to be truthful,

sometimes,
i am terrified of loving this much.

between the worlds

some mornings
the day greets you quietly
and like a familiar, will
curl up next to you, softly
or climb into your lap
some times
the day greets you gently
you rise in surrender
to the moving shape
of things
some mornings
you slip into consciousness
with the same
ease you slip into dream
and the night
kisses you sweetly as you leave her arms
the day
not yet crowning, the moon
beginning the sultry-eyed final act, as
she tucks herself in before
the first tendrils of light
these mornings
you remember, with familiarity
a certain changing shape
a certain glow
a creature within, this wild one once
who followed the scent of mystery on the wind, who
knew the sound of her own
name when it was called by
all those many wild ones
once
her skirt scraped the dance floor of the sky and
the heavens split open to wash the earth again
with rain
to nourish the soil that we all grow from
she, this, I
who now wear the night sky like a blanket
and rise from dreaming's easeful wandering
to live this day like an arrow
sharp, to the point,
true and
aimed.

before dawn

i watch the bart train navigate
through the city lights in
the last lingering darkness of night
a thin thread of light, silent at this distance
snaking, sliding, slicing through
the jumbled horizon
the air is cold on my face
but in that enlivening, not painful way
i feel the moisture in it's taste
and i am grateful for the gentle and consistent
rain of late
this is morning, today
my daughter woke with a squeaking shriek at 4 am,
hungry and complaining a little, though she still smiles
every time our eyes meet

what an angel

i surrender to the sharpness with which i am awake
and rise,
to start the day
why not?
this may be the only time i get to myself, today
quick and quiet
stolen moments, precious in their weight
this is me, today
new and unfolding
bold and broken open
trying,
trying,
trying to shake loose the hold of doubt's roots in my mind
to release and remold the texture and shape of matter, of muscle
and sinew and bone
alone, this morning
with myself
the lights, the night
the cold, fresh air
that presses up all around me,
reminding
my skin of its shape

5am

my stomach heaves and wretches
memories? dreams? flashbacks?
sensations
run up and down my body
my skin like fire
like something not my own
then begins
the restlessness
and i am up, i am moving
through space like a frantic pleading
keep moving, keep doing, keep breathing
stay above it
above this sadness
that greets you each morning, like
an old friend
this weight you've never not known
at least since you can remember
can you remember?

in my otherwise
elephantine memory,
there is so much unclear
so many blurred visions
chunks of time, missing
she says, you loved him!
but all i remember
is years later
when he reappeared at a family party
stomach clenched,
knees locked,
my frozen legs would not carry me close to him
to even say hello
i did not understand why
at the time

the photograph, of me posing
my child body, thin and stark
the look on your face, when i
asked too many questions, again
the silence
the silence that haunts all the halls in my family's homes
the compliance, the terrible note of acceptance
of all my grandmothers' best kept secrets
the shame, the pain
the silence

there is no witness to this story
no one to tell
no one to break down to
my mothers memory is full of holes
and wine
winding staircases that lead to nowhere, to walls
my otherwise elephantine memory
feels untrustworthy, at best
or maybe like it doesn't know if it can trust me yet
my grandmother won't speak of it
he, is dead.

but this story lives and moves
in my body
memories resurfacing
like tremors, quakes, triggers of
torrential tears
this story, this listening
its like sewing together
patchwork pieces of my past
this is the only story that renders sense
of useless scraps
of these stories my body tells,
but my mind cannot remember.

Of Family and Giving Thanks

This morning, I remember.
I remember my many Novembers, these holiday times, autumns and winters spent with Family far and wide.

I remember my first holidays away from the place I was born, with Family whose love lifted my head, made my belly roar with laughter and opened my heart and eyes to different ways of living, profound ways of loving, and the ever-present Abundance that has nothing to do with how much you have.

I remember crisp, cold mornings in the desert.  I remember the morning star and water blessings, the warmth of coals and so many heart-felt prayers, I remember Family of Spirit and cactus and feather and bone- whose love taught me about our capacity to surrender, to love beyond and through the pain we sometimes cause each other, to heal.

I remember winters of wandering, of many seasons spent on the road- meeting Family everywhere and anywhere.  I remember hand-crafted, patchwork Orphan Holidaze-wherein gathered all the ones near, that were far from their blood and place of birth- shared sadness turned shenanigans and laughter, bottomless cups of sweet coffee, plates overflowing with the fish and loaf-stone soup feasts that would fill bellies and hearts.  Family whose love taught me that Family- is what we cultivate and create, and everyone and anyone we love that way.

