I am lying on a beach and gradually the tide rises and I float and become supple as a dolphin and can breathe as naturally underwater as above. I swim vibrantly about, going downward, at last swimming into a long crack and slipping ... into a water-free green space, filled with the trees of a northern spring, mouse-ear green leaves just touched with the mint of spring sunlight.
My body aches, throat tightens, tears seep from the corners of my closed eyes. I am there and I am not there-but where? Am I returning or saying goodbye?
Then, I am leaving the green glen and swimming back. I float onto the sand and ground myself at the verge.
When another lays her hands on my shoulder and hip, I am seized again with throat-clenching sadness. Where is this coming from? And where is it taking me?
Later, I share the image with the small group and talk about not feeling "home" and not knowing where to go with that. Anastasia says that this experience is the water feeling-the not knowing. Water takes whatever shape its container is, and reforming myself to fit whatever space I abide in seems to be where I am at.
Tonight, picking up and putting away the articles of Starhouse with Anastasia, I feel close to home--the caring of sacred space-the hope that I first spoke when the water candle went around the circle and we shared what we brought with us to the circle. I sat for nearly a minute waiting for a word to come, and hope was the only word that wanted to be said, among the few that came to mind. But hope has not been a favorite word of mine in the past year-and I didn't want to say it. Finally, I did and added "for whatever it's worth." But now in writing this, I see what was dragging hope into my being-the sacred space of Starhouse. When I learned that next day there would a training to become a Keeper of Starhouse, I immediately knew I wanted to become such a keeper. To help care for that place is a hopeful and a home-full thing.
Blessed be,
Cherie
Editor