Wasting Time Killing Time Borrowing Time…
Making Time. Timely. Timeless. How do you view time? How do you use it? Or does it use you? If you steal time do you have to give it back? And who would you give it back to? Or more correctly, to whom would you give it back? Can you make time? Create time? Stretch time? If you kill it does that make you guilty and if so, guilty of what? How do you use your time? What is your attitude? What is your viewpoint or perspective? Do you live by ordinary time, aligned only with the god Chronos, the god of chronology, and chronological or do you live differently, creatively, imaginatively, aligned with Kairos, the god of sacred time? Does all time belong to the gods? Then is it all sacred? If I close my eyes and feel the runes, Jera comes forward as a representative of time. Jera, the rune of Harvest. There is chronology in the turning of the wheel of the seasons. There is rhythm. There are cycles. The Harvest requires paying attention to timing as well as seizing the right moment . You cannot rush. You cannot delay. How do you view time? How do you use it? Phil Cousineau’s book Stoking The Creative Fires contains a great chapter on time and its connection with creativity: Seizing the Moment. Chapter 3. Click Image For Details And To Order.  
0 Comments
The Touchstones of PenHouseInk - A Guild Of Wise Women In Relentless Pursuit Of Creativity6/12/2017 bring yourself, come as you are bring your curiosity and your willingness to indulge it bring your heart and your willingness to listen to it bring your wisdom and your willingness to act in accordance with it bring your honesty bring your work and your willingness to play with it to laugh at it, to cry about it, to take pleasure in it bring your willingness to give and receive bring your willingness to make larger the circle of kindness bring your commitment to participate in your life
Wise words indeed and just as valuable today as when we first wrote them.
There were five of us, the fearless women of PenHouseInk, Dixie Lewis, Dee Doyle, judi goldberg, Ingrid Kincaid and Leslie Hoffman. We came together as writers. We came together as friends. We formed a Guild and over the course of about 5 years we published 4 volumes of writings. Naked Writings dedicated to 'all writers who haven't yet' June Bugs Out Of Season dedicated to 'those in relentless pursuit' Remembering Our Future dedicated to 'the few becoming the many remembering our future' Refractions dedicated to 'the relentless human spirit' It feels good to me at this time to be reminded of these words. How do these Touchstones touch your heart?
As the ice is melting, more and more wisdom is being revealed, wisdom that has been safely hidden away in the North, held in the crystals of ice. Like the drips of water from the icicles and the glaciers, this information is on the move. In my Lost Teachings of the North class we open up to explore and share what is being remembered.
After our last discussion, Lara Vesta, artist, teacher, author, was inspired to write this touching piece about the Audhumbla, the Reindeer cow who licked the ice. I was there in the beginning. I watched her meander through the mist, emerging, her antlers hung with velvet. I watched her give birth, her calf dropped to the sacred snowy ground, the sack freezing on contact even though the air had begun to warm. Mist rises, rises from the icefall from the collision seeping beneath the surface of beginning, of begun. She licks the calf, stirring, and slowly he emerges reaching up to her milk warm teats. Life is birth and nourishment both in that hard land. She licks and licks again and I am with her somewhere, sometimes hidden, sometimes in her. Whatever I am emerges too from that land, that catastrophic merging that birthed the death I now am. She licks and eats the food of her own body, she is self-sustaining but he is not. He suckles and grows. Days hum or night too in that place, all whirls from the center that is her. Her gentle action, taking and giving, the pulse of the mother all life. Sometimes I am so near I can smell her salt and hair, wholly mammal. I bury my face in her many layers and sleep a while. Dream I am at the beginning again and again and again. Days hum and then night and he dies. He dies. This is how: a bellow, nothing changes, an urging, this is time. His eyes know: She is not alone, but she is one and together they must be many. They mate, he kneels weary, bends his head and with a breath becomes. From his head, the forests, from his body mountains, from his veins the rivers from his blood the sea. He dies and completes and she swells with life and births again, and again, and again what will be. I would wake screaming from this story, howling with the pain of creation and death. My mother came for me then, not as she is now but young and soft and still so full of sure love. She cradled me, my whole side last, my bare side first. In memory my bones click together, the hearth fire a little higher, my mother sensitive to warmth. And my brother licks me and lays his head in my lap. And my other brother wraps us all, the length and breadth of him bringing us so close. We hold each other and somewhere we know this is our beginning, and all the holding in the world can’t prevent the end. Spiders are everywhere this time of year and there’s only the reality of life and sudden death down at the spider's level.
I love spiders. My first tattoo was a very large spider on my left forearm. I carry her with me to remind me of her wisdom. Spiders established their own web sites long before any of us appeared on the scene and each species has its own distinct, inherited pattern. Spiders create from their own bodies. The building of a web starts with a single, super-strength strand of silk that is spun by specialized spinnerets. Spider doesn’t force or squeeze, she just releases the silk from her body and then trusts the wind to carry the filament across wide intervals of space, sometimes a mere four feet, sometimes across an entire river. Spider creates and releases until this strand of silk connects with something. This is called kiting, this allowing to be carried by the breeze, not knowing. Spider knows when there’s something in the air. If for some reason the strand doesn’t make contact with something and attach, spider will often gobble up the strand and recycle its protein and try again. Once connection is made, spider sets to work reinforcing the strand and then uses it to begin building the web. Sometimes this single bridge thread is left in place overnight marking or claiming territory, and the web building begins the following day. I don’t know about you but most often when I’m ready to create something I experience a certain amount of fear and uncertainty, usually stemming from the fact that I don’t know the how of it, and sometimes I don’t even know the what. I just know. Spider reminds me that all I need to do is remember and trust. Remember that I create from the very substance of myself, my body. Remember that I know how to build a web and that each one of them carries my own distinct, inherited pattern. Remember that I need only to release and then trust. Trust that my silken thread, be it delicate and fine or thick and strong, will be carried by the breeze of life and it will attach somewhere and then I can begin. A spider builds her web because she’s hungry. Being hungry is about being alive. What are you hungry for? Ingrid, the Rune Woman Wise and Irreverent Awaken Your Hunger |
title Photo by Amaury Gutierrez on Unsplash
IngridWriters write. Archives
June 2021
Categories
All
|
RSS Feed
Ingrid lives in the Pacific Northwest, at the confluence of two rivers, and in sight of two volcanoes.
site designed by Apothecary of the Dark Moon