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Dust Bath / Nicole Rushin Photography
Dust Bath / photo by Nicole Rushin
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Daylight Journaling / Aug. 2, 2012
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I have finally arrived at the chapter on synchronicity. What a funny word. I remember hearing about the concept so many years ago and clearly not understanding its vaporous nature.

When does life become like this? In step ~ in sync.

I really appreciate this line,

“My journals are stuffed with index cards whose inscriptions remind me of big dreams and coincidence fugues, of wildly funny incidents, and of moments of insight and epiphany when we punched a hole in the surface world and saw into a deeper order of reality.” – from Robert Moss’ book Active Dreaming.

I especially like the way the sun plays across the page as I am reading. As if to highlight the round softness of the letters. Magnifying the deeper meaning in my life.

It is chapters, sentences and words like this, synchronicity, that prevent me from finishing half the books I bring home. Maybe I shouldn’t read with a book in one hand and my journal in the other.

One of our last aging chickens walks up to the table. She peers at me with her orange-black eyes and turns her head at the opened bag of wild bird seed.

“But you are not a wild bird,” I say, “You can’t even fly to the feeder.”

She only flies to shake out her feathers.

I throw her some seeds.

She seems to be fine with her self imposed limitations. All day she walks around the yard poking holes in the dirt, punching holes in the world.

Pick a card, any card, a chicken, a dead armadillo, and ask them what they want.

I ask because my old story is crumbling. I am building a new one.

I stand on a ladder high above the yard to watch myself meander from place to place. The walls I see are not strong, they are lined in crow feathers and the stray nests of wrens…who put them there?

This girl, she picks at the garden for a while, she reads, she writes about everything she sees and retreats inside the house for long breaths of time.

The sun wraps around walnut leaves and tells magic stories to the toads while she is gone. She comes back out to shake her feathers. Too much brooding in the house. 

This girl, she hears the wind between the chimes
She has eyes that pierce through garden walls
Her journal is stuffed with bits of night and daylight
And when the sun leaves its feathery wings on her page
She catches it there
An index card to remind  her of the day
She punched a hole through the world
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