When I finally open my eyes, I’m sprawled in the middle of the bed, covers thrown off and I have to shimmy to reach my phone on the bedside table. It’s just past 7am and with the window and shutters pretty much closed, it’s dark and quiet. And hot. The air conditioning hasn’t been turned on yet.
I’ve been waking early these past days, just as dawn begins to creep through the cracks in the half-open shutters, but it’s a delicious kind of awakening. The kind where you don’t have to get up. Where you can lie still, keep your eyes shut and luxuriate, luxuriate, luxuriate, swimming in the wake of dreamland.
After I open the window wide and clip the shutters open, I hop back into bed, fluff my pillows into a pile and lean back, closing my eyes, wondering if I can fall back asleep.
A cool breeze now blows through the window, along with the small chorus of birdsong. I wish I knew what kind of bird they were, or could at least see them, but they remain hidden to me.
Instead of falling asleep I drop into remembering my zoom with Kate and the kids yesterday evening. Hazel holds her arm up to show me the red friendship bracelet still tied around her wrist. I finger the matching one twice-looped around my own wrist and slip into the afternoon we made them – on our last Nana/Hazel day before I left.
That afternoon, as we sat side-by-side on my chaise lounge braiding together Hazel said, “I wish these bracelets had magic powers, and that we could talk to each other through them.” Five weeks of being apart is a lifetime to a six-year-old.
“They do, in a way,” I answered her, “Whenever you need me, just hold your hand over the bracelet and feel me in your heart. We can talk to each other that way – through our hearts.”
And then I tell her that the colour red symbolizes our fertility —
“Fertility?” Hazel interrupts, her brow furrowed.
And I talk about the seeds of our imagination and creativity. About our courage and passion. About what it means to be female, to be a vessel of feminine energy. To remember the truth of our hearts.
Because the power of being a female encompasses more than growing babies (although that’s a pretty amazing thing!)
And as Hazel’s little fingers weave and weave and weave I tell her about the number three. About how it’s considered a perfect number – the number of harmony, wisdom and understanding. That three can also be body, mind and spirit. I tell her about the triad of Maiden, Mother and Chrone.
“That’s you, your mama and me,” I tell her, because even though she’s only six, she’s already walking the path of the power of the Maiden.
Then we tied the finished bracelets around each other’s wrists and practiced feeling into our hearts, into our own heart connection.
And aren’t we all connected?
Each and every one of us.
Each of us facets of the same divine source.
Each of us made from stardust and earth.
Meeting together in the space of our hearts.
I can hear Emilie unloading the dishwasher downstairs, so I pull on my bathrobe to go join her. Even though we’re here to give voice to Mary Magdalene, the dirty dishes still need attending to.
Optimystical 