To Whom Do I Belong

Grief has gotten into my joints like cold, and I am moving slowly, like a lizard before the sun has warmed the rocks. Every aching lift of arm can unleash a bout of tears. I carry myself gently, tenderly. I am a little surprised at the intensity of my feelings, a little unnerved -- yet bizarrely grateful. Most of the pain I suffered growing up was endured alone and in the dark; I'm not so used to sharing with family and friends, not so used to being cared for.

I am so thankful for Rosean, for Carrie, for my friends, for my friends' dogs, for my kids and grandkids. I belong to these people as they belong to me, and I am grateful.

Today the angel and the raven sit side by side on the window ledge of my studio. Soft, green-smelling air wafts in around them, mixes with the odor of turpentine. I finish my work, turn in that direction.

Raven's eye is lapis and deep as geyser water. She ruffles her iridescent feathers and croaks. I have an image of tree rings in a huge old stump, tiny dark green fir needles, humus, cool and deep. I am young, looking up through the cathedral of lodge pole pine at a lapis-colored sky. Puffy clouds silently glide by. For a long moment I lean in to the remembered whisper of wind in tree tops, the smell of sap, the underlying silence. Here is where my gut is grounded, where the umbilical chord of my soul is buried. Out of this place I came into the world of human relationships like a child raised by wolves.

Back in the studio, the angel's eyes are compassionate, even as fire dances around his/her head. I am comforted by the leap of flames, orange and gold and blue. Now I am a much younger child, and I look fearlessly at this heavenly messenger, asking, "whose child am I?"

Mother Earth claims me. My own particular forest and my own mountains claim me. Uri, the dark woolly god of buffalo claims me. Irene the goddess of peace and coyotes claims me. The queen of fairies claims me. Raven claims me. Jesus the Christ claims me. He is my brother. I am a child of God.