It's All About the Swords

Concentric ripples overlap in pooling rainfall.

The earth drinks as flowers are baptized into hopefulness. Surrendered from the waters: It is impossible that anything be lost, if what you have is what you are.

My arms fall away as dust, leaving more room for Love to fill. At some point, no more metaphor is needed. When love and peace lives at home, why leave? What is real can only be known without form.

The house now expands with the kids and their stuff arriving for summer. Everything increases. Azaleas in bloom; tulips at the ready; copious violets leading in the way only they know how. How do you feel about a few blackberry plantings?

Lately in tarot it's all about the swords. A meeting with the Wiccan grandmother implanted itself in my mind and now I cannot forget what her eyes said to me. We know each other. I remember as a child arranging leaves, stones, and found forest jewels on the ground and enclosing them with a circle. This and other ways a 7 year old knows how to leave thank-you notes.

I have often imagined myself without breasts – wondering about the freedom or confinement they elicit – always examining the weight of the anchor that is this body. Cannot it not be that the body is also a symbol we do not need? In this and other limits we have chosen to impose, it seems bodies are given to transcend; a gateway to that which is real; a chance to leave shackles behind in full knowledge and gratitude of escaping death. I have collected a few bodies, beloved, and placed them in the circle. Please, come and enter freely.