It’s a question of Imagination (Part 1)

I had a particular crisis. It was around the tail end of my Saturn return
and I thought I was going to die. (I am a hypochondriac, but still…)
Without going into details, I went on an ecstatic journey
only the journey was laced with something bad
and I was already open open to otherworlds

Long story short. The doors opened wide. All of them.
Big doors, little doors, wide doors upside-down doors,
Doors leading to mad hatters
and martians; Doors leading to hell and heaven.
I could not shut the doors. They were unhinged and my brain unraveled.
And unraveled.
And unraveled.
The only thing that made me feel safe and secure was the fact
that the sun set and rose. Every dusk and dawn.

This journey, initiated by one tiny little seemingly unassuming feel good pill
launched me into a 2 year journey navigating roots, trees, body, memories.
Essentially, it changed my life. I felt insane. And I felt raw.
I heard things I hadn’t heard before…
People’s stories. They didn’t speak, but it was a feeling/sensing knowing.

Continents spoke too and ancestors. Blood in the Soil. and the collective was loud.
There were and are many cracks and shadows. And I navigated these too.
To ultimately know myself. (Because isn’t that what it is about?)
But through and through what got me through
was the birth of my inner self which turned out to be an elf.

And this lil numinous pip helped me to understand the language of oaks. And natura.
I embodied her. Them. There were many:
Red of the Oaks. Poppy the Pixie. Beanie Brownie. Stella the Pointsetta
And we told stories. And celebrated children.
And they reminded me of what is real even if you cannot see it.
That which is essential is invisible to the eye, says the Fox to the Prince.
I learned that what is essential when everything dies
is Imagination.

It transformed me. The pixie within transformed my world within and without.
The depths of hell yielded to sky
and brought me back to earth. rooted. winged.
body. place. imagination. memory
without capital letters.

It was all matter of fact. Myth and mirth.
Now, when the mist comes rolling to town I am reminded ofTir na Nog
a land between the worlds. a liminal place, where mythic and unseen beings
tell stories to ears that turn inward in order to hear
through the heart. It’s a question of Imagination
Is it not?

To be continued…

By Stasha Ginsburg

Image: Stasha’s own (my girl and I 2014) // Joshua Sortino on Unsplash Eugene, Oregon

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Stasha Ginsburg
Stasha Ginsburg
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