I give thanks for all those I am blessed to know and to love.  For all my Family.

New Mama Writings

The week you were born, I wept.

I wept in gratitude, that you were healthy and strong.

I wept in terror and utter humility at this heart, this life, this little body entrusted to me to care for and protect, to serve, to support, to nurture.

I wept, already grieving the day we would no longer be together in a fleshly form.

I wept, for fear of death- something I had never felt so viscerally before.  

What if you died?  What if I did?  

We will. One of us first.  

I wept with a heart that already knows it cannot control these things- that life is full of tsunamis and disasters and other small horrors.  I wept knowing that some day, some way, we would be parted from one another.

Never have I feared death, not in this way.

There have been times in my life when I would have welcomed death, and many days when I lived my life as well as one dead.  But not now.  

Your birth, your life has changed everything.

Never have I felt the inoperable, inevitable tear in my heart- knowing that loving someone this much, will result in sorrow of the same magnitude.

This weeping was right, was good and proper and timely.  I recall it with a tenderness, a preciousness, and hold this luminous space as sacred.

What else can we do but break our hearts open to Love and weep in the face of the temporal reality of our bodies?

What else can I do but treasure every day I get to spend with you?  

What else can I do but lay my head down, forehead touching ground, and give thanks for every little bliss? 

Her

She teaches me to smile again

each morning.

She greets the new day with a simple and uninhibited joy, 

she reminds me that today is a gift.

Another day 

together, 

is a gift.

And it keeps on this way, this

celebrating

silly

simple way.

She teaches me to do better, 

to be better, 

just by being.

The Season of the Dead

wicked winding mind
wormholes and
white rabbits
two steps forward, one step back
two steps forward, one step back
then
the clickity-clack of bones, out of joint
but still dancing in rhythm
to your heartbeat, She
the skeleton woman who haunts your depths
who drinks the tear, who rends you Beloved
and broken-open
and vulnerable
again

O Bee!

Let me tell you, Friend,
of a gift
you once gave to me,

it was close to when we first met
amongst the rosehips and lizards
the close and swarming calmly humming bees

you asked me something,
and then I watched you
move towards the ground and sit
before me
kneeling.

you listened,
as I would sit in prayer

my heart welled up in my eyes
and honey tears
spilled over the edges
of my all my wounded places
i have never felt so heard.

I remember this
now and then
sometimes,
in quiet moments of sweet reverie,
ten-thousand tiny wings singing
tonight,
it rose to the surface of my mind
when recalling a time
i felt like someone bowed
to the Queen in me.

Bless you, Bee.

Courage

embrace your Life.
All of it.
For all that it is.  Let go, just
for a moment, now, all
that you think it is not.

embrace your Life.
embrace the good, the bad
that which you cling to
that which you push
away at all costs.
Just, embrace

Hold it
gently, in your arms
Like the little one
you once were,
like the Little One
to come,
Who is already here,
arriving.

Embrace yourself,
your many selves,
the Ones who have been
hidden
or shut down
or unfed
for so long

I call Myself to myself~
I, we
will need All of me, now.

mortar

my heart is already folded
like a crane
or a child's fortune-teller,
or maybe a bad hand

its edges are crisp in places, soft in others
taken on a shape that is not
without its pointed places, not without pause
or surrender
taken on a form that is not its
natural
resting state

how do we find our way back
from those shadowy borders?
back from half-truths that fell like mortars on the
the small and still unstable trust
that we were building

i, am no carpenter
no brick-layer
i have built towers of feathers to the sky and wondered
why my constructs keep toppling over
i have not laid hands down on a project
with anyone
for a long time,
in remembrance and reference and dread
of what happened the last time
i was stupid enough
to believe
that another's heart and hands
were building with me

this,
this is no easy history
to face, to rearrange, to release in
order to hold something different
but i am willing to try,
i think
i am willing to set down my disguise for awhile
and just try to be me,
with you,
here,
in this

but what unknown weapons do you carry?
what hidden land mines live beneath the surface of your skin that
once set off-

do not remember


that maybe, you love me
that mortar can fill the cracks, and make stronger
or
that we are trying
to build
anything at all.

