Following William

Questing far and deep
I come to the poets
To artists and dreamers of thought who
‘Soar on wings above the earth.
Sometimes to dive and touch the mire
But only to graze, never to be caught’ *

I come here listening
Eternally a learner, ceaselessly a seeker
Made largely of wonder
I search for cloud trails where these feathers have flown
I follow their soaring, tumbling flight, reaching with stretched fingers,
Brushing celestial wings
“Was it thus for you? Indeed? And it is THUS for me!
How same, how different, how changing, how fascinating, don’t you think? . . .”
William cannot answer me,
Not Shakespeare, Blake, Carlos Williams,
Wordsworth or Yeats,
They fly before me
Into a radiant sun split infinity
I can only
Follow

I know how little I know
I know that understanding is a process
Knowledge not a destination
 
My universe dances in circles of changing chaos
The more I seek, the more I find
The more I find, the more I seek
The more I sense, the more I search
The more I search, the more I recognize
There is relevance in everything
Relationships everywhere

Sorrow, singing, shadows, self
My sacred wind that smelled of stars
Synchronicity . . .
Syzygy . . .
Soul

Unboxed
Unbroken
Unbound

Neither Wordsworth, nor Yeats, Blake nor Carlos Williams
Not even
Shakespeare
Ever had his finger on the pulse of God
They questioned, queried, wondered
Dreamed . . .
In flurry of free-thinking feathers
They fly before me

I can only
Follow


©Edwina Peterson Cross


* From “A Dream Play” by August Strindgerg. Translated by Jerry Turner

Indra’s Daughter speaks to the Poet:
You, child of man, you dreamer
You, skald, who best know how to live,
Soaring on wings above the earth,
Sometimes to dive and touch the mire
But only to graze, never to be caught.”

~
No bird soars too high if he soars with his own wings.
(William Blake)


The Birds

The world begins again!
Not wholly insufflated
the blackbirds in the rain
upon the dead topbranches
of the living tree,
stuck fast to the low clouds,
notate the dawn.
Their shrill cries sound
announcing appetite
and drop among the bending roses
and the dripping grass.

(William Carlos Williams)




To the Cuckoo

O blithe newcomer! I have heard,
I hear thee and rejoice:
O Cuckoo! shall I call thee bird,
Or but a wandering Voice?

Though babbling only to the vale
Of sunshine and of flowers,
Thou bringest unto me a tale
Of visionary hours.

Thrice welcome, darling of the Spring!
Even yet thou art to me
No bird, but an invisible thing,
A voice, a mystery;

O blessed birth! the earth we pace
Again appears to be
An unsubstantial, fairy place,
That is fit home for Thee!

(William Wordsworth)


The White Birds
 
I would that we were, my beloved, white birds on the foam of the sea:
We tire of the flame of the meteor, before it can pass by and flee;
And the flame of the blue star of twilight, hung low on the rim of the sky,
Has awaked in our hearts, my beloved, a sadness that never may die.
 
A weariness comes from those dreamers, dew-dabbled, the lily and rose,      
Ah, dream not of them, my beloved, the flame of the meteor that goes,
Or the flame of the blue star that lingers hung low in the fall of the dew:
For I would we were changed to white birds on the wandering foam—I and you.
 
I am haunted by numberless islands, and many a Danaan shore,
Where Time would surely forget us, and Sorrow come near us no more:      
Soon far from the rose and the lily, the fret of the flames, would we be,
Were we only white birds, my beloved, buoyed out on the foam of the sea.

(William Butler Yeats)


Southerly I know a hawk from a handsaw.
(William Shakespeare,  Hamlet: II, ii )

Happy Birthday with wings of Joy, Dear Anna!

There is a quiet miracle going on in the Gaia Group  “Passing.”  The description of the group reads, in part: "For those who have experienced the passing of loved ones from this planet. Looking death in the face. Journeying together. Death as initiation." There are marvelous things being shared there and a great deal of Gaia’ish support. I’m sure that Gaia’ish is a word, even if I just coined it.

