Diary 23

WINTER SOLSTICE FRONT BURNERS
a list of ideas, themes, objects, or observations that have been recently relevant
01. Black Fawn. A character I’ve come up with that contains how & why I write.
02. Lace Bone Jewelry. A new septum ring from my new favorite metalsmith, Brii Tangedahl.
03. Altar. A reflection.
04. Fire & Ice. Highs & lows.
05. Wintering. I listened to a podcast with Katherine May that gave me this word. It’s a seasonal respite & an opportunity to restart. I spent some time meditating on what this has looked like for me recently, in the format of flash fiction? a prose poem? a micro essay? I’m still not sure what it is.


BLACK FAWN
The Black Fawn lies curled in the hollow of a sequoia tree. It gathers it’s strength, instinct, & composure in the shadows, then slips into the world with all five senses attuned to it’s surroundings. Wherever it goes, it insists on being an observer, meandering the forests & meadows with a quiet grace that denies being seen. It’s a flicker of the divine, a bearer of wisdom, and a nurturer to all.


LACE BONE JEWELRY

ALTAR
I’ve been thinking about altars symbolically, stuck on the concept of a designated place to contemplate, & to honor. Unknowingly, I’ve been creating altars both in my physical space & in my work, in an effort to contain everything that I find beautiful, useful, and spiritually potent. Slivers of beeswax, flowers, bones, gems, tools, bits of metal, family photographs & letters, all arranged on a table in my bedroom, makeup an altar that gives me things to ritually think about, & a sacred place to honor the things that I truly value. As for the altars I’ve created in my writing, Ocean Vuong said it best— “I put my best effort, my best intention and care into it. And I see it as a raft that I’m sending down river.”


FIRE & ICE
My mind has been tangled on it’s own spindle for the last few months, which has manifested in obsession, anxiety, & a general unrest that feels like living in two opposites at once. Fire & ice. One moment I’m enlivened to the world around me, riding bareback on a horse through a wide, rolling meadow, & another moment I’m completely disassociated & somber, remembering the shit I went through as a girl.
I know they say opposites attract, but hell, I’d beg to differ. Writing, making jewelry, & herbalism have sure helped me to live somewhere in between poles, but sometimes there’s nothin’ better for your spirit than just letting yourself be, all distractions aside. I guess this is my reminder to myself to do just that. To sit in the grey between black & white, to breathe more, & to find peace, even if it requires letting go of the reins for a couple seconds every day.

WINTERING ᛃ
》Raw ice sounds
Unaware that she was being followed, she marched on, bathed in moonlight. Her hair shone silver and barely brushed her tailbone, and her lithe figure loomed over the field of ice. Withering, cold, but searching, she pulled her feet along the ground’s glassy surface. Only the sound of the ice expanding and the whispers in the wind could be heard.

With the moon at her back, it held her shadow in front of her as she walked. Palpable evidence of her existence in the Winter field, and yet, she was unable to identify herself in it’s vague outline, it’s embryonic copy of her real body, with skin and teeth and bone and warm blood. Tied to her every step, her shadow looked more like a ledge, or an abyss she could fall into at any moment. But in the vastness of the field, she couldn’t tell ahead from behind, left from right, phantoms from reality. Much less, be expected to recognize her own body.

So she stopped, knelt on the ice. With her hair splayed over her face, she pressed her hands and forehead on the frozen ground, as if praying. Hot blood surged to her palms and pooled between her eyebrows. And instantly, but fleetingly, she felt intact. As if inhabiting her skin and teeth and bone and warm blood for the first time. A reintroduction to her own body, delivered by touch.

And as the Winter seeped into her skull, a scalding, icy resemblance of someone she recognized emerged under her nose. She could no longer see her shadow, but the crystal clear image of her face, reflected back at her in the ice. Startled, she lifted her forehead off of the ground, & held her own gaze. The petrified look of a woman entombed underground. No, not underground; above ground, bowed in reverence over her own reflection.

From her position, she could hear the ice shifting beneath her, an ambience akin to being inside of a womb. The sounds of it popping, cracking, growing. And she heard her body echoing it’s movements as she rose again, onto her feet.

Pulling her hands into her coat sleeves, fingertips red and pulsing, she turned to acknowledge the presence behind her. The moon shone bold in her face. It carved her body out of the landscape, had found her in the field of ice.
A newness settled within her.