New Relation (from Authentic Movement writings)

he is screaming.

i start shaking,

not 

trembling.

i am standing.

i walk towards the sound,

and pause

i stick my tongue out

i taunt, i’m not scared of you anymore

i push up my sleeves

to my elbows

i walk

i feel the bottoms of my feet

pad-like

balanced

i walk around the screaming.

i am circling

hands on my hips,

feet striking the floor.

then

i lose a little steam,

the defiant confidence

of my stride is lost

as the screaming continues

and threatens

to grow louder.

he is chanting.

I bump into him,

and he is whispering soft

and low, shh, shh, shh, shh-

i am stunned.

i stop.

his hand is touching mine.

his skin is old

and dry and cracked,

rough and tender.

i take his hand in mine

and place it

on the side of my head, my face,

cradling

i am held, gently

i am safe and protected,

cared for.

he gently encourages,

shh, shh, shh, shh-

tenderness fills a space

in my chest

i step away

and tears pour

down my face

big, wet, uncontrollable

streaming flow

i stand alone,

and move again.

this time

i am circling,

he is still screaming,

a choked back sob

i want to go to him and

touch him

tell him with my fingers, my hands-

shh, shh, shh, shh…

something inside of me breaks

and compassion enters my heart.

not shame,

not judgement,

for this pain and rage.

my anger receives my compassion,

as i offer it to his.

Dear Friend,

In two weeks, it will be two years since you died.
I still find this unbelievable.

Sometimes I forget.
Sometimes, walking down the street, I'll see a man with a similar stride or build or haircut, and the thrill of you races up my spine- lighting my heart and face with that certain silly joy that is you, and always you...and then the smack, the crash, the recognition of a stranger and that terrible remembering.  
It couldn't have been you.
It won't be you again, anytime, ever.  At least not this time around.

And then it is heartbreak, all over again. It is the phone call that I got while driving down the freeway at breakneck speed.  It is the raft overturned, the chaos, the horrible moment of truth that I was not there for, but that lives in my imagination.  It is a sobbing that threatens to unbind my ribs from their cage, my chest cannot contain the raging river of grief that fills me.

When I got off the phone that day, I howled.  I shouted and screamed.  I made horrible, animal sounds that scared even me. 
And now?  Now, I cry quietly.  Hold back.  Somehow shame my grief into feeling old, feeling past it's time, as if the "use-by" date could expire on such things.

But grief is not linear, Friend, and neither is my missing you.  Some days it is the fiercest thing.

And it still baffles me, how one can lay such beautiful plans, and unexpectedly, suddenly not be alive to live them.  How an entire lifetime of dreams disappears in an instant.
How you, You, can still be gone, still be dead.  That this is true.  That this is not changing.
That you are not bursting-out from around some future corner, laughing at our tear-stained faces, howling, exclaiming that you've fooled us again! Ever joking, ever Trickster, You.

And so, instead, I live with a cruel and hopeful forgetfulness.  And a still sometimes unbearable truth.

I love you.  I miss you.
This is true and unchanging.
I love you.  I miss you.
You are always remembered, always cherished.
We love you.  We miss you.
You STILL make us laugh, even in our grieving.

Until we meet again,

Llamando

speak.
speak, now.
the time has come to open your mouth and throw
echoes of sound
like bells and gongs resounding
the way thunder rolls
how water falls
now, is the time.
so speak,
pour forth in waves from your tongue the beauty
you see in everyone
you know
there is no face that
does not resemble god's

and the wind now
roars to hear your spirit sing
so let loose your words
unleash everything
untie your animal left panting outside
release your bound maiden
your whore, your bitch, your hag
unfold in a whisper
heal in song
let metaphors soothe you, rock you softly to sleep
cradled in a pregnant pause

know surrender

unclasp your understandings, your
opinions highly held
refinish all your edges
rewrite the pattern
break the spell
breathe in
breathe out,
speak,
now.

today

words,
in their specificity
elude me, as does any one flavor
in my mouth this morning.
their's a jumbled blending
a pull-apart distinctive disrelation,
and questions,
so many questions dancing..

questions that may or may not benefit,
to ask
to receive answers to
possible story-lines run races
through my inner fields, laughing
and tripping each other in the high grass
there is a confused sadness, an elation

i am satiated
i am full
i am wondering
i am appalled
i am all of these things
and many more,
a stew-pot cauldron of nebulous
and crystalline
happenings.

