तेरे इस पस्सगे इन थे सुन्रिसे एंड इ मौरं फॉर थे मोर्निंग इ लॉन्ग तो सी

The sweet morning, blue time before daybreak..I miss so dearly this early hour. How to get back to a place of greeting the day in the darkness. The time when the collective conciousness of this time zone is in sacred space of stillness. My excersize lately is to try to honor the natural cycles of sleep,waking, energy, and creativity. The pull is to stay up late, I get this surge of creative and vibrant energy just as I used to be going to sleep. It's hard to pass up~these are the hours the songs get written, things get clean, and inspiration abounds. So instead, after sleeping in, I write of the morning, fresh from sleepy dreams, in mid-state of reality, hovering.

I open this grief for coming so soon
For the deep refuge broken by dawn
No travel for the dreams I refuse
The voices filtering through the mirror

There is passage in this sunrise
As I mourn for the morning I long to see

Notes of Coltrane reflect the outcome of memory
As I toss my questions toward the frozen city

And I arise, emerging from the sorrow

रैनी डे, दरें आवे

The rain is finally falling, steadily instead of suddenly. Soaking instead of running off. This exquisite drizzle is what my lately dreams are made of. I dream of wet places laden with moss, algea and frogs. Big frogs hopping around. The past dryness has been making me dry. I find myself looking everywhere for moisture .....inside the maze of my giant sunflowers, under a rock, under a stone, Mmmmmmm in the bottom of my compost pile. The roots of the plants in my garden must be getting pretty tough, having to work so hard, digging down deep to where the wet is. I'd say it builds character. I await the day my new beets will be ready to harvest and eat! But I will admire their strong roots first, of course, and give them compliments.
Someone asked me today if the rain was reminding me of the trail. He said it felt like New Hampshire today. He was so right on, I had a bubble up of emotion, suddenly perfectly reminded of the freedom of the previous year. Walking along through the green tunnel. I'm free now, only in a different way. In a less obvious way. I'm free because I've spent this last year really tuning in to my desires dreams and goals, finding out what I am good at and doing it. And I'm doing it. So closer, then, to the little farm, to the little studio where I make terrible messes and art where I don't have to clean up because it is my studio specifically for messes and art, to the garden, and the gardens. The pieces, my dear Watson, are coming together, sir.
Hmmmmm, all from a rainy day.How my body imitates nature. Not so. It's not just the rain that makes me cry. I can specifically remember quite recently in a dry dusty field somewhere, tears mixed with dust devils feeling so appropriate. But the rain definately urges those little ducts to open up and leak out their salty wetness to drip down my nose and onto my lips.....I think that is my favorite part of crying. The tears that make it to my mouth. Tears are delicious.