Dervish
Nothing arrives
yet nothing is something
The candle flame is fat
flickering hard like it’s yelling
like it needs attention
My skin is chilled from the morning wing
It’s too cool for July
yet it’s too hot for July also
There’s a frilly itch in my right ear
I can’t quite make it stop spinning
it’s a whirling dervish of an itch
Have you ever watched a dervish spin?
It’s incredibly something
When you’re caught in a nothing
google ‘whirling dervish’ –
you’ll see what arrives
It’s re-opening week at Gertrude’s. I’m feeling…excited and mostly ready. There are some last minute details to take care of, but I know that whatever needs to be done in the space is part of a big, beautiful flow of slow and steady, so I’m repeating in my mind the words: don’t rush, trust, slow and steady.
Under this excitement is a feeling of being behind on other things. Does that ever really go away? The nature of ‘work’ continues to act like an accumulating weather front. Like a thickening, rolling body of cloud that comes at me. I am both fascinated at its speed and girth, and worried about a bad storm.
But the truth of it all, still deeper under the excitement and the weather, is this high-pitched, airy weeping. I can’t figure out who or what it belongs to, and if the breathy notes are for joy or…something else. It’s like when Pages sits in front of me and lets out the same airy whimper. She’s smiling, she’s so excited to be near me, but since I’m not touching her, she cries at me. When I put my hand on her, she stops making the sound. Maybe there’s a collective touching that needs to happen. Like, a world-wide stop-and-hold-hands, give-attention-to-the-closest-person-beside-you kind of collective connecting. I don’t know.
I finished reading ‘A Secret History of Witches’ by Louisa Morgan last night. It was really great. It’s a long one, but spanning and scry-filled and fun.
I’m not sure what I’ll read next. There’s a stack of books to choose from…more witches? A mystery? Non-fiction? We’ll see tonight when I head to bed what story world my heart wants to play in.
VANESSA SHIELDS, writer 