Beloved Friend

in dreams, I greet you

by your own name,
not the one you wore on the street.

your eyes are shining and bright
and your hair styled, clothes clean
dapper, even
with your slow and unsure smile.

I wake,
and wonder about you.
You,
who no one's heard from in awhile.
You, who once upon a dingy garage
taught me how to knit, with
a warmth and gentleness and
kindness, somewhat uncharacteristic
you told me your mother had taught you,
with a softness in your tone,
maybe it was the memory of that love
that shone through you, then

I wonder if you're out there
drifting, still
Or maybe you have found rest,
alive or dead.

I wonder
upon waking,
and say a prayer for you.

So it goes..

it's funny
the things that can get you down.

funny, and not really
the cracks they forge, sometimes
in the dam that's holding back the
grey,
the in-between place
of living, but not really
that floating somewhere
between responsibility
and flight
ever, dusk, not quite dawn
grey,
despite the sun's light

how much would it take, really? she asked me
to wreak havoc and create destruction?
and i think,

nothing at all, really
it would take
nothing-
just grey-blah-drifting away
and it could start the spin, and the slow
unwinding
the melting down of
all that I care about in my life,
of all that i am working so hard for.
nothing,
really

maybe i
am just pessimistic
and maybe she is hopeful,
and maybe that should slap the shit out of me, really
because she has just endured
the greatest hardship
of her life

it's funny,
the things that get you down,
and even, if
on another's behalf,
the things that bring you light.

Her

speak to me of oblivion,
of the quiet, fearful ghosts that
haunt your hours
tell me your fantasy,
and I will tell you mine

this morning
I take my leave
and find my mouth is full of
poems

rivers of thought
and word and
metaphor
have somehow
burst dams
and now threaten
to flood

you, me,
this day

your sweet nectar covered
my face
and my hands
delicious
raw and vulnerable
curious,
I am the bee
returning to the flower
your pistil, stamen, petals
drench
and enchant me

I am so taken with
you,
your nakedness in view of
all the neighbors
the way you
take up space,
neither
begging, nor
demanding.

I am

I am a flame,
 burning brightly
my womb, my belly, my heart, my eyes
navel and crown

I am a flame,
 flickering in the wind,
but never going out
I will be a faithful tender
of my soul's light
I will lovingly care for this lucito
entre de mi...

A keeper,
 of sweet nectar honey-light,
 hot sweetness pouring forth
A keeper,
 of ways forgotten and remembered,
 of my own soul
I will burn steadfastly
 a beacon in the night
illuminating the darkness of the world,
and my own

I am a flame,
 who will not go out.
Who will not go out.

on Joy, from my Dancing Time in CO

Joy pervades my being,
it infuses every cell
until it overflows
then
seeping out of my pores
it radiates
and rises

I am pouring out
a golden river of light
to wrap you in,
to encircle the world

If we forget this place
we will not have the fire to fight
to make change
we will drown in sorrow's wake

this place in me
is original and pure
it is my spirit's favorite
dwelling

as I remember,
I re-member myself

Joy is a mighty resource
it is the sun shining in my chest,
through the long, dark night

It is expansive, and warm.

the Forest on a Sunday.

I had to go away,
to be alone
in the wilderness of the world
to be able to hear myself
to recognize
the sound of my own voice
amidst the clamoring

today,
this truth.

There is nothing wrong with me.

I am whole, a circle.
ever circling
and cycling
through the layers of
my own
understanding.

I am listening.

Listening, now,
to All of me.

May I learn to greet myself
with love, acceptance,
gentleness
and peace.

Spider Lessons

I only meant to admire her
as I stepped
closer to her sinewy, shining home
when snap!
a strand breaks and
from out of me flies-
I am sorry!

stepping closer
now
to watch her

meal interrupted, she
moves quickly
to the unraveling place
it could have been the rain,
the wind,
a passing deer
to cause the strand to break and I
think, how often
this must happen

What kind of determination is this?

