Frozen…well, that’s been me. Most of this year has been one of loss in one way or another and through each of those losses I have felt a piece of me slow down and stop. Isa is a perfect word for this feeling or happening. It’s a Norse Celt word/ideogram from the runic alphabet that means “ice” and “standstill” – the place of silence and seemingly no movement. Its symbol is that of a vertical line drawn. It’s a tough place to be. I have so many things to accomplish, so many things to do and yet I am distracted by those losses, distracted by the things that wake me up in the middle of the night and then keep me awake until dawn. Body and soul exhausted - finally given no option but to be still.Isa is coming to a stop but there is a blessing in it as well – rest and healing. Isa isn’t about a full stop though it might feel constrictive…restrictive…dead. Isa is winter – the stark beauty of snow and bare trees and frozen ground. Trees withdrawing sap, seeds cocooned under frozen earth and yet life continuing underground. Visibly stopped. Invisibly moving. All things gaining the nourishment they need to break through the earth, draw back up the trunk and burst into visible life again. Similar to the Native American concept of embracing bear or going into the cave, it is the time of winding down, resting, learning, healing, knowing self deeper within or, at least, it is the opportunity for that. Thought of this way, it’s a coming home, where all else drops away and I am left with quietness and connection to That Which Is.
And slowly, slowly tiny moments of, not only stillness, but rest occur. Peace and a sense of Grace in small quantities. And I am still, with my head cocked to the side as if listening deeply or sorting through these new sensations – giving space for them to grow and no longer fighting with it all (well, not as much anyway :o) ;) )
From here movement begins.
Photo: Frost-etched leaf on the walking trail at Cedar River Park, Renton, WA
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As always, Kerry, you've described the essence and feelings with such thoughtful tenderness: that feeling of being slowed down a bit more, each time anything else has happened - with each loss through the year - and then that sense of stillness, and waiting, and listening for those first hints of spring and the thaw, and the movement that will always come, the warmth and freedom that follows even the longest winter or ice age. For all the depth of loss and stillness in the feelings you've so beautifully described, there's a sense of gentle hope, that natural lightness in your soul that always comes through in everything you say and do, and it's that subtly indomitable nature that will bring that first new birdsong and budding of new leaves that, at the point of deepest stillness and darkness, will bring the new year's first dawn, and the stillness will become a flow of lightness into the future.
ReplyDeleteAs always, Kerry, you've said it all so beautifully; and, from here onwards, let the movement begin and let it flow with ever brighter warmth and light.
Thanks for yet more of your gentle inspiration. Be in the stillness. Be in the movement. Be happy, at peace, and be.
Ian :)