Postcard #14: Puddled

What shall I share with you tonight?  Well, all the ice is melting as if every thing is weeping. The heavy snow has now all soaked the ground, full of pond-making, making me wish to fill it all with frogs. The roof is dripping and it all sounds like rain without the raining. Outside my door there are little rivers and lakes big enough for ducks to wade in, just enough for toddlers to drown in, and it is too warm to avoid stepping in them.  I wish I had Wellingtons.

February’s first week 2012 in northern Wisconsin has become something of an early spring, yet there is no green. It’s a soppy kind of warm.  It makes me feel muddy-cloudy as the puddles, or as muddy-puddled as the small, puffy clouds that cannot escape the teasing sunshine.  I do not mind the break from the cold, yet after the cards I pulled, and the visions I received on Imbolc (I have been meaning to write more on my predictions and magic, yet I am taking my time), I cannot help but sense a warning to not get too comfortable.

Yesterday I felt happy, now I am puddled.  Totally puddled.  That’s my new word for that feeling of in between happy and troubled, not enough troubled to be depressed, just a little doubt to hang a cloud over the happy.  I have gone from a confident solid to a mushy-melted self-consciousness.  What if everything I am doing still isn’t good enough?  What if everything I have accomplished will be as if nothing tomorrow?  What if I will never see you again?  What if you are not proud of me?  What if no one is proud of me?  What if everyone is laughing at me?  What if I have no genius, or Juno?  Did you know that the correct term for a women’s “genius” is “Juno” but it has been suppressed for ages?  Will that be the case for you, or me?  Never to be fully remembered, always to be this tiny mark, or no mark at all, an obscure figure barely celebrated (or not celebrated) like our Gods?

What if we forget each other?  What if every memory, every moment, every cherished thing we hold in our minds is just another castle of ice meant to melt and disappear in the sun?  What if we are supposed to be forgotten?  Like a ritual sand painting, a thing of concentrated beauty, created to be destroyed!

There is no forever.  This fact makes me hide.  It makes me feel as if I have already died.  Why stay alive?  Why do anything of importance?

But I do not care if there is no forever.

Puddles be damned!  The ice is water.  When it melts it does not end, it only changes back to its original form.  When we die, we go back to spirit, disembodied, electrical, like a bolt of lightning or a star, glowing at its brightest especially after it is dead.  Puddles will freeze back into the ice I’ll have to carefully walk over again.  February is not over.  Nothing is about to be over.  I am not lying to myself over this.  I will not lie to you.

Everything is about change.

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