life

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Kringlans Kalender 2019 / Meru’s Wisdom, Dec 5th

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His shrivelling hands reached up to the skies. The nine falling stars met the node of his staff. A flash of lightning, a scream of connection, the wind ceased blowing and the earth whispered for a little while.

The wizard stepped down from his stone. Tired. Weary. He should be happy. Should be fulfilled. He was too tired to feel anything. He needed to lie down.

Crawling,  his hands searched for  the softest stones on the pebble beach. The waves were gently caressing the rocks. No tide tonight, just the movement of a silently dancing starfish and dolphins.

His hands found a spot of stones carefully polished by eons of ice and water. Here he would rest. Here he would regain himself.

He laid down, placing the staff beside him, covering it with the grey cloth and moss he carried in his pouch. He leaned in to the stone covered earth. Closed his eyes. Sssshhhhhhh…..

New stories would be written. Covering up what was between the old stories and the now. But who would write them? He was worried. Sssshhhhh….

The mist of sleep fell over him. Lulling him in to the space in between the veils. No moon tonight. What was to come?

– Cecilia Götherström, Dec 5th 2019

 

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For H… – and for M

I wrote this piece, for H and for M, in January of 2014. At a time where I could finally get closure on what happened 16 years earlier.

Today, in July of 2019, I can finally feel the true healing happening, thanks to SiStarHood galore. 

You will always be in my heart. In my every smile.

Thank you.

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You arrived with a bunch of our “season-friends”,
smile from cheek to cheek
as if you had swallowed the sun.

My heart fluttered,
euphoria
“He is here”, “he really came”

A wonderful summer could not come to a better end.

More than a hundred very special people,
connected in ways most outsiders never would understand
gathered in the evening sun this day in August.

Short speech,
the bar open,
the band playing,
the buffet inviting everyone to celebrate.

The air was alive,
the hearts were filled to the brim,
the beer was cold.

“Will you come with me?”
“Yes”, I whispered.

Your hands were warm.

“Tonight I have to host this party but tomorrow I am all yours.
We have the rest of our lives ahead of us”.

My words held a promise.

Two souls,
young, fearless and bright
amidst this crowd of connected spirits,
snowflakes being our glue.

It is night.

I lie here curled up against his body.
My face drowning in his naked chest,
my whole being shivering, quaking.

I try to breathe slow,
but I can´t.

One ear rests against his heart,
taking in the constant “thuck, thuck, thuck”,
the powerful blood,
the elixir of life pumping through his veins,
so alive,
so strong,
so real.

My other ear is listening to a different “thuck, thuck, thuck”,
the sound of the heavy coast guard helicopter,
surveilling the dark waters,
looking for your body,
so eerie,
yet so real.

Heart.
Helicopter.
Heart.
Helicopter.
Heart.
Helicopter.
Bodybag.
Heart.
Soul.

Cecilia Götherström, Jan 22nd 2014

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MidWinter

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Candlelight, chestnuts and pinecones

Christmastree,
it is just you and me

Comfort, life, breath
Pineneedles, light, sacredness

I stop,
I forget
in a way which makes me re-member

you came from a slope,
which was once me,
specks of atoms, of dust
you grew out of snow
I was

yesterday,
today,
tomorrow,
now

It all just is.
We all just are.

Christmastree,
you and me
are just dreams of traditions,
of what is and what is to come
Nothing more.
Nothing less.

You in my livingroom,
I in your forest.

It all blends,
in this moment
tomorrow
now
then
there
when
who cares?

Let us sing,
let us be the charol.

Have you not always dreamed,
like me,
to be carried out on a chord,
to slide down a tune
echoing in to the wilderness
with nothing to stop you
sounding

Who cares?
What cares?

Let us sing with the stars,
soak the light in to our hearts
Like the candles on your branches,
let us shine through the night

Midvinterblot,
I hail thee

My roots are deeper than the mountain
My home is stronger than my heart
My soul echoes through eons

Take my hand,
carry me away

While remaining here,
watching,
re-membering
taking in your light
Oh Christmastree, oh Christmastree
of Odins heart so strong

Hel.
Whole.
Hel.
Helig.
Holy

Oh , holy night.

Åh, helga natt.

Home.

– Cecilia Götherström, Dec 10th 2018

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No more

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He might look like a young, innocent,  devoid of experience, warrior, but he held the wrath and protection of his ancestors. They held his back, his flanks, his future. He walked in their footsteps. In his own way.

