In This Moment Moving Forward

This.
Is birdsong at dawn.
 
This.
Is the rich earth humming under foot.
Waking roots and teeming with life and the Mother’s love.
 
This.
Is the warm rain slipping, dripping down from the still bare branches.
Softening the earth and unlocking the keys to feed the roots,
And then the shoots.
 
This.
Is the warm sun that shines through the leafless trees to embrace the damp soil.
And coax the shoots up even higher,
Into the light to reveal their delicate beauty.
 
This.
Is the warm wind that gently stirs the dry leaves on the forest floor.
And caresses the stretching, reaching of the flower’s leaves as they unfurl before my eyes.
 
This.
Is a white Trillium in the woods.
Softly whispering that Spring is finally here.
 
This.
Is exquisite.
 
This is.

Image: Diane Perazzo, 2014
Image: Diane Perazzo, 2014

 

 

 

Finding Awen

Image:  Diane Perazzo 2013
Image: Diane Perazzo 2013

Where is Awen?
It is where I find myself riding that wave between the earth and the sky
and in the magic between the lips of two who are about to have their first kiss.

It is in that gap between my fingers and the keyboard,
In that instant just before a baby takes his first breath.
It is on tip of a dragonfly’s wing,
And the space between a mountain and a valley.

I find Awen in the break between the beats,
The pause in the breaths,
The gap between sleepy eyelids
And in the spot where a tear falls.

It is the anticipation that lies between the preface and the introduction
And in the tremble of the end of a deep base note on my djembe drum.
(and at that tippy place where it’s edge touches the ground at just the right angle).

Awen finds me.
In that second between wake and sleep and then between sleep and wake
And in that moment when I turn my aging body from one position to another in the middle of the night.

It is at the edge of a blade, the tip of a knife, the pierce of the skin.
It is in a single note (high or low) and in the point where the two notes blend.

It is part of the touch of a spider’s foot on her web and
That moment just before the baby cries in the night and just after his last sigh when he falls back to sleep, full of milk and softness.

It is at the end of the best novel you ever read,
and in the stretch of your muscles when you pick up your child for the last time before they become too big to carry any more.

It is in the turn of a reel,
the retrograde of Mercury,
the beliefs of the righteous,
the call of the dammed,
the switch from over to under and outside and in.

That is where you can find Awen.

Michonne

Michonne puppy crop

What did we call her?
Michonne.
Because we knew she would be fearless and strong.
And would live and love with a wildness and awesome beauty that we longed to bring back into our lives.
 
And as she grew she pushed us, stretched our limits, mined our depths and revealed the worst in us.
(Teeth-gritting, choke-chain-pulling, uncontrolled, fear-based fury that caused us to question if she would be safe with us.)
And also revealed the best in us.
(Heart-melting, heart-swelling devotion that will ensure we never let her go.)
She is a Rottweiler after all . . .
 
And yes, sometimes she is an untamed beast that zooms around and makes us cringe and shout and cross our arms and turn our backs
and then
She flops on the floor and looks up at us and we remember that
although she is capable, she has never harmed a soul.
 
She is our baby, our beautiful dog child
Our princess and our perfect storm.