The space between words

Feelings. Connection. Mystery.

I’ve been writing a lot of poetry lately. Pages filled with metaphors, often nature-related.

I tend to go through cycles when I chose poetry over other styles of writing. And I’ve realised it usually happens when I can’t make sense of the world through story. Metaphors then seem to work better. Because they describe something, but yet they also don’t. They leave space for the mystery, the bits that words and conversation can’t always clearly explain.

Poetry, like art, often has a type of magical feel. We don’t need to understand the poem or painting, but we get a feeling from it. And it’s the feeling we resonate with.

Likewise, I sense the reason we often relax into the silence is because we don’t need to use words to describe the feeling we have there. We just feel it. Something similar happens when I chant mantra as the words have been chosen for me and they are universal. Or when I repeat to myself a word such as love or beloved or light, they mean something without needing a dictionary definition.

Yet, I’m also a writer so I struggle with this concept of letting go of narratives, as that’s what I do well — create stories. In my personal life though they don’t always serve me. The dopamine hit of filling in the pieces of a story is just as addictive as any other hit. And ending a story can seem so final. There is a false sense of completion when we do…

This applies in many facets of our lives. Just look at narratives around women and ageing. Whether we like it or not, we’ve got attached to the narratives and because of this they are hard to shift. It’s also because they are rooted in mental energy and thoughts/beliefs.

In my experience, it’s hard to change beliefs. It’s much easier to make change when we tap into that mystery which is embedded in the innate nature of life.

We are currently in the new moon phase of the lunar cycle, which is the energy of beginnings. The thing with new beginnings is that first we have to drop something old. In the case of the moon, we drop the last lunar cycle.

When we apply this to our lives, this is often the scary part. The in-between phase. The phase that isn’t the old and isn’t yet the new.

We have to step into the unknown. Just the way the sky is dark before a new cycle is heralded by a tiny, tiny luminous crescent.

This is one of the reasons I created The Enchantress Journals, to open to a new understanding and experience of womanhood, including ageing. I won’t always do this via long articles or pieces of text. Sometimes it’ll be story, but sometimes it’ll be a poem or a practice.

As my current writing is more of the short burst verse type, I want to share two poems. In reading them, I hope it might take you to that place…the in-between place where all is possible and where we connect on a mutual plain.

New Moon Blessings,

With love,

Sharon

PS: As this Substack is a new format for me, I’d love some feedback if you have a moment to drop me a comment here or private message. Also feel free to share with other women who you sense may enjoy being part of this community.

The dance of life

The wind rustles the leaves

The sunshine warms the earth

The water cleanses the shoreline.


The bees pollinate the flowers

The lover embraces the beloved

The mother births the child.


The night gives way to the dawn

The summer leaves her imprint on autumn

The moon dances with the sun.


Everything is in tandem

Partnership. Relating. Togetherness.


Arms were made for holding

Legs for intertwining

Lips for connecting

Bodies for merging.


The dance of life requires both

An invitation and an acceptance

An opening and a surrender

A desire and a fulfilment 💕

Forever…

Full as,

juicy, ripe mangoes,

the frangipani scented air of a mid-summer night,

the rosy skin of desire.



Dissolving as,

the final quarter moon,

a waning love affair,

a dying patient’s wheezing breath.



Empty as,

the finished bowl of soup,

the whole beneath the parts,

the dark before dawn.



New as,

the lifting of eyelids to greet the golden hues of sunrise,

the scream of entering the world,

first blood.



Rising as,

the bursting of the buds of August blossoms

tall spring asparagus stretching towards the sky

ducklings bathing on a September day.



Four tides. Four seasons. Four cycles.



From the bliss of nothingness to the fullness of yearning. From the collapsed spine to the rising arms. From menstruation to ovulation. From maiden to crone. 



Forever cycling. Forever changing. Forever woman. Forever the feminine.