And a rock feels no pain,
And an island never cries.
- Simon & Garfunkel
This has been such a grey time. An oily blur of emotions, hardships, cycles of disbelief. I’ve been under a crushing wave, trying to not feel. Trying to be stone.
I’m now in a middle place: not numb, not enraged, just tender.
Stoned, perhaps.
On my walks with my son, I squat down to be close to him as he picks through grass, snow, sticks, feather, bottle tops, bits of plastic, pebbles, fallen leaves and berries.
He touches hand to stone ... hi rock, hi.
I touch it too, and feel the warmth of the sun and earth. Palm curled over chubby fingers channeling lighting.
In emerging from one phase of crisis into another I remember what I’m made of.
There is a Portal wrapped up a series of IG Live conversations with Women of Color Healer/Artists to discuss the languages of knowing, how and why we remember, how we speak what we know and how we have channeled our voice through the walls that have been erected to “other” us, to reconnect to our deepest potential.
These are women who have shaped my thinking, who are patterning a way of knowing, who are carving portals into this prismatic world.
In these talks we discuss food, astrology, legacies of trauma, tarot, we question ideas of “calling” versus “work”, and share what work we still need to do. My son video bombed us, we’ve had technical glitches, lots of laughs and plenty of grace.
See the videos on our Instagram account @thereisaportal and tell us what calls you.
As I reflect on those conversations I realize I am leaving a small trail for folks to follow. An arrow pointing towards the voices of women of color and their deep knowledge that might help young people searching for relevant content. A digital bibliography, perhaps, for those using this project to chart a course of creative inquiry into self, other, and world.
As we move out of winter into spring, I look forward to the ritual of Chaharshanbeh Suri. This is the Tuesday night before Noruz, New Year, or the Spring Equinox. After an intense spring cleaning of the home and heart, (we also mend broken relationships, apologize for any hurts we’ve caused, reach out to people who we’ve lost connection with) families collect the discarded items into the street and create huge bonfires.
In the evening, we jump over the fires, over and over again, reciting the following:
Detail of painting by Aliza Nisenbaum
“Zardye man, az tu.
Surkhi tu, as man.”
My loose interpretation is:
“Fire, I give you my yellow.
Give me your red.”
The process of unlearning and shedding can be full of color, it can warm us like fire.
The grief can make room for all the love we’re yet to give/receive.
What old patterns, sallow thinking, yellow fears are you discarding into the fire?
What fiery commitments and life-giving relationships do you want to heat up?