Last night, a remarkable tribute by Soccermom left me with tears and without words. I am still amazed to find that there is another part of my brain that will still function when the language section has shut down and the words have disappeared. Even more amazing - to me - are the fingers that do what the brain tells them to. (More or less.)

Miracles are every where, folks. Some of them are even happening in my brain which is a miracle inside of a miracle, inside of another miracle . . .swirled around like a poached egg, only it's my brain and it is poached in a miracle or an old fashioned Top where the string that you pull is the miracle or a Dervish - do you know they don't spot their head's? how do they keep from getting dizzy? I'm quite fascinated with Dervishs, I also like Tops with strings and poached eggs, not to mention brains poached in swirling miracles . . . Do you remember putting crepe paper around the spokes of your bicycle? It went around in a very pleasing way, especially if the crepe paper was pink . . .

Are you confused yet? If you aren’t confused, it would be a miracle.

This is the painting I did for Soccermom last night. It is titled, “Carla’s Rose.”

This new painting is for my fellow Water Snake Martha. I have titled the painting with the title Martha uses for herself - one I have always loved - "Wildly Gentle."  Here, you see, if you hang around the tree long enough, you start getting ensnared in the Green Stuff.  The Dryad isn't always Wildly Gentle, but this one is.  Love you, Martha.

There is a bright half-moon floating up above the mountain this morning. It is listing low in the rich, black velvet sea where it sails. It dances smoothly over the myriad of tiny holes that have been snipped in the fabric of night which covers the sky. Through those little snippets the sharp, sweet light of eternity keeps piercing into the deep darkness below. It looks as though, once again,  one day has melted into another. That keeps happening with astounding regularity. Again and again, the sun drifts down behind the mountains to do whatever it is that he does over there and the perfect half of Lady Moon embarks again, a craft with no sail bobbing in a sea of sweet salt stars. I am a day late for Beltane greetings; yesterday was a round, soft, full grey day. I walked in the park, empty of tourists and joggers. It was just me, pillows of pearl colored mist, sixty five million shades of green and the ghost of William Shakespeare. We figured some things out. I hope he remembers, because I don’t.

I walked in the park for nearly two hours, got a little damp, but it was utterly worth it. Do you know, in some ways, a pink dogwood tree in full blossom ought to be against the law? Lithia Park is full of them. Heart broken by pink dogwoods in bloom. Only the strong survive.

At our house Beltane and May Day mean lilacs. Unbelievably, it has been more than ten years since both little girls were here delivering more than 60 bundles of flowers all over town. The last couple of years of the adventure they couldn’t get them all done before sunrise and were lucky to be done in time to go to school. It’s been a cold spring and the lilacs are sparse and skimpy this year. Maybe they are just hesitant and being over cautious. I suspect one good day of sun might bring them all out. The lilacs in my memory, however, are prolific and rich. I can see them just as clearly as I see the little girls who gifted them so joyously to the world.

Joyous Beltane all . . .
Love, Laughter and Lilacs . . .

Edwina

It was perspective that I was thinking of when The Grinch first turned up in my painting. I hadn’t been expecting him, to say the least, but there he was and the perspective was, indeed, kind of interesting. Perspective wandered away fairly quickly, however, and I began to wonder if Mr. Grinch was Surreal or Abstract, Something-Else or None-of-the-Above. This isn’t something I usually care about one way or the other, but, upon reflection, I realized that there are currently all kinds of “Art Words” floating around in my head like Jacob Marley.

