Table of Contents
For several years I've endeavored to practice mindfulness: aware of everything present in my mind, in my emotional state, in the room. Nordstrom seems to throw mindfulness out the window and calls us to stop seeing separate parts. To end all forms of alienation, beginning with the self. My sense of reality is standing on its ear. He thoroughly trashes conventional use of words, concepts and language, and I shuffle from the meditation hall wondering why I am a writer. What on earth was I thinking?
I hear the patter of the leaves rustling in the elm tree in the corner of my backyard while golden sunlight kisses the garden; a picturesque arrangement of pastel flowers-tickled by the breeze, they quiver-bordering a lush emerald lawn. Bright yellow roses climb the trellis at the yard's entrance and portulaca flourishes in the rock garden in the far corner. It's breathtaking. It's perfect. Just perfect.
Every week was the same. Our families awaited the call from Mommie that gave us two-hour notice of Sunday dinner. She didn't want us there too early: "too much fussing."
Looking within my soul I see the ancient women that came before me. I see them work in the fields to gather food and medicine. I see them calling upon the same goddesses that now call to me.
I watch as they dance within the circle of life and waltz with death. They call upon the Maiden, Mother and Crone to help with their lives. In every birth, in every marriage bed, and in every death the Goddess is there.
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