Thoughts

I now have a clean home. Spring is in the air, and I’m checking branches for buds of new life. It’s the darkness before dawn pre-season in the far north, and though we know spring is here, we’re still wearing jackets, socks, and mostly winterized vestiges. An urgency lulls in the background, a subtle, jaded expectation of not getting our hopes up because there might be another snow. Even though there probably won’t be.

I went to a bookstore last week — one of those new agey, catch all, solve your problems type. I briefly perused the occult books for something on frequency and vibration — looking specifically for inner alchemy. I found very little, even in the forbidden fruits section, proving to me that I may need to surrender allow Gd to show me what Gd wants to show me. I know there is something so real about frequency, about our own fields that is like a wilderness; a final frontier.

Strange that the “terra incognita” is now within. When the whole planet has been discovered, charted, documented… we discover the most foreign lands are what’s most interior.

I picked up an old book I return to from time to time today, called “For Her Own Good.” It’s a second wave feminist history book on the rise of experts to explain away women’s problems after the industrial revolution. The authors write in one chapter about the shift from medicine being practiced within the home among women midwives, to institutionalized hospitals. How much of the art of healing was sterilized with this change. How much of the home — after industrialization — became sterile as well… only for the most private of functions of eating, sleeping, copulating. Before, the home had been the hearth, the nexus of life, of birth, of community and family. Pre-industrialization, many men were farmers, and blended in and out of the home as they worked. Post-industrialization, they left for jobs in factories, in the cities, etc. And now, post-post-industrialization, many return home to work virtually to find homes very different places.

I’m still so fascinated by the spheres of existance — the masculine and the feminine poles of life. How we occupy different spaces, how different spaces hold vastly diverse connotations. How history has changed places, how history has changed us. And yet, so much seems to stay the same.

The interior world is like a maze, a wilderness to be tamed; understood. It is the feminine — the resting place. And it can be energized by this masculine “get things done” energy. It is where all of us occupy, secretly, and only we know exactly what this place contains. Then there still is a mystery to our souls, our inner selves. There are still shadows, and spaces of unearthed treasure waiting to be discovered.

Mastering oneself is a consistent practice. I’m not sure if it can ever truly be done… even attempting to begin the process of returning to oneself, to inhabiting the land can feel foreign, and almost infantile. Like wanting to paint a mural with spray paint, we feel unprepared, brutish. Yet, as the corners come to view, as the colors reveal themselves, we realize we have all that we need, and that is simply our gaze.