original post January 12, 2018

Lately I’ve been drawing the Tarot card Temperance. It speaks to the energies moving through us in balance, blending, a state of calm and capacity even amidst what appears as chaos. Common among the many depictions are one foot in water and one on land and/or water flowing from one pitcher to another.

What does the need for temperance, and finding balance, mean in action and embodiment? In what ways does temperance speak to the individuality of each element as well as the intermixing?

Winter Studio

Grey on grey sky and valley floor, mid-horizon slant lines of deep olive green, blue- grey watercolor smudge for the mountains defining the southern edge of this valley. Closer to my window, silent pillars of bronze ponderosa. In the distance to the east I hear continuous engine whine of logging equipment at work, punctuated by staccato bangs and thuds as the pincer grips tree trunk, blade slides, drags the cut to a pile, thinning what’s been overgrown, getting ahead of the flourish of summer season growth and fire danger. Behind my desk I hear the snap crackle of just ignited logs in the woodstove. Aversion and attraction looping around in my mind.

Yesterday morning I was in this same spot early, starting the fire to warm my workspace. The sun was shining brilliantly, spring like conditions typical of a month or two from now, beckoning me to abandon my work and hike somewhere, anywhere the snow is tracked enough to not sink through. No sounds beyond occasional bird call. The vibration of spring and animals being born so strong in my psyche the past week that in the sun’s radiance I imagine myself already in that season, want to hold myself still, bask in the optimism and euphoria of it. By the time I finished my business paperwork tasks and returned back down here to my writing desk the loggers were loading December’s timber for shipment, the shrill beep-beep of backing up equipment felt like assault. Just before returning I received frustrating and disappointing business news and my thoughts and emotions were spinning. Sunshine through the window illuminated a long rectangle in the center of the room, the wood floor the color of warm honey. Earlier I would have lain in this spot, transported my imaginary self into a meadow, letting my back hear earth’s springtime, believing it birthed something in me for the next decade of my life. Instead I sat, tension across my upper back, vacant in my belly, wishing I could crawl into darkness someplace, untouchable. I wanted to tantrum as a 4 year old, kick the rectangle of light out, as if a playmate I no longer wanted in my room. Run away on vacation. Responsibilities and writing are stupid anyhow. Clinging and repulsion looping around in my mind.

Today, like yesterday, pledge and discipline are held by the clock, stand in for the heart desire I can’t hear even though it set this path weeks ago. Hours in the studio, minutes at the keyboard. Timer on, write. Break to read a book of forest essays, stir my imagination for the story I’m working on. Timer on, write. Erase all thinking by knitting a row of a complicated pattern that requires I count every stitch. Success is in the minutes, not the product. The intuition I need to write is the same as what senses the vibration of spring, knows a major transformation in my life shape is about to be born. It hears the story that’s gestating, its swelling palpable, nearing the time to come onto the page, randomly throwing up half sentences, what if events, as I walk between house and studio. It’s the same intuition I thought guided my business plan, thrown into the trash heap with yesterday’s news. Blindsided I don’t trust intuition to keep me safe from unwelcome surprise. The urge to close, shut out is strong, says “Don’t be naïve. Hope and faith create illusion, stick to hard facts.” Trust and disbelief looping around in my mind. Patience and urgency, mystery and detail, looping around in my mind.

Today is hearing it all. Turning on the timer, using the minutes I’ve been given no matter what.