursors (which, strangely enough, relates to dreamwork & more specifically, lucid dreaming, but maybe more on that later).I have also been cultivating something much less determinable. There is no explaining this, you will either understand, or you won't. It's like a mystery prize in a cereal box (do they still have them?) -- it is a given that it will be something special & completely worth the effort, but you have to dig deep & you still cannot know exactly what it will be until you get to the bottom...And that segues seamlessly into the poetry for this Esbat. Yes, just like there was the Moon, there was poetry. Yet another priceless piece by a brilliant alumna of my alma mater.* Oh, to cultivate talent, skill & purpose like this: "Fluent in several languages and dialects—including Tibetan, Hindi, and Nepali—Dhompa writes in English. Through innovative structures and schemas, her poetry articulates the nostalgia of displaced Tibetans, recording the memories of elders in Tibetan communities." (Read more of her work at the Poetry Foundation.)
She Is
Her voice is a roundness. On full moon days, she talks about
renouncing meat but the butcher has his routine. And blood.
M’s wisdom. Still reliable.
There are sounds we cannot hear but understand in motion.
Slicing of air with hips. Crushing grass, saying these are my feet.
I want my feet in my shadow. Suffice to meet desires halfway.
Quiet. We say her chakras are in place.
When the thermos shatters, she knows the direction of its spill.
She knows how to lead and follow. Know her from this.
Sounds we cannot hear. The wind blows and we say it is cool.
Night slips under the door. We are tucked into bed and kissed
a fleeting one. Through the curtains, her voice loosens like thread
from an old blanket, row upon row. We watch her teeth in the
dark and read her words. She speaks in perfect order, facing where
the breeze can tug it towards canals stretching for sound.
Her faith abides by the cycle of the moon. See how perfect she is.
Belated blessings to this Esbat, my friends.
*(Wow, how weird -- I just now realize in creating links that I used the Cabrera (also a UMass alumni) poem this very same Moon last year.)
renouncing meat but the butcher has his routine. And blood.
M’s wisdom. Still reliable.
There are sounds we cannot hear but understand in motion.
Slicing of air with hips. Crushing grass, saying these are my feet.
I want my feet in my shadow. Suffice to meet desires halfway.
Quiet. We say her chakras are in place.
When the thermos shatters, she knows the direction of its spill.
She knows how to lead and follow. Know her from this.
Sounds we cannot hear. The wind blows and we say it is cool.
Night slips under the door. We are tucked into bed and kissed
a fleeting one. Through the curtains, her voice loosens like thread
from an old blanket, row upon row. We watch her teeth in the
dark and read her words. She speaks in perfect order, facing where
the breeze can tug it towards canals stretching for sound.
Her faith abides by the cycle of the moon. See how perfect she is.
Belated blessings to this Esbat, my friends.
*(Wow, how weird -- I just now realize in creating links that I used the Cabrera (also a UMass alumni) poem this very same Moon last year.)
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