June 24- 2
A List for Betsy S. who is my Comrade in the Attic Bedroom
Today I received in the mail a box of holy junk from an old friend I'veknown since I first moved to this tiny town when I was nineteen. She hasmoved back home and taken her Mendo magic with her. And now, she hassent back a tincture of moonlight and a powder of earth mixed by the handsof settlers and once-upon-a-time fairies: an alchemical mixture of the verythings she took with her and then some: a handful of feathers, a piece of paper her granddaughter has carefully drawn stars and a crescent moonwaxing on it, she has added these things to the bundle of medicine.So many friends and relations send me medicine in the oddest shapesand odors and they are all inscribed with instructions that tell me how to takethem for the best results. The feathers are the most beautiful pheasant spotsand stripes and chevrons. It makes me cry to see their colors and textures of beauty. The thin calligraphy of love drawn on rice paper is a delicate potion,and like most holy things, the six year old has left open doorways to theuniverse for me to step through and hear the Love-Voice of G-d, Y'shua, theHoly Spirit. The song of the Trinity sung by a six year old girl will astonishmy spinal d.n.a. and shake my vertebrae like dice into a form of health I hadnot conceived of before. Singing the White Bones of the Moon, we call ithere. And the stars will make maps that show me how to walk into 'How canyou be so close to Narnia and "Step over the crack, don't break yr mother'sback." ' The bowl with an oriole in the center will teach me how to fly afterthey have taken the cancer and left me a pair of wings instead. And a squareplate with a Carolina Wren on it, a postage stamp, a flower are all amulets toreplace the cells that were eating the delicate flesh of a almost 56 year ol’slittle girl breast. All this God-Magic would be too much to bear if I were nota Daughter in His Temple, ala Isadora Duncan, leaping like the hind overhigh places and singing the hymn of love. Oh God Yes, let us sing Love,breathe Love, always breathe says Janet and my comrade in the sparse roomnext door our ceilings so close to the sky that the stars are leaking juice inbetween the joists ah, star-juice, better than hot chocolate before bed with adrop of honey made from the Queen of Sheba’s bees.