I like words. I like perusing the dictionary for the meanings and origins of words. I like rolling words around in my mouth and sampling them in sentences, or flinging them down at the dinner table, a kind of verbal gauntlet as it were, or sliding them more subtly onto a plate, watching to see if any of my fellow diners notice something… ‘different’ about a certain dish.
I had a feeling there was more to the word ‘verge’ than met the eye, and there is. Not only is it ‘late Middle English’ for ‘shaft, column, rod’ (hence the usage of ‘verge’ as denoting boundaries, edges, and the like), it also happens to be ‘Middle French’ for penis.
I should have known. Hasn’t 27 years as the mother of four boys taught me that EVERYTHING eventually points to the penis?
That little tidbit of esoterica aside, what was the point of this post going to be? Oh yes, thresholds.
I am approaching a threshold. I can feel it. You know how it is when you’ve been moldering down in the valley of exhaustion, or stuck in place with one foot wedged between boulders of boredom (not that I am EVER bored, but I hear some people do feel that way on occasion), nattering about in the your own head with all the usual ‘stuff’ echoing on and on? I can’t say I’ve been in a bleak place these many months; quite the contrary. But I can say that I arrived in Mexico completely exhausted, spent, drained, wiped out, not-a-drop-to-drink. And for awhile there, I kept trying to lift my head up off the pillow and make a solid go at things. Some ‘thing’. Any ‘thing’. And it wasn’t until I gave into the exhaustion, the depletion, the emptying out even more fully that things began to shift.
Fast forward through 40+ blogs entries to today. Friday May 18th. One year ago, my husband and I got one of ‘those’ emails, the kind that lets you know ‘Nope, sorry, I don’t think so’ after you’ve moved mountains in order to be able to make ‘so’ viable. A few hours later, I had to leave to go lead a yoga retreat. Fast emotional turnaround required!
Looking back over the 12 months since then, this date gives us something by which to measure how we handled rejection, wiped off the tears, regrouped, recommitted to our life ‘plan’, and kept on going. It ended up being for the better; for the Much Better actually.
On this date, this year, I can mark that I feel something coming. My skin is tingling. I’m saying it here first. And if there’s a Goddess of Serendipity in someone’s pantheon, it is to her that I need to offer thanks. I hope she likes roses. Roses, and copal, and my voice raised in song.