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I met with my wise woman of the woods yesterday. Her voice is low and soft and slow. She is wise, warm, and loving, and for me we have travelled deep into the woods together, and camped round a cheery fire, her back in a wooden rocker, eyes listening. Far enough from me to not crowd my words, but close enough to fill the space between us. I feel safe to voice ME. She is the wise, kind, listening old woman I needed to know me and hear me. She is me in reflection, in possibility, many years from now. Not 'til the end of our conversation do I notice that she isn't all that old, and that her modern clothes, refined jewelry, and contained appearance show a particular attentiveness to detail. Nor had I noticed the modern office, couches, chairs, and desk. It doesn't matter. It's all just a bizarre abstraction and distraction from reality. I see that she is as excited as I am, fascinated by my dreams, moved by my love for my mother, thrilled by my courage and frankness, and eager to see what all this preparation is for. Time to leave. I bow instinctively to her, open the door, and step out of the woods. And into Scott's giant arms. woman of the woods [2004-10-28]
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