The Divine Feminine
first scribbles on the page. Sometimes I’m not certain if I’m still dreaming. I write in bed.
It’s 4.33 am and the first of the sunlight is filtering in the window. The water reflects light bouncing over the canal. It’s still dark but flirting with the day. It’s a seduction this hour this moment between night and day, wake and sleep.
This hour.
I love this hour when the only ones awake are me and the cats. It’s dark so I turn the nightlight on my aromatherapy diffuser to aid my sight as I write.
Last night in my diffuser I did a combination of bergamot and ylang ylang. The latter such a heavily perfumed scent - jasmin, a hint of.. is that banana? It
intoxicates me balancing the Gemini moon harmonizing my masculine and feminine energies.
Fortuny has curled up beside me. Yesterday my friend and colleague Barbara came to my house to help me with taxes and office systems and no matter what we did the cats were right there with us in the middle of it all. Fortuny sleeping on the desk. Fiorella running with delight under a stack of papers I had just organized. Eventually Fia settled under my desk in a basket I keep just for her but Fortuny insisted that he’s sitting on my desk chair. I get 1/3 of the seat, he 2/3.
I usually sleep with lavender filtering out of the diffuser but last night I knew bergamot and ylang ylang were the answer. It’s funny what the soul knows. I've learned to trust my instinct. If I'm in the mood for something I now look it up to see it's meaning.
Spiritually, Bergamot essential oil provides protection, prosperity, and happiness. The oil metaphysically instills inner confidence and inner courage, ignites trust in the Divine.
Yes.
That's what I was needing.
I think of the Bergamo, the Italian city in the north, where this green fruit grows. It was one of the most hit cities in the world in the days of Covid19 - 57% of the city tested positive.
I say that phrase as if the virus has gone. And with life lived under a veneer of normalcy and little mentions in the media anymore it seems a distant past. Like childbirth, the pain of quarantine fading gently away as my life becomes more normal by the moment. But it’s still there. Like a sleeping giant at the foot hills of the city.
We make plans tentatively for the fall. Can you speak in New York in September? There’s another opportunity to speak at a conference in DC. Can I meet a client in the South of France in September?
Our first 2 clients ventured back yesterday. Hesitantly texting within moments of each other. I need inventory. Another, a client with whom I’m helping on brand strategy, focuses on her strength. She's always sourced locally. That local supply chain is now her superpower.
Meanwhile in Italy- the borders are opening and they are praying for tourists. We need tourists in order to eat. I ask what happens in the autumn when the virus returns and they don’t want to talk about that.
The emperor has new clothes, but I can’t help but to think about it.
I plan for the best. I start preparing for the worst. I go through strategies and options in my head making peace with my decisions for this upcoming year and how I will spend it.
Inside of me I feel a quiet confidence. Nietschke. That which doesn’t kill you makes you stronger. I hear it chant.
I inhale deeply- the ylang ylang.
The Divine Feminine.
My morning pages are in many ways is like a meditation- I usually write before or after a 10 -15 minute morning meditation- and the words that come help to integrate my active mind with the mind of meditation. It’s that in between again. Not dark nor light. Not awake nor asleep. Not day or night.
My writing. It’s my inquisition. My morning pages track the progress in my mind, loosening attachments I chisel away on those thoughts that plague me and return repeatedly to those habitual states of mind, recognizing in myself where I need to change. And change happens like the tide out my window.
Slowly. I evolve.
Fresh water meets salt water.
The canal gently lapping against the wall. The window is open a crack. Tilted at the top. The seagulls call. Harvey stirs and slowly soars past my window peeking in side to see if we are awake.
He stops. He taps. Waits for my acknowledgement, then leaves.
I write. Writing sharpens my moment, my ability to bear witness to the present moment. I listen to myself breathe.
Photo by Amy Burke she sent this yesterday and it captures my morning moment. Light on the horizon
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