Of course, I only wanted to know Mr. Grinch’s particulars so that I would be able to file him in the correct place. That last sentence is beyond sounding like I am haunted. It doesn’t sound like me at all. I have spent the past week beginning the rather daunting process of cataloguing my paintings, something I have never really done before. Up until now, they have been in a glorious, creative state of . . .  I was looking for a positive word for chaos. I guess the word ‘chaos’ itself is as close as I’m going to get; the synonyms are all definitely on the negative side. There really is something creative and innovative about chaos. However, the time has come, the walrus said, and some kind of order is going to have to join the chaos of creation. I have reached a place in my life where I need my paintings and being able to find them is the first step. I am also attempting to classify them, at least roughly. Which ones are best? What is the subject matter? What category does each fall into? Roughly. Very roughly. Many of them are in the same situation as Mr. Grinch.  Is it Abstract Art? Is it Surrealism? Or is it just someone with a screw loose?

While trying to get a hold on what certain art terms really mean, I came across something so delicious. It was like finding a raspberry truffle tucked in the middle of a box of sugar-free peppermint life-savors.

Exquisite Corpse.

I am very fond of the whole idea of  ‘Exquisite Corpse’ (or cadavre exquis. SEE BELOW.)  I LOVE the name. This is a GAME that I have played with children (and other screwy adults) many times. I got a huge kick out of learning that the Surrealists played it together as well. It certainly makes sense. As a group, they were not exactly conservative and staid.

Play Pod has been very quiet for some time while I was busy being very sick. We may have gotten a handle on what is going on with me physically. I hope so. I am feeling better and hope to be Playing again soon. I send many thanks to the dedicated “Mod Squad” who held things together without me. I’m going to be sending a mailing to the whole Pod after the Holidays. I couldn’t help myself, however, I went ahead and set Exquisite Corpse up at Play Pod, if anyone wants to start playing, it’s HERE.

It was a good time to do it since I have 592 other things that I have to finish before next week. I seem to always get really gung-ho about doing things when I already have so much to do that there is no way I will ever finish it. I’m sure there is a psychological name for this behavior. Maybe I’ll spend a couple of hours trying to find it this afternoon . . .

The notes below come from my friends at Artcyclopedia. A great resource. They didn’t answer the questions I came with, but they made me wonder about a lot of new things and ask a lot of new questions. I’m sure these behaviors are related. It is possibly a new form of derangement featuring corporate words like “Google” and psycho buzz words like “obsession” or “mania.” 
http://www.artcyclopedia.com/scripts/glossary-art-a.html

ABSTRACT ART:  abstraction and abstract art - Imagery which departs from representational accuracy, to a variable range of possible degrees, for some reason other than verisimilitude. Abstract artists select and then exaggerate or simplify the forms suggested by the world around them. The paintings of Pablo Picasso (Spanish, 1881-1973) and Georges Braque (French, 1882-1963) as well as the sculptures of Henry Moore (English, 1898-1987), Barbara Hepworth (English, 1903-1975), and Jacques Lipchitz (Russian-American, 1891-1973) are examples of abstract art. Wassily Kandinsky, (Russian, 1866-1944), was one of the first creators of pure abstraction in modern painting. After successful avant-garde exhibitions, he founded the influential Munich group Der Blaue Reiter (The Blue Rider; 1911-1914), when his paintings became completely abstract. His forms evolved from fluid and organic to geometric and, finally, to pictographic.

exquisite corpse or cadavre exquis - Aleatoric techniques for producing either visual or literary art devised by surrealists in which several people collaborate in creating a text or an image. This activity is often called a game, and the product of this activity are also called an exquisite corpse or, in the original French, cadavre exquis. This game is based upon an old parlor game in which players take turns writing on a sheet of paper folded it to conceal part of the writing, and then pass it to the next player for another contribution.

The surrealists' version of the game acquired its name from the results of the first use of the technique. This was a sentence in French: "Le cadavre exquis boira le vin nouveau," meaning "the exquisite corpse will drink the young wine." The first works were sentences, and were first produced in the mid-1920s. Later literary works were typically poetry. These bizarre compositions were explained by Nicolas Calas as revealing the "unconscious reality in the personality of the group."