I watch in wonder
at
She who weaves, and
reweaves, again
her home,
her sustenance,
her web
without a complaint, or even
great pause
She returns to
mending and spinning,
over and again.

trying to impress you

siiighhhhh...
solita
and not quite
on this the day of rest, and
now the night

exhale

and breathe in again

deeper
note the curvature of muscle
the shifting of bone
all the shapes I have taken on
that are not
my own

hold the structures' imbalances
in the eye of your palm
hold your self, your body
place hand over hand
on the small of your back
and remind yourself
with insatiable tenderness-

you are protected,
you are held.

twist, move,
bend, curl
unravel now, unroll~
exhale, inhale, exhale
let
go

second round now
more questioning
less light the
substance of the words that come
as i turn
to welcome
night

and what of this darkness, my own
and yours?
what of the places that we exile and abhor?
how do we move, towards?
the kind of self-approval and acceptance
that makes space for authenticity and vulnerability in relationship,
and makes a gift
of our presence,

always

welcoming others in,
welcoming others in,
welcoming ourselves in.

the Dance...

Sitting in a cute little coffee shop in Denver....I am feeling so thankful and excited to be here.

Had a wonderfully late night, caught a 5:55 am flight, and somehow made it here. 

My sweet friend picked me up at the airport and, as always, we drop in together to the space shared between souls that have known each other before.  Deep conversation, deeper laughter, as we catch up on each other's lives, a much shorter time in-between this time around.

She welcomes me into her home, and I am delighted for her, for the place she has found and made for herself in the world.  Choosing home...what a delicious, grounding, and nourishing thing to do. She is brilliant and shining.

And in her light, I catch a glimpse of my own reflected.  Of the shifts and changes and transformation that continue to unfold and blossom in me.

Coming here, I was worried that I would not be able to show up as myself, or fully, or something...

Worried that my old patterns of keeping myself small and separate would inhibit my ability to move with authenticity and relate to those around me.

So far, not so.

Thank goodness. 

Sometimes I live in fear of the snap-shut/shut-down/disappearing/disassociating act that has been a part of my life and my being.  More and more, I feel the possibility of change, the affirmation of it.  The evidence shows up unexpectedly some days.

And, I know it may still happen, that I may have some road yet to travel with this old habit/pattern.

But knowing something different creates the space for change.  

And gives me hope.

The kind of hope that helps me choose to live every day and continue on, even when the road, internally or externally, gets rough.

I came here to dance.

I came here to dance with all the places in me that are yet uninitiated.  

I came here to dance with the young woman, the girl, who left and did not look back.

I am here to dance with her, myself, she that swallowed down somebody else's stories, and so now rejects, abandons, and exiles herself.

I came here to dance with myself, my life, my body's wisdom, my memories.

I am here to dance with sadness, anger, compassion, fear, and joy.

I am here to dance and to welcome all of myself with open arms.

Choice

i am writing again and yet the page and pen are elusive friends that sometimes hide themselves and sometimes wait for my jaded eyes to open

how to adjust and re-adjust to the reality of the days I find myself in
how to hold both, all
both my accomplishments and growth, and my disappointments and failures, and all those decisions that cannot be undone

how to flow, to be willing to let go of anything at any moment for the sake of well being and balanced movement...how to transform patterns and presence
how to dance with sadness of an existential nature, that which has moved in me always, or at least as far back as i can remember
was it nurtured by my environment, or just exasperated by it? did i come in with this?  something handed down to me to deal with?

how to
choose
every
day

visiting home

the smell of fresh air
its feel on my skin,
the sound of the trees in the wind
bending
and bending back again,
the strength
of yielding
the sight of the stars
not just two or three,
but layers of starlight dancing
beyond reach
the ocean,
the river,
a fire to sit with,
kindred.

Roots

I am so much clearer than i have ever been before about some things.
Some things like relations that no longer, or have never served me, wholly.
Things like dynamics of disturbance and dysfunction that set a pattern, a rhythm I learned to live by.
And how so much, not completely, but so much of my sense of self has been shaped and influenced by those external frequencies.

I can see myself more and more clearly, as though the wool I pulled over my own eyes has been unraveling. It is the things that we refuse to see that most heavily influence our perception and creation of reality.

I am claiming and reclaiming all that I have ever hid, shamed, discarded, interrupted, downplayed, denied, let shrivel, let starve.

I am bringing the darkness to light, and the light to the dark.

determined

feet strike floor
boards rattling
the pounding of palms of feet,
stomping, reverberating
up my tree trunk legs
towards the sky
arms shoot out like branches from my sides and then
elbows bend
palms of hands open wide, wider
than before now, stretching
each finger tip, spirals out
waves of fierce, hot
light
i am
big, big, bigger
than before now, stretching
i am rooted down
deep, past the crumbling crust
through to where the water flows beneath
down to the fire again, burning
i am
magma, earth, root, core

Things I'll Never Get to Say.

