mama hen and her safety
I am writing this while camping. I thought I would not take the laptop out but instead, here I am, after a day considering coincidences and the end of this first week of TAW. I wrote in a previous post somewhere that I understand the books I write only after these are published because it is not really me writing them. I feel I am no more than a vessel and that “Matilde” sooner or later will catch up.
I listen to my voice reading the book back to me, today while walking under the rain or gently pushed by an unfriendly wind. I went to places I have never been to before and again I looked for clues. I don’t know if I got really something, albeit that man on the beach with his dogs meant something, it moved something within.
I have been writing about leaving, in my journal, and how “safe” I feel where I am now and if I were to feel any safer should I move. But I think I am ready for a change.
My voice spoke to me, today, of letting go and moving on. In the book, again, there is a figure, someone, on a beach with a dog. The first time I see it I am scared and thrown into a panic while the last time my reaction is almost unexpected. I totally forgot I wrote about this figure, about this person with a dog and I was only reminded of it when walking, head down, on this beach and being surrounded by a pack of happy dogs, inviting me to play. Then my voice whispered to me of Georgia, in her house. How was my reaction, this time?
I saw him go and did not do anything.
I wrote my morning pages sitting on a bench at a harbour I would not find again. I drove in a haze because these past few days have been surreal and comforting and showed me how much I have changed and things have shifted around me. I am now here, waiting for the rain, sitting outside and covered in a blanket. I smell my neighbours’ barbeque and I am happy that they are not too close because I need space, mental and emotional space to elaborate this past week or these couple of months: the omens, the unexpected pop-ups, faces I thought I forgot but instead I recognised, all to remind me that I am a woman with no country but with Friuli, my land, in my heart.
I don’t know if I am feeling melancholic. A dear friend, today, asked me bluntly what I was expecting. Only direct questions make you think about direct answers. And I am reminded of that exercise of starting your sentences with “my truth is…”. My truth is that I don’t really know. I am torn in two: the rational and the dreamer; the Queen and the Fool. I am questioning what the dreamer needs since it showed up. I am reminded of the words I heard only last night, online, by someone who said that happy endings exist if we want them, if we ask for them, if we work to manifest them. My truth is, again, that I don’t know. That I am confused by the multitude of inputs I am receiving, as devilish fireflies, dancing in the sunset. But I know how to trust the process...
And this is a matter for tomorrow’s morning pages, wherever I will be.
For the time being, I am checking on her and her little ones which got scared and started running around frantically, frightened by unruly kids with no responsible parents, while mama hen was calling them. I went knee-high into some nettle to rescue one and now they seem ok. I feel protective as if they were mine; the little ones, not the kids! I am checking on them, counting them, and making sure all six are ok. And I am left wondering who is checking on my safety. But the warden just walked past and waved at me, so all's good.
As of now, I will enjoy the evening contemplating if I am feeling lonely, or not.
Sending you all good vibes!
onwards + upwards ♡