Surrealism was embraced by practicioners of many arts, and so it was inevitable that visual artists would take it up, first to produce drawings and collages. The first such efforts, reminiscent of children's books that allow the making of pictures with multiple pages divided at various levels, involved assigning a section of a body to each player. Most resulted in images that only vaguely resembled the human form. Some of the participants in early exquisite corpses were Yves Tanguy (French, 1900-1955), Joan Miró (Spanish, 1893-1983), and Man Ray (American, 1890-1977). Later adaptations have involved using other means of passing the work around, such as sending it through the mail; or using other media, resulting in sculpture, film, digital, etc.

It is the revelations of the "unconscious reality in the personality of the group,” that I find fascinating as far as playing at Play Pod and with members of Gaia. There are two different forms of the game set up right now, both of them involving drawing. When the quiet of January descends, I’m hoping to get different forms of the Game set up using words and poetry. We start out very simple with the old game of Head, Tummy and Legs. Imagine, however, any other form of art that has been done by several different Gaian’s revealing the “unconscious reality in the personality of the group.” The possibilities are endless and tremendously exciting.

Come and check it out! It might just be the diversion you need to help you forget the 326 things you have to finish before Sunday.


©Edwĭna Peterson Cross

It began because my files are in such a mess. I do not have a liner mind at all, and certainly not one that comprehends how to file things for easy retrieval. I am always naming files with interesting names that I can’t remember later. I’ve tried using the date first, but then I can’t remember when I wrote something. This is utterly bizarre, but it is the truth:  sometimes it is faster for me to find something by Googling myself than it is to find it in the files in my computer. I wanted to tell someone about a birthday party I had done for my daughter using a poster by SARK. I knew it was on the web somewhere because I wrote it up once when I was in on an interview of SARK. I sure couldn’t find it in my files. Finally, I Googled my named & SARK and there it was.
 http://www.outbackonline.net/choc%20box/choc_cross_Artist_%20Party.htm
SARK (Susan) loved my party, by the way.



I don't remember what I was looking for when disaster struck, but I put in Edwina Peterson Cross and among the various things - this came up:
                                                          

 
OH. MY. GOD. WHAT IS THIS?!? I didn't know what it was, but I got a very uneasy feeling somewhere in the area of my . . . (lets see what do I have left?)  Pancreas. I was especially upset by the one with the purple crayon. I used to write my name like that - with the N backwards. All in caps. I've even written a poem about it. How did they know? And what if it has something to do with Harold? We had some trouble at our house the LAST time Harold and his purple crayon got loose. (It’s rated X, see me if you’d like particulars.)

I was so uneasy about the whole thing that I sort of blocked it out and I never chased it around trying to find out more. But it kept lurking there, making me feel squemey. A week or so ago for some reason, the squemey over took me and I started looking to see if I could find out more. And, of course, most unfortunately, I did.

http://www.mtishows.com/show_home.asp?ID=000212

I went to this page and I immediately became nauseous and had to find my purple bowl. It is pretty drastic. Thirteen year-old Edwina Spoonapple would do just about anything to be a part of the Kalamazoo Advice-a-palooza Festival. Oh lord!! Cute Edwina Spoonapple (gag) has two best friends; Becky " A Perky and Enthusiastic Cheerleader" and Kelli, a "Cool and sophisticated ballerina."

Is someone doing this to torture me? Could something this horrible possibly be a coincidence?  Is this someone involved with this some arch nemesis from my past who has caught up with me and discovered the ultimate way to torture me?

I spent a couple of shaky minutes reading this fascinating plot and the description of the songs . . . about how to set the table correctly and RSVP, say "No Thank You" and act like a lady. If you don't get the spoons and forks in the right place at the table, you are worth nothing. Someone should take you to the Sheriff and make sure you are destroyed.