May our Love be as vast as the ocean,

May we expand exponentially 

out past

right and wrong

beyond what he did, what she did

and all those tired

conversations

May our Hearts remember what drew us to

Love, here

in the first place

You are

Friend

Lover

Mirror, other

Shadow illuminator

and yes, 

my Love, we 

have seen each other shine~

and our hearts, warmed

by that sweet glow

and now, dear One,

what is left, 

in our broken-open hands?

my Love for you

the possibility of maybe something bigger being True

maybe,

you and I have done the best we can

and maybe

we are Teachers for each other

we dared to Love

with such passion and such fury

in such a gloriously short 

Life, as this

You are

Lion Man,

Otter Boy,

Gypsy Child,

you are so many things that I will never know

May our Compassion

be as vast as the ocean

May we expand exponentially

out past

right and wrong

beyond what he did, what she did

and all those tired

conversations,

May our Hearts remember what drew us to

Love, here

in the first place.

to sleep, perchance to dream

It is late now, as I write this.
And it has been a full day. I could crawl into bed and pass out pretty quickly, I am sure....but there is still so much moving in my mind and my heart.

Attempting to do some honest looking at myself and with support, continuing to dig deeper. To explore and excavate that which has so long laid buried. 

And it's awful, actually sometimes, in that supremely uncomfortable way- walking up to my own edges and leaning into them, despite my own protesting.  And... it's helping me to heal and evolve.

Tonight I sit with gentleness, invite it's presence in.  Into my heart and into my relation with myself.  Especially around the themes and hurts I have been working with.  Especially into those places in which I give myself a really hard time.

Growth is a process.  Life is a process.

And sleep is a process in which my body refreshes, rejuvenates, and heals itself...so actually, on second thought...methinks sleep is in order, immediately!

Love to all who lay dreaming now~

rain

mist now, really
but my pores are desperate thirsty opening wide
to absorb
as much moisture from the air
as is there
the earth too creaks open I can feel her soily skin
around me
breathing in

New Dawn, New Day

I wake
from dreaming

of giving birth to my self
Precious dark haired little girl
the umbilical cord stretching out, bridging
the worlds between us
I know she is coming, but I am alone
no one around to assist in this midwifing-
but she is here Now,
and so I squat
and catch her in my own arms

I catch her in my own arms

I catch her
in my own arms

she doesn't cry
we look into each others' eyes
and the corners
of her small mouth turn
to smile.

This poem makes me feel big on a morning when i feel small.

"The same stream of life that runs through my veins night
and day runs through the world and dances in
rhythmic measures.

It is the same life that shoots in joy through the dust of the
earth in numberless blades of grass and breaks into
tumultuous waves of leaves and flowers.

It is the same life that is rocked in the ocean-cradle of birth
and death, in ebb and flow.

I feel my limbs are made glorious by the touch of this world
of life.

And my pride is from the life-throb of ages dancing in my
blood this moment."

~Rabindrath Tagore

Last night

I dreamt 

I was filling a backpack

with tools.

Boulder

Alone, at last.
Sitting in a cafe, people watching, writing, sipping a warm cup, and generally exhaling.
Phew.
It has been an incredibly beautiful trip thus far...realizing that this is the first time I have been alone though, and it feels good to be just me, my pack, my time, my car, the road.

I fell in love with Taos again, as expected.  My time there was so full, so mystical, and enlivening.  It feels almost like a dream, it has that sort of substance...

Hot springs, two sweats- to open and to close, garden time, impromptu herb classes, cooking and eating together, seeing old friends, making many new, being blessed over and over again by the graceful timing of Life, gleaning wisdom from the most surprising of places. 

Harvesting sage with Sarita and Yuko in the middle of a thunder and lightning storm? 
Priceless. Treasure. The stuff Life is made of.

I am so grateful for this time with them, especially right now.  Being with one another in all the difficult places only deepens the love we have for each other. 

