Beyond my grasp...

Prompt: Beyond my grasp...or whatever bubbles up

~*~

5:30 PM, 3/07/22

I don't feel like writing. I'm tired. 

Maybe I should just skip the writing workshop tonight. 

I have written in my journal this week.

Journaling writ. 
But I don't feel like looking through my journal for anything to share. 

Maybe I should skip the workshop tonight. 

Carol, you don't have to write anything grand or profound or even understandable. 

You can just let thoughts spill.

I walk downstairs and make my supper, which is actually heating it up.

Frozen vegetarian, mini-spring rolls. 

I heat 6 of them for one minute in the microwave. 

I turn them over and add fresh organic spinach and heat another minute.

I pull them out and chop 1/2-avocado over them.

I cut each roll in half and add a wee bit of sauce.

"Eat real food. Not too much. Mainly vegetables."

This is almost real food, if not for the microwave. 

I carry my plate onto the screened-in back porch and sit down. 

The sky is gray and cloudy.

A light rain is falling.

Temperature is around 70, unseasonably warm. 

Wind is blowing at 12 to 15 miles per hour.

Wind chimes play their tunes.

I look at the dead flies I have caught in my homemade fly trap.
A tall thick drinking glass in which I've poured about one inch of apple cider vinegar, a touch of honey, and a few drops of dish soap. 
Plastic wrap, held on by a rubber band, covers the top of the glass.
In the plastic wrap I made four holes, large enough for the flies to enter, attracted by the vinegar and honey, and unable to exit because of soapy wings. 
I apologized to the flies. 
It feels kind of cruel to trap and kill them this way. 
I had tried to get them out of the porch other ways, but without success. 
I justified the trap telling myself when I made it, "Well, at least they might enjoy the honey and vinegar during their last moments." 
I've caught 4 flies in the last few days.
Some live ones are still buzzing around on the porch. 

This is the first year we've ever had a fly issue. 

Though it's not really an issue.

And I don't want it to become one.  

I sit with my spring rolls, slowly and mindfully eating. 
I close my eyes.
I take in the wind through my body.

The wind feeds the fires, the fires that are such a permanent landscape of my inner life. 

The multiple fires that burn upon the laurel leaves that float upon the pond of grief.

The eternal flame that burns atop my grief vessel. 

The grief vessel is a vase of ceramic or maybe ceramic-and-precious metal mix.

It can be whatever I want, morphing if I so desire.

Designs are carved in the vase so I can see inside where clay balls of different sizes and colors rest.

The vessel sits in front of what I call my Sol Disc which pulsates like the sun. 

Sol Disc is located in my solar plexus area. 

Other campfires burn upon the hill.

Many campfires attended by different parts of me that have come out of hiding since June.

These parts of me are stick people.

They are abundant.

Back in June they were crammed in a dark tunnel.

Now the tunnel is gone.

They used the rocks of the tunnel to build campfire areas, where they work to aid my inner life.

The tunnel had led to an underground oasis which opened up farther up the hill to another world where I can shape shift. 

Even though the tunnel is gone, I can still visit the oasis and ride my unicorn until I shift into a crow and then become an eagle. 

Waters from the oasis flow like a small river underground down and inside the right side of my torso and meet up below my belly with the pond of grief. 

These sacred, life-giving waters feed the pond of grief.

Again, I notice the wind in my physical life.

I watch the tall pines sway in the back woods. 

And I thank them, these pines and other trees.

They have been a great comfort and inspiration through the years of living with widespread nerve damage. 

They still comfort and inspire me. 

Swaying, strong, surviving the elements.

And still producing an abundance of seeds.

New life.