on crawling into small spaces

I notice a cyclic nature to my moods, thoughts, emotions and even the way my physical body looks (and of course feels). It circles the lunar month and the cycle pulled by tides within me. It's only in recent months that I have even paid attention to it, because in doing so I am finding I can more easily understand myself and in turn apply the moods, ups and downs to assist (rather than drag and fray at) my everyday normal life.



I am at the lyrical, melancholy (what a lovely word), slightly sad, wistful, hyper sensitive phase that is the week leading up to winding down and renewing of myself. Loud noises, knocks and bumps jarr me- something beautiful makes tears squeeze from the corners of my eyes. It's a time to be quiet for me, not to go out much, not even to *do* much. There is this distance between myself and reality. I have to surround myself with things that comfort; long baths, photographing outdoors, slowly picking dandelion leaves to make tea, preparing foods that I really like, and maybe eating only that all day long. Reading for very long stretches, old favourites, the familiar, while tying my hair back and wearing old trousers, ones that need to be tied. Having my hands in the ground, plucking delicate seedlings, turning earth, pulling weeds. Here I find myself again. Oh! There! And the satisfaction-joy is like a forgotten bar of chocolate in your bag that you find at just the right needy moment.



I often read Mary Oliver (New and Selected Poems volume two is my favourite of all of hers) for the sheer comfort and pleasure. This is one of my favourite little passages:

Just yesterday I watched an ant crossing a path, through the
tumbled pine needles she toiled.
And I thought: she will never live another life but this one.
And I thought: if she lives her life with all her strength
is she not wonderful and wise?
And I continued this up the miraculous pyramid of everything
until I came to myself.



And this may be my favourite of her poems, I love the images and the comfort-beauty:



I found a dead fox

I found a dead fox
beside the gravel road,
curled inside the big
iron wheel

of an old tractor
that had been standing,
for years,
in the vines at the edge

of the road.
I don't know
what happened to it-
when it came there

or why it lay down
for good, settling
it's narrow chin
on the rusted rim

of the iron wheel
to look out
over fields
and that way died-

but I do know
this: its posture-
of looking,
to the last possible moment

back into the world-
made me want
to sing something
joyous and tender

about foxes.
But what happened is this-
when I began,
when I crawled in

through the honeysuckle
and lay down,
curling my long spine
inside that cold wheel,

and touched the dead fox,
and looked out
into the wide fields,
the fox

vanished.
There was only myself
and the world
and it was I

who was leaving
And what could I sing
then?
Oh, beautiful world!

I just lay there
and looked at it.
And then it grew dark.
The day was done with.

And then the stars stepped forth
and held up their appointed fires-
those hot, hard
watchmen of the night.