Red's Rebirth

After the Belly, Re-Creation

Red was in the belly. I don’t know how long she was in there, but she was. Swirling in a cocktail of stories, in a stew of gloop, in a mess of chaos. Spinning in the swell with her: bones. scat. a matryoshka doll. spiderwebs. acorns. scissors. bits of fur of a fox and feathers. from a blue jay. deer antler. a catholic school uniform. a story of a long ago break from the reality of ‘this is how it is’. pixie dust. shells. fire. a star. a seed. burdock burrs. poppy skeletons. two scythes, shaped like a balsamic moon. a penis. a portal. a spiral. scribbles. comfrey leaves.

After the solar flares last week, I seem to have gotten ‘short circuited’ by flares, by an aurora borealis reaching down to the south, to Arizona, to the red rocks. I felt as though I was plugged into a socket for a night. It reawakened long ago memories -twenty year old memories, still spinning in that wolf belly. I thought I’d gotten her out then. I did. But something awakened some slight pieces of her red cape. Something forgotten. Something needed. Something lost. Something found.

I worked with clay. I molded shapes. A wolf face. hiding behind its head, a devilish grin. Ears twisting into horns. out with the archetypes. Out with the old. Mold the old into new shapes. Mold the old shapes out of me.

I drew it. I drew the belly of the wolf and I drew what happened when Red cut open the belly, from the inside. When she emerged. She looked as though she’d been in 13th century France. Somewhat Joan of Arc-ish. Warrior like. Half furred. Tree sprouts budding out of her fur side. Carrying a basket filled with flowers, wine, bread. Forget me nots. Poppies. Bleeding hearts.

Before the belly and After the belly. It’s like lifetimes. And then in the belly, the in between, the time of transition, the time of change. The time between times. The liminal beast between stories. The place to go when transformation slinks past, pointing its finger at you, saying, ‘Your Turn. Tocca Te.’ Change, girl, change.

And so, I quit coffee. I stopped drinking the small glass of wine. No more sugar. Three weeks of purifying diet leading to this strange in between stories moment in which the solar flares quickened me, activated something, opened an old story, reminded me of an old door, and said —go, quick -get what you need and leave!

And I did. I danced into her. I stayed awake inside of her. I kicked and screamed. I resisted. I feared. Worry and anxiety are stories that keep me caught in a ball of thread. Trust and faith unwind the ball and lead me through the woods. One step in front of the other.

Some stories eat us up. Some stories, we need to eat. Some stories check in from time to time, to show us if we’ve grown. We crawl in, and we get spit out. Or we cut our way through inside and out. And boom. We land. On the earth. near the munching wild bunnies and deer. Listening. Returning. Changed. Integrating wolves and the color red.

Creation Song From Zhivot. From Belly. Zhivot -Russian for Belly. From Zhit’ to Live. Lifeforce. Belly. From where we come. Where Creativity stirs.

Creation. Soft warm creation. Spreading. Warming. Nourishing. Creation. Holy Creation. Life force. Quickening. And Rising but returning. Deep home deeper than sun. Deeper than origin but also small, so small. When small, Squeezed off. Fight. Homeland. She says I am power full. She says I am creation embodied. She says I know the truth about creation. She says I am always returning to deeper knowing.

Grandmother in the Belly

Fight. So tight and scared to write. Fight too tight Scared to Fight. Tight in belly. Amnesia. Lost stories.

Find a thread and sew a line to your origin motherline.

She sews and she snips and she cuts the thread. She embroiders a new story on an old cloth. Oak leaves. The color red. The word strong.

Beneath and below and beyond -a Valkrye. Woman Wise woman Bone Strong Strength Great Great Great Great Beyond Great Grandmother. Not many words grandmother. Mysterious Wild woman medicine woman grandmother. She who knows Grandmother. She who carves, grandmother. She who wants me to Listen deeper. Grandmother. Silence Grandmother. But also night. And dawn. Dew Grandmother. Life Death Life Grandmother.

Red’s Rebirth

I am the Daughter of Red. The Daughter of the Rising Sun. The Daughter of the Red Cock Crowing, Crowned with Fire. Feet bare, bearing my heart, lifting my heart. Proud. I did it. I am out. I am out. I am turned inside out and back again, a plum, ripe and succulent, sweet. The pit, the seed of all plums before me in my mouth. I taste and spit wisdom out. I grow new story trees. I replenish the earth with my soul song. Strong and brave and powerful. You can be strong and brave and powerful.

Thanks be to the hard stories, the whole stories, the belly beast stories that cracked me open. To be here. Now.

Right here now. Destiny Story.

I choose this country. I choose the unknown. I choose expansion. I choose strength. I choose me. I choose powerful. I choose the path I am on and I choose the time I spent in the belly. I choose life. I choose this story. And her teaching. I choose the fur that now courses freely wildly down my spine. I choose the life I was given and I choose to repurpose. Recreate. Rekindle the life of my Destiny. The life of my songline.