It is time.

 

We are made holy
Through this burning,
Like a phoenix rising from it ashes
To become more powerful
Than it ever thought possible.

Shirley Maya

Can you feel my desolé, can you feel the falling, but oh, can you see the rising?

La, la, la … the pirouette of all, turning and turning again.  And at last, a long and breathless last, the fixing on the ever mark has found her place.  It has been a long time coming, a long time wanting and the holy is where she should be.

Few days back, the taking control of home.  It was to be where I will be.  Turns out not, there are other forces at play, not evil or malignant, but not me.  With sadness and regret my home was sold, me emanating a feint whisper of … please don’t, and it was done.  For a few days hence, the paralysis of fear, the not knowing where to, the under the water of life descended and all those ashes lay within my bed throughout the night.  I could not turn, rise, sleep with all those pixies running though my mind.  Was this it, the undoing and final bowing down to the wings on the stage when my soul still wanted centre stage?  Seemed impossible, undoable, unifixable and I succumbed to the ashes of the night.

Covent Garden, early Saturday morning.  The world was quiet,  rain laquering cobbled stones, pedestals, graves beside the church.  And the huddling.  Huddled within door frames, beneath pediments, below stairs – smallness of life in sodden, grime ridden capsules.  The homeless cowered there. Shapeless shaped vissitudes of once.  Escaping for coffee, me, followed by a homeless woman, with every shred of ownership and shredded dignity entered behind me to use the bathroom.  We turned our faces, lowered eyes and pretended otherwise.

I could not escape her fierceness.  Sucked in by her last attempt. And she turned me.

Not close.  Not forgotten, just yet.  So much within me, lingering, urging, rising to rage, no, not rage, not regret, not hopelessness, but the boat.  To the Rubicon.  What the fuck was I thinking?  How was I allowing this to be done, to be invaded, to be the victim in the story that was my life?  So very far from hitting the pavement all those buildings high.  Fire.

Fire in my belly. Fire in my soul.  Fire in my heart and the love that became the funeral pyre ignited the kindle of change.  The author of my own story for thank you, you beautiful woman,  you homeless gorgeous women, you are going to be my protagonist. So, raining became the blustering of a fire that had burned too long, a new kind of gathering of kindle and in those ashes in my bed, the Phoenix is born.

There is this gap you see.  Between giving up and, me.  Before acceptance with grace and raging with a driving need to do something, many things for the first time, for the best time, for building that skyscraper of me.  And if I can harness the hurt, I can also cherish those who did the same and tug at the threads of my battered wings. My parents, my sister, my children, my lovers and my friends.  I may fall, but as they say, I may just fly …

I shall be homeless for a while, but never without a home.  I may be disadvantaged, being in My Silver Street when I thought being a stay at home mum was enough, and it is still the best job in the world, when the icicles pierced and the indifference froze all movement, but this lady is not for turning: she is for burning and then the awesomeness of having the ability to adapt, to change and all I can say is, for you, homeless lady with the stare of a million arrows, you have called the Phoenix, and I am answering.

Do not mess with me again.  I am busy being beautiful and brilliant.

‘Do we fade out, or burn like the sun
Do we let it all go or hold on
Do we see this through together as one
Do we go it alone into the great unknown’

Various cruelties.

For you, an invitation.  I have named my Phoenix, Eos, goddess of the dawn, of new beginnings – and if you are willing, you will find your own.  We are not old,(oh dear Lord),  we are not done. Life changes, but oh, those changes could be the very making of us.

Leaping from the ashes and into the light. So let’s begin with Paris.

Oh, and dancing in the kitchen tonight. Maybe I will be a choreographer?

Images.  Booksale.