The silvery mist was coming off his cape, latched to his shoulders by heavy ornamented armour. His dragon may well be sleeping yet he felt her waking presence. Through the dimensions they were always side by side. One mind. One soul. One being.

Why was it so hard for us humans to live in all dimensions all at once? he asked himself. Why did greed, hatred, fear, possession set as if in stone in this un-magical cold, non sensing world if ours?

The world where we fought over things, countries, people without knowing why. There really was a darker force out there feeding in to all of this.

He moved his hand through his thick, blond hair. Decided then and there to never look back. To always look in to and for those other dimensions from this moment on. To notice where he was being pulled in to the dark, to notice where the scheming seemend to be winning, to notice when it felt like there was no way out.

Love. Faith. Trust. Faith. Trust. Love.
They are all one and the same force.

Faith.

Look. Notice.

Be NoBody, NoOne, NoThing. Tread the paths of the threads between dimensions. Will to see them. Want to live them. There. Bring them in here.
That is magic. That is the magic.

There is no difference between living it, seeing it, being it. It´s there. Just open the eyes. Open the senses. Feel it. Then speak.
Before that words just block.

Sense it. Then speak. From there. From that place.

His father looked over his back.
”Son, my sword is yours. It will cut through all you don´t know that you don´t know, as well as all that which stands in the way. Use it. Sense. Listen. Look. Use it from that place. Now go.”

Cecilia Götherström, October 23rd 2018

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Return

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In a bag a few minutes ago I found this piece below which I wrote on Jan 10th 2014.
Reading it now, it gives me goosebumps – as giving the turmoil, development, moves and all that has happened the past 2,5 or even 3 years , it is more than symbolic that I wrote this early 2014 and am finding it today – July 12th.

Return

The return is imminent,
faith awaits

Her huge white wings
sweeping me in,
closing out the darkness for now

As the wings open
the dark, velvety night sky is adorned
with galaxies,
light-holes
and wishes turned in whisper

I stand there,
basking in her glow,
listening
to the whispers from now,
the whispers from before,
the whispers that were,
that are,
that will come.

In this place all is one.
There is no then,
no now,
no later.

Is the return really a return?
Or is it an opening of what was always there?

She asks me to open my eyes,
my ears, my heart,
with softness,
with a waiting,
whatever comes in.

A feather falls from the sky
into my hand,
I can feel its softness
caressing my cold palm,
almost making me giggle from the tickling feeling.

I watch the feather
as it turns and turns in my palm,
first slow,
then faster,
and faster.
The spiralling movements
makes it stir up
and away.

The feather has turned in to a huge raven,
first white,

when he takes flight I can see him
shifting in to grey,
then in to black,
his glistening eyes disappearing
with the flapping of his wings
directions Ursa Major.

The wind coming from the pine tress in the back,
bring another whisper,
a song,
an anthem.

There is a vibration from the ground,
I turn around.

The whole forest alive,
waving,
swaying,
gently sining a tune
of return,
of now,
of all never being anything other
than what is now.

A brown bear beckons me to come closer.
She has two cubs at her side.
It feels like I know them,
like I have seen them before,
like we are family.

I look up at the sky,
towards Ursa Major,
where Raven headed,
then look back at Mother Bear.

I return.

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Cecilia Götherström, 10/ 1 2014

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Ring tone

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I was looking for somebody´s number in my phone today,
and I found yours.

I was in a hurry,
rushing through the list I wished to complete by the end of the day,
and there you were.

In black and white on the screen.

The letters of your name ringing out,
as if you were still there.

A name in my list of contacts.
A cell phone number not dialled for some time,
staring at me as if the signs and numbers themselves
were eyes,
had a presence.

What would happen if I called you?

If I let my fingers slide across the touch-screen,
swipe the call – icon to dial your number?

Would there be a ring-tone?

And, if there were,
how many?

Would there be a click before the voicemail automatically switched on,
at the end of that last ring-tone?

Or would that last one end in silence?

If you could pick up, what would you say?

Would you tell me where you are?
How you are doing?
What you are doing?

Would your voice sound close,
or distant?

Would we talk about the good old times,
the friends we shared,
the village,
the snow,
the new boards of the season?

Would we laugh about what never changed,
or to be more specific ;about the old living legends whom would never change?

Would we decide to meet up the mountain,
or down in the village
tomorrow
with the whole crew?

Would we reminisce of powder days,
of flatlight,
of people held close in our hearts whether there or not there that very season,
of me working for Burton eventually,
of that proving you were right ?

