Twilight Wheel

She paints her nails when she is inspired. Catch her with a grungy, chipped coat and ask her, 

“What is troubling you?”

A new aliveness clears the old layer of dull color and vibrancy spills out onto her nails, then through the stream of words that trickle gently from her heart-mind into the realm of the perceivable otherness.

It is twilight, somewhere. It is twilight, everywhere. This half-light magic shown by ancestors and visionary quests emanates beyond every moment, into the place where linear time does not exist.  It is the silence where spoken truth is not enough. What is true is true & not true. What is, is not. 

Silence is loud and giving. It is that which restrains empty vocal chatter until there is no chatter & there is simply the essence of now. Now is a character of many attributes. It is the chainsaw buzz in the distance while the birds sing. It is the wind moving in waves of stillness and devotion to clearing the way to the next now. It is the wrinkle in another being’s smile when words simply are not a big enough container to hold what is felt. It is the bliss found in cleaning up a confetti mess left behind by foggy day walkers and turning despairing annoyance into connection, with the earth and the sweet companion found alongside this nowness. 

To be, without speaking words  into every space, is a gift to the wild dream. The wild dream holds twilight magic in its open palms, ready to let it all be felt: orgasmic ears ringing, shadows clinging, grief singing; it all is allowed here without demand or submission. The human body is meant to dance and rest in cycles. Emotions are meant to be in motion, ever changing. Twilight magic means being scared, tense, and uncomfortable all the while being the utmost confident and fluidly free being one could quite possibly be, in a shared moment. Twilight magic means weaving all opposites together, fabricating the mysteries of the Universe. Twilight magic means curiosity without clinging to the question, or the answer.

Oh, to be curious. These days curiosity is wondering how the grass will feel when fingers dance through the blades in variously intricate patterns, if and how a hug will open or close doors, what ways the essence of another being (plant, human, mushroom and so on) will interact with another, how two completely differing sensations and knowings can show up harmoniously in the same moment, and in rhythm, the sometimes pending question: am I allowed here, to be wild? 

The pulse of curiosity creates the movement that keeps the heart intact and simultaneously breaking, in each turn of the twilight wheel. The nails shimmer in chaotic sequencing. Words typed, hand-written, sometimes forgotten, flow in and out with the woven threads of archetypal fantasies and embodied imagination. Silence  is cherished when it needs to be cherished. Words spoken pierce through the in between with such a precision the ripple becomes medicine for the mind walkers, dropping them into the heart, the gut, the mycelium that connects each essence in the unseen, the seen only for the first eye.