The feather; the pen
Bienvenidos al noticiero: La Pluma. Welcome to the Newsletter.
Hola <<First Name>>,
The red blazing ball of sun rising in the haze filled sky unnerves me. It passes into white fuzz as the planet turns toward afternoon. The weather reports include temperature, wind speeds, and now, air quality alerts. My nose twitches. An eerie beet colored moon finishes the day. I look at the stars and wonder what we look like from up there.
The forest is dry, crackling underfoot. The lake is low, a fact that, even the children noticed.
“Last year, we could dive off of the dock. This year, we’d scrape our faces on the bottom!” They still pretend to be mermaids and this year added, “shape-shifters.” I wondered what that meant to them.
To me, it speaks of shamans melting into the mist and taking on animal personas. I looked it up and found a much more sinister definition – everything from multifaceted robots to people shedding their skin and taking on another person, dead or alive.
I prefer the shamans with their owl companions, nighttime flights, spiritual powers, and a sprinkle of mystical magic. As I wait for the skies to return to blue with white fluffy clouds, I reason they are shape shifters. When I think of my many facets as a human – my roles as mother, neighbor, teacher – I am a shape shifter. When I returned my mother’s ashes to her hometown cemetery this week, to join other generations resting there, I sensed that death is the ultimate shape shifter. [If you haven't read my article on my mother's hospice, please click here
Until that day, keep your imagination sharp and shape shift your dreams.
Hasta la pasta,