It's also dark. The morning sun is behind the clouds, and a wan, grey light comes through the back sliding glass door. It reaches about a third of the way into the front living room, and the only light in this room comes from the steady glow of the colored lights on the Christmas tree, the small lights from a porcelain winter village, and the blue-white glare of a laptop screen. The front window blind is broken and down -- Mark and I will fix it presently, which should admit more daylight into the room.
Next to me on the couch, the dog dreams: paws curl and legs flex; her breath like the pull of oars deep into a strong current. Ears, nose, and jowls twitch. Barks, faint, seep from the dream realm into the dim room.
I've agreed to help construct a double-spiral for a meditative walk at the local UU Church. The last two years, I've facilitated a labyrinth spiral walk and Wicca-flavored ritual. Inside. This year, in consideration of COVID, the spiral will be a double-spiral, with an entrance and exit -- which technically makes it not a labyrinth -- and outside. Without a ritual. The plan is to have folks walking in and walking out with as little clustering as possible. There's probably not going to be enough sunlight for Solstice Fire, and in any case, LED candles for outside use have been purchased.
Yesterday I made a wooden anchor so I can draw circles and arcs with a length of string and some chalk. I tested it out in the nearby intersection and the process worked surprisingly well. And then the rains came. You could still see the chalk spiral yesterday evening, but I'm not sure how much of it remains after a night of pouring. The plan at the UU Church is to lay out greens on top of the chalk spiral, only in the parking lot.
With any luck, it won't be pouring buckets on us as we lay things out.
1 comment:
You betcha!,,,
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