Last Updated On February 11, 2022

 

Soon sap will be running and maybe with enough animal stillness you will smell it in the veins of the trees

 

 

This piece is the second installment of my Twelve Omen Days series, a new omen received during the Twelve Omen Days (December 25th – January 5th) will be released for each month of 2022.

As is often the case when I am encumbered with dog, we are patrolling the outside of a shopping plaza. This one is on the rundown, many interesting smells. We are both mouth-breathing and over-dressed, confused by a sun that is warm.

I see a sign across the way, “Fear Not Tarantula”. I can’t imagine that it’s referring to pets, I’m wondering if it’s an exterminator or a cognitive behavioral therapist with a sense of humor. As I mount the curb on the other side of the parking lot, I can see the dim lighting inside the storefront is illuminated with a sea of neon heat lamps. A voice behind me is trying to get my attention. It is a man, hat in hand, he calls me Miss instead of Ma’am which softens me a bit.

“Excuse me”, he says “I wrote a poem for you.” I think, of course you did because I have a word spinneret in my heart and it just drags me around by the silk, my preferred method of locomotion. It occurs to me that from the inside I am weirder but a witness to the outside would assume he’s the weirdo. “Can I send it to you? What’s your number?”, I insist on a recitation. The cars in the lot are poised, the gulls take a moment with their garbage, the dog pricks his ears…

Sorry, I don’t recall any of it, maybe it was song lyrics but it was clearly a love poem leading up to some kind of uncomfortable request so I snapped my fingers and profusely thanked and ducked into Fear Not Tarantula.

A thousand shining eyes turn toward my clumsy entrance. The weighty scent of humidity and cedar chips washes over me. Countless aquariums are stacked like little studio apartments. The residents moving with such intention, discernment. Each articulated extremity is backlit revealing a halo of iridescent hairs, their plump abdomens bloom with various colorations.

Mason jars, shadow boxes, even clear Christmas balls display progressively larger discarded molts. They look almost identical to living spiders. And I think- what would it be like to have such crisp, tangible evidences of our history. Such matter of fact artifacts of who we used to be yet always will be. Demonstrative but totally harmless. Credit for every casting, every outgrown. I imagine a mother spider embarrassing her adolescent by bringing out his molts to show his fine progression. Would he roll his many eyes in embarrassment? He doesn’t understand her wonderment as she witnesses his increased potency and vibrancy over one molt at a time.

February’s Omen:
Connect with your inner creative force, use it to ensnare or simply to lie in wait. This is the month of life rumbling in the underneath. If you have sensitive leg hairs, you already know this. Situate yourself with boundaries, be observant, accept love poems. Be not in a hurry, make time for grace in word and deed. February is short but not rash, move mindfully with great intention. Respect the husk as a symbol of your vitality but do not be hindered by the past- look back with many eyes, authenticity and integrity intact. Cast off with bodily wisdom. Every shed is a risk, a courageous act. Honor the letting go, and honor all that endures.

 

Last Updated On February 11, 2022

 

Soon sap will be running and maybe with enough animal stillness you will smell it in the veins of the trees

 

This piece is the second installment of my Twelve Omen Days series, a new omen received during the Twelve Omen Days (December 25th – January 5th) will be released for each month of 2022.

As is often the case when I am encumbered with dog, we are patrolling the outside of a shopping plaza. This one is on the rundown, many interesting smells. We are both mouth-breathing and over-dressed, confused by a sun that is warm.

I see a sign across the way, “Fear Not Tarantula”. I can’t imagine that it’s referring to pets, I’m wondering if it’s an exterminator or a cognitive behavioral therapist with a sense of humor. As I mount the curb on the other side of the parking lot, I can see the dim lighting inside the storefront is illuminated with a sea of neon heat lamps. A voice behind me is trying to get my attention. It is a man, hat in hand, he calls me Miss instead of Ma’am which softens me a bit.

“Excuse me”, he says “I wrote a poem for you.” I think, of course you did because I have a word spinneret in my heart and it just drags me around by the silk, my preferred method of locomotion. It occurs to me that from the inside I am weirder but a witness to the outside would assume he’s the weirdo. “Can I send it to you? What’s your number?”, I insist on a recitation. The cars in the lot are poised, the gulls take a moment with their garbage, the dog pricks his ears…

Sorry, I don’t recall any of it, maybe it was song lyrics but it was clearly a love poem leading up to some kind of uncomfortable request so I snapped my fingers and profusely thanked and ducked into Fear Not Tarantula.

