Moon in Capricorn

Maxie is 9 today. Hoppy birfday sweet girl. Happy May Day.

Moon in Capricorn, sun in hiding, Winter holds on, grimly tenacious. Yesterday I helped my rabbit but hurt myself. I’m sad and sorry. Healing is hard for me. I’m impulsive and impatient. I respond without thought. One of those altruistic souls who would stand before a speeding car to save a goose life.

It’s grey and rainy. Cold and dark. I am alone, (my husband is away. i could be with him, but am devoted to my rabbits. Scotty could look after them, minus the devotion). So out of practice writing poems (and now that i cannot, am wanting to play my clarinet*), i’ve decide to sit and see what’s waiting to be born from consciousness. The Mahler probably primed the creative juice pump. Oh Gustav. I wonder if a psychiatrist ever offered you medication to tame your intensity? (i was led to believe my passion is pathological).

This morning i read we’re cutting more services for the mentally ill. This breaks my heart. We are going backwards. Devolving. One nation, under gross confusion. Who will help the helpless, when we all turn away? Who will care for the unlovable? The penniless? The homeless?

We are so quick to cast off inconvenience. Leave our beloved pets in a parking lot and speed away, free. Abandon what we love because it’s too much trouble to love (i am not a saint. When my rabbit piddles on my rug i yell BOX!!! at him, but i would never hurt him (my loud voice startles him, and i am sorry for my rough edges. I have mess issues. when i was 3 i dropped the glass milk jug i was trying to bring in. Trying to be helpful, i made a mess and got in trouble. Milk on carpet is even worse than pee).

I digress, or maybe not. A poem is like a river. It takes you where it will and you can fight it, but it’s better to be flexible and willing. So mess is a big boulder for me to bump against, on the way down the river. Each time wearing away some of its power, but it’s still intimidating. I look forward to the day when this is healed. When i spill coffee grounds all over the clean floor and don’t say, “Stupid Girl.” When Doodle pees on the rug and I don’t want to pull my hair out (or some days, his). When I put fresh hay nicely in the rack and Maxie drags it all over everywhere, and i don’t feel like sticking it in her ears.

I am a work in progress. If i didn’t look for beauty, and sat in sadness, I don’t think the world would benefit from my vision. My passion is a lovely contribution to a culture which is often sightless. Distracted. Overwhelmed. Judgmental. To bring soul where the mind reigns supreme (and terribly smug) has always been my calling. I have built a house of soul, from the bones of my own knowing, and it has sheltered and sustained me. Even on rainy days, the windows let in the Light.

LBM 3/6/13 *(my hand was in a cast after carpal metacarpal surgery. healing was slow and very painful. Physical therapy excruciating).

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