My major emotion at this point was a deep and horrible sense of impending doom. There are two songs in the song list that have my name in them. One is 'Dear Edwina' the other 'Edwina.' A profound fear had begun to sink it's snarky, slobbering teeth into my heart. Some of the songs have clips, neither of the 'Edwina' songs do, but . . .  But. I know somewhere that you can find anything. Yes, it's true. With a heavy heart - full of snarky, slobbering teeth marks - I drug myself with quaking fingers over to U-Tube. And there it was.


Oh, lord.

"Dear Edwina, the Musical."  It's like a bad parody of Waiting for Guffman. Choreographed by someone who was stoned on Nyquel. All along, however, I knew that the worst part was coming, and there was nothing I could do to stop it. I'm not kidding now. When the poor child with the voice that is cracking, began to warble and then screech the horrible massacre of my given name, I was so freaked that I screamed. My hands were shaking and I couldn't find the place to push to make it stop. It just kept going, screeching and shrilling and shrieking. Immediately, I'm right back in Elementary School and David Bahler and all those other stupid boys - and several girls as well -  are all singing it at me. Like when they called me EdWeenie and EdWienerschnitzel   (If you are out there Bahler, you know you did.)

Now, I’m afraid to even go into this, because of the horrible thought that came with it. It’s a thought I have never had before, though I can’t imagine why.

Let me explain: My name is Ed-WIN-ah. I was named after my father whose name was Ed-WIN. All you do is put an “A” on the end. Ed-WIN-ah. For some reason, however, people look at my name and say: Edweeeeeena. I can’t imagine why. You can NOT get weeeeeen out of WIN. It is impossible in English. My father was not named Edweeen. There IS a variation on my name which is spelled Edweena. That one is pronounced with a double ee sound. My name is not. Still. Every receptionist at ever doctor’s office, when it is my turn, sings out “Edweeeeena?”  “It’s EdWINa.” I tell them. “Oh! Sorry.” Sometimes people really get snippy when you tell them they have pronounced your name wrong, as if it were a social faux pas. It doesn’t matter anyway, because the next time you go there and it is your turn, the same person will say, “Edweeeeeeena?”

When I started Junior High (which was a bad idea anyway) I went from having one teacher who had known me since Kindergarten to seven teachers who didn’t know me from Adam. Or Edweeena. After about two months of saying over and over, “It’s EdWINa,” one day I just woke up and I was Winnie. It’s a silly name, but not for an eleven-year-old. My family had always called me Wina - or the obvious: Pooh. Pooh didn’t seem like a good choice, for also obvious reasons. I went with Winnie because every one else at this time was named Sandi, Gerri, Suzi, Meri, Etci. I left the “e” on the end - rather than becoming Winni -  because, while being an almost adolescent who wanted to sound like everyone else, I never was a complete conformer. I started to write it on my papers, people picked it up easily, and in about another month I was Winnie - where I remained for a long time.

I got married young. Actually ‘Winnie Peterson’ is a little whiney, but it lasted less than ten years and ‘Winnie Cross’ works just fine. My first publications were done under the name ‘Winnie Peterson,’ and then ‘Winnie Cross.’ Somewhere along the way, I began to think that the name didn’t really sound right for a poet. Besides, I wanted my own name back. I love my name, when it is pronounced correctly.

When I told my Daddy that I had decided to use my entire name for publication purposes, he cried. He said that he had never really felt bad about my using a nick-name, but he was really happy that I would go down in publication eternity as “Edwina.” I decided that it would be acceptable to use my entire name by counting the syllables in ‘Marion Zimmer Bradly.’ ‘Edwina Peterson Cross’ has exactly the same number. I figured if MZB could do it, so could I.

Here it comes. The thought that for some reason never entered my head. I am a multi-published writer - most of it poetry. I don’t count, but it’s up in the 400+ range. While the poor adolescent child was warbling my name wrong, for some reason, I suddenly realized that there were people all over everywhere who had READ my name in print and very possibly . . . VERY possibly said “Edweeeena Peterson Cross” in their head. Or when speaking to someone else about a poem. Or whatever. Which is why I screamed.

