Today, I will ride a horse.
I have put my body on a horse before, countless times:
My child body.
My teenage body
My mother body
But today, I will put today’s body on a horse.
The body that has grown five lives and birthed four, the body that writes this today, the body that experiences the freedom of recovery, the dwelling of pain and the twinkling of pleasure.
Let’s honor a few things before we move into the thickets of today’s work:
I have a body that can physically put itself on a horse, with relative ease
I have resources that allow me to place this body on a horse
I have access to a horse who will welcome my body
I have access to a human who can facilitate all of the above.
These things are not true for everyone. I am overfilled with gratitude that they are for me, today. They might not be true tomorrow.
And with that being said, we can move on…
Since August, I’ve been researching and writing the Autumn Equinox (Mabon / May-bon) issue for my Wheel of the Year project. This has been a year long endeavor, researching the 8 seasonal transitions and celebrations as marked by the Wheel of the Year, a Neo-pagan interpretation of a Celtic calendar.
As we head into the dark side of our planet’s solar revolution, I dedicated this issue the world of the Dark Mother, to Athena’s Owl as animal companion, to Rosemary as Plant Medicine and so much more. I’d love for you to read it..
Wheel of the Year offers me an anchor during times of transitions. Something to work towards when I’m feeling artistic ennui. Much like putting my body on a horse, this project feeds the underground river of my creative being, regardless of the outcome or perceived usefulness.
When I was little, I would conjure up projects and ask to present them in school. I often had a partner, someone else I would have roped into my passion for whichever subject I was hypnotized by. It ranged from Beluga Whales to Russia to producing Architectural and Landscape Plans of a English Manor. The teachers obliged me, of course, and I always felt a warm and inquisitive reception from my peers.
My mother would take me to the library and we would bring home as many stacks of books as we could carry. She was an unlikely creative cheerleader of mine. Giving me wide berth to use any materials that I found, wildflowers, yarn, rocks, charcoal, wood… as long as I cleaned up after myself, it was all up for grabs.
Her sewing studio was always open, in spite of her strict methodology dictating its use. She was in no way effusive or prone to praise. She could be rather exacting with her criticism, meeting my work with nothing more than a quiet nod. This nod was in no way directed at the end result of my creative stint, we have wildly different tastes, and she often seemed frankly, disgusted by the actual work. No, the nod, as I interpreted it, was in recognition that my desire to make- regardless of the outcome- was valid and something worth encouraging.
I have since chased after her approval, creative and other. But with time, recovery and mindfulness, I have learned that my work should be pleasing to me, and me only. The more I let go of the outcome, the more interesting my work becomes.
Wheel of the Year is a safe place where I can let my inner child and teen wander the aisles of imaginary emporiums to create projects that delight them. I give them free reign to mix images, to write poetry, to dress in costumes and to make music with blades of grass. I invite them to notice the flush of inkcaps, to follow the trails of slugs, to paint sticks and carefully send them off into the world.
That is the work of the artist.
And today, it is needed more than ever.
Today’s work is a call to arms to prioritize childlike play in our lives, in my life.
Today’s work is to face our censors (internal or external, imagined or real) and make the damn thing even if it terrifies us. And trust me, it does, every single time.
Today’s work is meant to slash our collective limiting beliefs of what is worthy of our attention, of our time, of our resources.
Today’s work is resistance to the social forces that dull our urges to engage in the act that is very birthright, the act that has ensured our survival as a species.
That act is the deceivingly simple magic trick of creating something from nothing.
It is in the storytelling, the ritual, the weaving, that we meet each other. It is in those liminal spaces that we light each other’s imaginative torches and behold the beauty of the dancing shapes on the cave walls. It is in the audacity it requires to light the match, that we find the ability to imagine newer and more engaged ways of being in this world.
But we must first believe it to be worthy.
So.
It is with the spirit of rebellion, of fire, of birthright that I offer you this work.
May my small contribution to our cosmic collective embolden you on your journey through the dark part of the year!