And now?  Some student readings at Naropa, a day of exploration ahead tomorrow, good friends, ceremony, camping, and then, on the road again....

i have taken that journey
those scared, small, bold steps away
into the storming night
i have circled back now
time and again
with perspective grown
compassion and fierceness, hand in hand
i have heard those wild geese calling,
and still i forget
still i seek to
remember
in moments,
in solitude and sometimes loneliness
that i belong
that i
belong
to something
to the wild world
to my human family
to myself

i have been meeting
myself
in quiet moments
in stillness and movement, unfolding
i greet myself,
sometimes without words in my mouth to give
sometimes with hands and heart empty
of the knowledge of how
to gather, to weave, to welcome
to nourish

there is One inside of me
who follows behind
with machete gleaming,
hacking
silently, slyly, sneakily sawing
at every root i dare dig down
every thread of connection
spiraled out
her blade screams, no!
there is safety in separation
cut loose every tie
you cannot afford to love in this way
you must always be ready and able to sever,
sever and be safe

I come to her
crying
tears of compassion and pleading
dear One, dear One, the war is over now
i tell her,
the terrain is more tender
there are fields for planting
there are roots to intertwine
that do not seek to suffocate or harm you
there is beauty in the broken heart of loving
and separation
leaves you starving

I have been looking for a job for her
something new to do,
something to offer her hands, to offer thanks
for her service,
for her job well done
and now,
i think i have it-
do not lay down your blade,
just cut away
all that does not serve-
all these habits here, all these entangled knotty twisted branches
of a starving soul
searching for light, for comfort, for something to keep me from my own pain
i honor the power of your severing blade-
but let us rewrite the guidelines,
redirect the force of your tool's clarity
here,
here,
here you may cut, here you may sever, here you may prune my soul's growing
cutting away that which needs to die,
so that the miracle of new growth can emerge


there is One inside of me
who sits,
her shoulders slumped,
her head, unable to be lifted,
her hands limp and useless at her sides
her gaze, dead and empty
how do i reach this One?
this dear, precious One who has lost her will,
surrendered to an inescapable reality
almost broken, but not quite
see?
her breathe rises and falls in her chest
though shallow, her breathing, at least,
is a sign of life

I come to her,
and sit nearby
witnessing quietly,
sending love to her, to the place
where she has made herself untouchable

how do i reach this precious One?
what can i offer?
what can i give her to bring her back from this edge of despair?
how can i show her sunlight, if she cannot find her feet to walk?
she is barely there, shadowy, watery, etheral
lacking the substance of essence
the thinnest thread connects her to life,
because she has found
she cannot will herself to die

how do i tell her now, that she is free? 
to come and join me in a new life?

to bridge, acortar la distancia

a car ride with a head full,
i count the bridges
along the way
one,
two,
three, four
five, if you count the last half-ass one on my road, which i don't
innumerable, if you consider the worlds traveled between, which i do

tonight i seek reconciliation, and that sweetness
eludes me

Rachell?
i heard a voice say,
asking,
is that you?
yes, i think,
in some form, it's me
and i turn my head
to see
a face from my childhood,
the mother of a schoolmate from elementary school
Grace?
yes, it's she and Ryan, too
who was still in a stroller the last time i saw him, maybe four?
i recognize only his eyes,
and his gaze is quick and fleeting

Grace opens up to me
and pours out a flood of years
stories and updates,
and then,
what brought them here

they are looking for a sleeping bag
they are sleeping in the park downtown
i know the one,
with the bridge
where the shadows hang out
beautiful by day,
but different after sunset

her husband left
when she was outta work
and she and her son were evicted from their home
of sixteen years,
she talks and i listen
and watch sweet Ryan
as he's pacing,
and i'm guessing
he is 'autistic' or something
of that nature
i can feel
his sensitivity in me-
and i know,
it must be torture for him,
living on the street
i give thanks
when i also feel his resiliency

they are struggling to get help
getting what they need
because there is no place in the system
for a homeless woman and her homeless grown dependent son
there are no programs for that,
they don't quite fit
for them, the "government safety net" doesn't exist-
she could go to a number of shelters,
but housing for Ryan would mean a group home,
where he would be totally alone
he doesn't want that, and she doesn't either
they want to stay together

Love is exchanged
and i leave,
but this scene
doesn't leave me

it fills my head and breaks my heart
over and over
and over again,
how? how? HOW?

how do we live in a society that allows for this?
how do we walk over people lying in the street,
and then past empty houses and vacant buildings?
how do we trick ourselves into believing
that somehow they are bad or something?
and that's what got them there, on the bottom, begging

i think
more and more people are pushing closer to the edge
and realizing
how short a fall it is, really
and how impossibly hard and long a climb
i hope
people will change their minds
and open their hearts
when it's someone whose name they know
when the faces
on the corner or under the bridge
become strikingly familiar,
and hit closer to home.