Would you laugh?

Would you let us know,
where you are headed after this,
where we can see you again ?

You see,
I am not the only one
with your number still in my phone,
I am sure.

I am not the only one
whose days lit up
with that smile of yours,
whether it was telling stories
or taking the piss.

I am not the only one
wishing I could just call
those whom departed too early.

0664-2324449.

Cecilia Götherström, Feb 8th 2016

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Past Lovers

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A piece from our monthly Writer´s Circle in The Hague, written in March of 2014.

When does a Love become a Past Love?
This very moment, as the present takes over?

Is past love, lost love?

Can you love somebody more and love somebody less?
Is there a less less or a less intense,
a more less , or a more intense?

Whatever it is, at this moment it hurts.

It hurts because I find myself loving not just people,
but moments with people.

Past Loves, Past Lovers – what is the difference?
When does Love turn into a Lover?
When you Love, are you not a Lover in its most passionate essence?

Is that not when you bare your heart,
deeper than your flesh and bodily sensations?
Is that not the Love that burns deeper than your skin,
charring your inner core,
touching the roots and the nerves of who you are,
– baring your very soul.

No limits,
borderless,
beyond any rules or conceptions.

When that Love just is, is, is
– does it ever become Past?

When it is so overwhelming that the thought of losing it,
of losing this moment,
of losing this Love,
makes you cringe.

When so many tears have been shed,
when so many glowing smiles and gentle touches have been exchanged,
when you are exhausted,
wrought out,
gasping for air,
in pain,
and somehow still fulfilled in the weirdest sense of the word
– is that when Love is Past?

Is that the moment when you realize,
that all which were the signs of Love;
the Power,
the Force,
the Storms,
of Love,
in an instant got caught up with attachment.

Attachment
to the passion,
to the feeling,
to the cringing skin,
the churning stomach,
the redness,
the fluttering
– instead of Love as something bigger than what we can perceive?

Cecilia Götherström, March 2014

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There

Reiki

Behind the sea there is a scent

Behind the scent
a truth

a truth odourless,
subtle
yet the greatest of them all

The truth of
who you are

a pearl within
a much larger scope
you could ever imagine.

Live that breath,
take that step
Be that one.

You.

Cecilia Götherström, 23-11 2015

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In my heart of hearts I

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In my heart of hearts I
hear music
sing to my soul

In my heart of hearts I
am music

In my heart of hearts I
spill in to the world of creation
like a brittle waterfall,
a whiskering wind,
like a tone of love,
of wildness,
of quaking wisdom
shivering out of my bones

In my heart of hearts I
know who I am

In my heart of hearts I
melt into the mother,
become the father

In my heart of hearts I
am the speck of oneness,
the soul who is the muse,
the giver of joy,
simultaneously

In my heart of hearts,
there is no stopping me,
No boundaries,
no beginning,
no ending,
in my heart of hearts

In my heart of hearts I
look deep into the brown-yellow eyes
of the enormous white wolf
in the mirror
looking back at me,
eyes full of tenderness,
eyes full of knowing,
soul full of worship

In my heart of hearts I
come home
to who I am,
to who I was,
to who I am to be,
simultaneously.

Cecilia Götherström, Nov 5th 2015
Thank you Roger Housden for the writing prompt!

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I am sorry House

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I am sorry House,
that I could not love you.

My heart was closed,
too busy holding on to pieces,
already broken
I was.

I could not see,
your tender care,
your solid hold,
you doing what you do best,
shelter.

I could not feel
warm, ancient soil
underneath my feet
lifting pine trees to the sky
welcoming crystal white covers
to carry us into the depths of the woods
in the company of ravens, eagles, moose and myths.

I was not hearing
the soaring air,
the speaking winds,
the soft whispers of comfort,
the Soul of the land
speaking to my broken soul.

My heart could smell,
could touch the sun,
could caress the moon,
sing with wolves and wonders
– but not under your roof.

I am sorry House,
for not living
while I inhabited your space.

I am sorry House,
for just grieving
in your warm arms.

I am sorry Mountain,
for loving you more
than I love myself,
for finding life, joy, wonder and purpose
on your hilltops.

I am sorry Mountain,
for capturing your soul into mine,
for the bliss of oneness
which only you know.

I am sorry Mountain,
that I cannot live that gift, that passion
for now and ever after more.

If anyone will ever ask,
I shall say;
The Mountain holds my Soul.

Cecilia Götherström, May 7th 2015

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