The Story of Dryad's Repose
The Dryad's Repose was a tree, specifically an apricot tree that all but filled
my parents' back yard as I was growing up. I had been drawn to the quiet
whispering of trees for years, but the Dryad's Repose was my tree. I pruned her
dead wood weight. I picked her fruit when she was heavy, pulled down to the
ground with the effort of her labors. I sat in her branches doing homework in
her green-filtered light. I sprawled across her arms gazing through her
sweet-scented canopy to watch the clouds drift across the sky. She comforted me
and hid my tears.
The Dryad's Repose was a store, specifically a New Age and Pagan supply store,
in Pocatello, Idaho. Other similar stores had come and gone in the area, but the
Dryad's Repose was my store. I made it comfortable for myself, with spaces for
quiet study, conversation over a cup of coffee or tea, divination, art, Craft,
family, and occasionally sales. I grew it as a community space changing the
products according to the requests of those the Dryad's Repose served. The
Dryad's Repose was a place of reflection, a place of learning, and a place of
community. For many people it was a place of tolerance, comfort, and peace in an
otherwise tumultuous existence.
I am the Dryad, and my place for contemplation, appreciation
of the ideas and innovations of others, and exchange of knowledge has always
been Dryad's Repose. I invite all those with an appreciation for beauty, for
what statements may be made about the world around us, for self-expression in
its truest forms to find each other here, in Dryad's Repose. |
Touching Air
I touched the air two nights
ago. A simple wave of the hand, fingers trailing through silken threads of
electron trails. I wanted to stretch my wings.
I touched the air two nights
ago, not even wanting to expand my self, my range. I just wanted the comfort of
moving between the spaces between.
I
touched the air two nights ago. I showed up in the dreams of those I know. It
was not my intent. The currents of space were calling me, tufts of air curling
and coiling, soft caresses on skin and mind. How could I resist?
I touched the air two nights
ago. A simple wave of the hand, fingers trailing through silken threads of
electron trails. I wanted to stretch my wings.
Ro Marie
2/14/2009
|
Weeping Without Sound
Singing in silence
Dancing in thought, though not deed
Hiding beneath the boughs of safety
I weep without sound
Reaching ever-downward sweeping arms to the sky
My own inertia defeats me
I cannot fly
Limbs waving in the wind
Digits fluttering with the slightest breeze
Torso bending and twisting with strain
Still I stand firm
Branching roots locking deep beneath the ground
I feel the rock beneath me
I cannot move
I must sing, or disappear
I must dance, or lose myself
I must bend, or else I break
I must weep, or become hard
Wanting to fly
Rooted to the ground
I remain
The Lady Willow |
Articles by Ro Marie |