I’d like to think that the penchant to pronounce an ‘i’ as a double ‘ee’ is limited to doctor’s receptionists, nurses and Junior High teachers. I’m afraid that is faulty logic. I’m sorry, but given my experience with people who pronounce my name out loud and given the percentage that pronounce it wrong - I can expect that probably the majority of the people who have read my work, think that it was written by an atrocious, overeducated weenie.

I said to my daughter, “I'm going to have to go back to using ‘Winnie’. I can't stand the thought of anyone looking at it and pronouncing it like that in their head.” Unfortunately, it is just a little late for that realization. Besides, I don’t want to. I suppose I could start using one of my nom de plume’s as my major signature. But you can’t really do that, it would mix every one up and besides it takes all the fun out of a nom de plume if it isn’t . . . plume. Why didn’t I ever think of it before? Wishful thinking? Mind block? Stupidity?

Technically, any vowel that is not marked with a macron - which is the straight line that denotes a long vowel - is always pronounced as a short vowel. Short i makes the sound that begins the word "India" or "idiom." Even if it were a long vowel, it would make the sound of "Eye" which would give you Ed-W-EYE-N-ah. That is also drastic, but I only remember that happening once or twice in my life. I checked several different sites and I am correct - when the name is spelled "Edwina" there is NO way to pronounce it but Ed-WIN-ah ~  the feminine of the name Edwin, Edwin with an a on the end. Edwin-a. There is no way to get the long E sound from the way my name is spelled. But the majority of people do it anyway.

I decided that thought there wasn’t anything I could do about what is already out there, I had to do something for the future. I toyed around with Edwyna.  I like the way it looks and it would be less likely to be pronounced wrong. Edwyna Peterson Cross  In the end, however, it is not my name. I was given my father's name and I am very proud of that. It is the feminine of my brother's name, something we have shared for our entire lives. It was my Great-Grandfather's name  - I was named for Charles Edwin Loose, and I am proud of that as well. Most of all, however, it was my Daddy's name, which I was given to me, with love, by my mother. I want to be able to use my own name, but I do NOT want anyone - even in their own head - to pronounce it ‘Edweeeena’. So. An accent mark.

Technically, this little half moon is called a breve ( ̆ ) and denotes the short sound of a vowel. So far, this is the best I can do. I'm going to keep working on it. It doesn't look bad here. The 'i' looks a little chunky in Word Perfect.  It comes from Word Perfect: Insert/symbol/multi-national.  In Microsoft Word the same thing is available under: Insert/symbol/Subset Latin Extended-A. Both Word Perfect and Microsoft Word have the breve by itself, but I can’t figure how to get it OVER the i. I takes a space by itself and so you get a space. There is, no doubt, a way to do that, but I haven't figured it out. Actually, most of the time I cut and paste it. When I write my name by hand, I will make the breve rather than dotting the 'i'.

My daughter looked at it and said, “it will never make a bit a difference. No one will notice the breve, and even if they do, they won’t know what it is.”  Gnash. Gnash.

What do you think?  If you know of a way of doing it that might be better and/or easier, please let me know.   

©Edwĭna Peterson Cross

I have borrowed these exquisite images from Samme - who has many beautiful holiday images on his profile page right now as part of his gaiaholiday Gifting fun. This is my next gift! It is something that is going to happen anyway, but I am gifting everyone the ability to really feel it this year.

In the Northern Hemisphere the Winter Solstice occurs on December 21, 2008, 7:04 EST - 12:04 UT (Universal Time.) The Winter Solstice brings the shortest day of the year and the longest night. The year gets colder and colder, darker and darker, and then just when it seems that winter might last forever - comes the Solstice! and New Hope is Born! The word "Solstice" actually stems from "Sun Stand Still" as if the sun pauses, a big switch is flipped and the world turns again, the other way -  toward the light. There are many different celebrations that come at this time of year which are based on light, many of these honoring the hope that light brings.

