For 19 years her sense of place–disrupted. Ripped, torn into shreds, shuffled, reconstructed without hearth or home. Instead, a string of seasonal nests from which a fledgling thrusts into air, saved only by wings of necessity. Women. girls of middle age Mothers without Boarders. lost seeking starts and stops Until, one day, at 64, the wind calls and the grown bird, now fuller in feather and wiser in flight, catches a current. Her own. Uncharted. Only 6 hours away, a modest migration, but far enough from familiar feeding grounds, she finds a life, abundant, rich with seeds of beauty. She finds, in this third trimester of life, Home. It bore her name long before she arrived. Waiting for her to find it. Grounded now, she rides her recycled bike along Foothill Road following miles of marshland, watching disoriented quail, white tailed deer, pheasants, hawks, eagles, and Sandhill Cranes. Nights are pierced with the staccato of coyote yips as they score a kill, or the bugling of elk on their predawn march to the wetlands.
The ‘I’ in ‘She’ landed in La Grande, Oregon. The ‘she’ proudly owns her flesh, daily burnishing her bones as she crafts a tall and sturdy ‘I’. Her grown children sprinkle the earth, so now she nurses, lovingly, the neglected children of her soul. Art. Painting. Writing. Giving voice to Nature. Alive, her nubile skin opens freely, tingling, to brisk canyon winds. At night, having previously lived under the weighty dome of clouds, she takes her music box outside and slips into the stars to frolic with Orion, chasing shooting stars and drinking Indigo wine, until exhausted, she tumbles into bed, laughing.
My Stars, my Grasses, my century old Willows and newborn Calves. My Earth. In everyone else’s World. I, not she, have found Place.
My message. To Woman. Women. It is your time. To become. We. Are the power. To make this World. Beautiful. By Being. Alive.