by strangedayonplanetearth

stream edited.jpg

journal: 2.8.14

This is surely the strangest period in my life, in which I seem to ever be rowing a canoe down a stream at night, without any idea where it is headed.

I can look up and admire the stars and moon—and have them pierce through my head and into my veins.  I can worship the little ripples of water my paddle makes.  I can begin to decipher the voices of the animals on the banks.

But there are no tangible answers anywhere that I can grasp hold of.  I am sick most of the time, exploited by my employer, and terrified of defaulting on debt.  By all human measures there is no logic to my existence, and I spend many of my waking hours trying to “fix” various crises.

But they seem like more of a dream than this sound of water, and sense all currents are leading to a final destination.

How I have begged Goddess for any illumination.  But just another night and I am alone, without money to go out, and cleaning the apartment because I revere the apartment, and reading Andrew Harvey because he makes sense … and not really unhappy at all, but confused and afraid.

Still the waters pull forward, and I move forward, and I only want to cry because the moon is so lovely, with her half face turned toward us frightened creatures on earth.

Image: modified from Vangogh, “Little Stream,” 1890, via a Art Gallery ErgsArt on flickr