In some ways it amazes me that our ancient ancestors knew when to celebrate the Solstice - that they knew precisely when the world begins it's journey back to the light, back to the warmth, back toward spring. The truth is, our ancestors were much more in tune with the earth than we are; they were able to feel its nuances and changes.

I have been working for years to learn to feel the moon again, to know when She is full, waxing or waning, to feel it in my body the way all women once could. I have also begun to really be able to feel the turning of the year in my body. I know the Solstice is coming, I can feel it. I want to share this true feeling, a kind of deep joy, with all of you.

I want to share the reality of it, soon the days will begin to be longer, there will be more light. I want to share the metaphor of it. Let us believe that the sad, difficult, violent days are behind us that they will disappear with the dark. As this year turns toward the light, let us believe that better, kinder, brighter days are coming for our world as well. Let us embrace the hope of the light and believe in it's promise.




And our friends in the Southern Hemisphere are already in the middle of that sunshine and warmth!  The Summer Solstice will happen in the Southern Hemisphere December 21, 10:04 EST. You'll have to wait until 2009 for your Winter Solstice - June 20 23:59 UT (Universal Time.)  Summer Solstice Blessings to all of you!

Going Home
       
Everyone agrees
With a sort of  empty sandpaper sadness
That an adult
Just cannot go home again
Everything there has changed
And so have you
Everything looks the same
Seems the same,
But like a jigsaw puzzle swollen with the damp
Nothing fits now, and home just isn’t home
Anymore

Every head nods in understanding
Everyone feels the same
It seems to be universal
All understand
It is a melancholy, but well accepted fact
Each feels a brief, hollow soreness
Just below the breastbone
An ache for a world that is gone, no longer real
A place that they can never
Go again

I won’t speak a word
And I’ll lower my eyes
To cover the deep gold shine
For soon,
Though I have swollen the river of time
With more than fifty years,
I will pack up my packages
And I will
Go home

Home
Where it has never been static, and so has always changed
Home
That is ever the same
Home
Where I fit the minute I walk in the door
As though I had never walked out
Fluid and flowing in a ceaselessly changing pattern
That remains forever constant
There is no chasm here, there is not even a chink
My path to this doorway is seamless and solid

In the blackest night
In the roughest storm
A light is always burning
In this haven on the hill
Retreat, refuge
From a world that can be violent
Ugly and so unkind
Here there is still
Shelter, sanctuary
In the light of a deep, patient, unconditional
Love

And if
Someday
The house is gone, the walls folded away
The windows nothing but wind
Keening sharp and piquant around the little hill
I will still hear the calling . . .
Come home . . .
Come home . . .
And I will go

Finding everything changed
And everything exactly the same
The light will still be shining
Deep and patient
From the heart that has loved me
Utterly unconditionally
All of my life
This is a light called ‘Family’
This is a place called ‘Forever’

I will always be able to
Go home

Then I will stand on the little hill myself
Reminiscing, remembering, recollecting
My heart lit with a deep gold love
Utterly unconditional . . .
I will smile
Stretch my arms to the sky in gratitude and bliss
And I will call the children
Home


©Edwĭna Peterson Cross

OOOOOOOOH!  I LOVE THIS IDEA SAMME!  This is my first GAIA HOLIDAY Gift. I hope that I'm doing this right. I'm going to put this here and thien link back to the
Gaia Holiday site. Here goes nofing!


I sure would like to give everyone one of these!  Wouldn't we have fun choosing?
You can shop on line at F.A.O Schwarz  It would be more fun, however, for us all to meet at the big store in New York City. There we can try the toys out and PLAY until we drop! We'll stay at the Plaza, just across the street. I can't wait to see what you all choose!

Bless&Bless&Bless&Bless and then Bless some more! Love & then Love!
Edwina ~ Dryad