A thousand shining eyes turn toward my clumsy entrance. The weighty scent of humidity and cedar chips washes over me. Countless aquariums are stacked like little studio apartments. The residents moving with such intention, discernment. Each articulated extremity is backlit revealing a halo of iridescent hairs, their plump abdomens bloom with various colorations.

Mason jars, shadow boxes, even clear Christmas balls display progressively larger discarded molts. They look almost identical to living spiders. And I think- what would it be like to have such crisp, tangible evidences of our history. Such matter of fact artifacts of who we used to be yet always will be. Demonstrative but totally harmless. Credit for every casting, every outgrown. I imagine a mother spider embarrassing her adolescent by bringing out his molts to show his fine progression. Would he roll his many eyes in embarrassment? He doesn’t understand her wonderment as she witnesses his increased potency and vibrancy over one molt at a time.

February’s Omen:
Connect with your inner creative force, use it to ensnare or simply to lie in wait. This is the month of life rumbling in the underneath. If you have sensitive leg hairs, you already know this. Situate yourself with boundaries, be observant, accept love poems. Be not in a hurry, make time for grace in word and deed. February is short but not rash, move mindfully with great intention. Respect the husk as a symbol of your vitality but do not be hindered by the past- look back with many eyes, authenticity and integrity intact. Cast off with bodily wisdom. Every shed is a risk, a courageous act. Honor the letting go, and honor all that endures.

Last Updated On February 11, 2022

Soon sap will be running and maybe with enough animal stillness you will smell it in the veins of the trees

This piece is the second installment of my Twelve Omen Days series, a new omen received during the Twelve Omen Days (December 25th – January 5th) will be released for each month of 2022.

As is often the case when I am encumbered with dog, we are patrolling the outside of a shopping plaza. This one is on the rundown, many interesting smells. We are both mouth-breathing and over-dressed, confused by a sun that is warm.

I see a sign across the way, “Fear Not Tarantula”. I can’t imagine that it’s referring to pets, I’m wondering if it’s an exterminator or a cognitive behavioral therapist with a sense of humor. As I mount the curb on the other side of the parking lot, I can see the dim lighting inside the storefront is illuminated with a sea of neon heat lamps. A voice behind me is trying to get my attention. It is a man, hat in hand, he calls me Miss instead of Ma’am which softens me a bit.

“Excuse me”, he says “I wrote a poem for you.” I think, of course you did because I have a word spinneret in my heart and it just drags me around by the silk, my preferred method of locomotion. It occurs to me that from the inside I am weirder but a witness to the outside would assume he’s the weirdo. “Can I send it to you? What’s your number?”, I insist on a recitation. The cars in the lot are poised, the gulls take a moment with their garbage, the dog pricks his ears…

Sorry, I don’t recall any of it, maybe it was song lyrics but it was clearly a love poem leading up to some kind of uncomfortable request so I snapped my fingers and profusely thanked and ducked into Fear Not Tarantula.

A thousand shining eyes turn toward my clumsy entrance. The weighty scent of humidity and cedar chips washes over me. Countless aquariums are stacked like little studio apartments. The residents moving with such intention, discernment. Each articulated extremity is backlit revealing a halo of iridescent hairs, their plump abdomens bloom with various colorations.

Mason jars, shadow boxes, even clear Christmas balls display progressively larger discarded molts. They look almost identical to living spiders. And I think- what would it be like to have such crisp, tangible evidences of our history. Such matter of fact artifacts of who we used to be yet always will be. Demonstrative but totally harmless. Credit for every casting, every outgrown. I imagine a mother spider embarrassing her adolescent by bringing out his molts to show his fine progression. Would he roll his many eyes in embarrassment? He doesn’t understand her wonderment as she witnesses his increased potency and vibrancy over one molt at a time.

February’s Omen:
Connect with your inner creative force, use it to ensnare or simply to lie in wait. This is the month of life rumbling in the underneath. If you have sensitive leg hairs, you already know this. Situate yourself with boundaries, be observant, accept love poems. Be not in a hurry, make time for grace in word and deed. February is short but not rash, move mindfully with great intention. Respect the husk as a symbol of your vitality but do not be hindered by the past- look back with many eyes, authenticity and integrity intact. Cast off with bodily wisdom. Every shed is a risk, a courageous act. Honor the letting go, and honor all that endures.