may everyone have enough to eat.
may everyone find shelter and home.
may everyone know love.

the end of a life

herbs and feathers and sage
stones and chocolate and rose water,
these are the things i know to gather
to bring as offering

and sometimes these
are all we have,
to hold onto
to hold us
in the ever-shifting chaos
of an ever-tilting planet,
they remind us

it's not the objects
themselves, really
it's the meaning with which we infuse them
the external reminder of the sacred within
of what we are connected to
of what holds us, and surrounds us, and supports us,
all the time

querida, i will come
bearing basket
with a cracked open heart,
with feet rooted in the earth,
y llegamos otra vez
to lay our lives down
on the altar
porque sabemos que la vida es una oracion-
una bendicion,
un milagro, regalo, misterioso
lo sabemos,
aunque olvidamos
and we will howl and dance
and whatever else it takes,
we will have faith
like the sun, setting to rise
dying, to live again.

sunday questions

what does it look like to re-vision Life?
how do you hold the many deaths of all you thought it would look like?
when a vision dies, how is it reborn?
and it must be reborn again, now, with all of who you are, after the dying- all your unfolding, unveiling, all that you are blossoming into. 

o, the many parts of me, imagined whole- to create a vision of just that. to make it possible to believe. to see, to create. to know.
i wrote a song recently, with a prayer to Life to break me open when I have become closed. 
(shit.)
i wrote that song, but really, aspire to remember that in my daily life.
desire to know the sweet peace of surrender, to move with joy and greet even sorrow with gratitude.


Life will break our hearts, over and over- it is it's nature.  Joy and Sorrow inextricably intertwined. 
It is in acceptance of this, and in the fullness of feeling all of it- that we might descend/ascend/transcend through to a place of surrender- surrender to Life, to the cycle, to sorrow and it's dance partner, joy. 

like compost, that nourishes the earth and feeds what is living.

Love can transform and heal anything.
Love can transform and heal anything.
If we let it, Love can transform and heal anything.

I am

the tiptoeing sun..

What the Forest Has to Say to Me

once again,
to the singing creek
with paper and pen
my breath
rises and falls
more steadily
as i take my seat,

listening,
listening

i become very still
and notice only
the movement around me
my eye is drawn
to leaf,
to bird,
to web,
to moth,
to bee

listening, listening

i let my vision
lose focus, go soft around
the edges
as i listen for what i hear

the creek,
water over stone
dripping, flowing, smoothing
soothing me
a bee,
circling

my dog's tags,
somewhere nearby
in the distance
as he no-doubtedly leaps, exploring
still within reach

now raven's calling, deep
and throaty
and i think
about the naming of things

unexpectedly
my voice tumbles out of me
and i feel
the resonance in my chest
and hear the
echo back from the trees

i sing to the forest, again
uninhibitedly
my heart cracking
open in my chest
my breath
settling deeper
into my
belly

sing your breath,
when you breathe,
the
water whispers to me

feeling.

listening, listening

my body rocks,
hips rolling
side to side
opening, releasing, I
breathe into them
imagining the vast space
of possibility-

release.

listening, listening

heart thumps.
that cracked open place, oh yes
i move
there
with my breath
i let the tears come,
and they come
so quickly-
right below the surface,
waiting
i give them over to
the creek, who willingly
recieves me.
she
seems to say,
give them here, Child,
again and again,
as many times as need be

i imagine my tears
flowing
down the creek
growing to the stream
joining with the river
flowing out to the sea

that vast and wild
Ocean Mother, She,
who my tears taste of
She,
who responds to the moon, as i
gently cycling,
re-cycling
She who knows the ebb, the flow
of tides
her wild, crashing, joyous
waves,
that move
like my pain-
i feel them wash over me,
and away
wash over me, and away~

i open my eyes
and notice the rain

i stand up, abruptly
moving to leave-
and the hem of my
paiyaso pants
catches a nail and i land, Thump!
on my butt again
outright and unexpected
down again
as quickly as i had risen up
i think,
i guess not!

my laughter shakes the trees

i lay back
on the two-plank bridge
to see what else
the forest has to say to me

i look up to the sky,
and watch the rain drops fall to earth
fresh water mixes
with salt
and i let the rain cleanse the sorrow from my face
washing this releasing~
cleansing,
healing

o! let the day begin anew again,

listening,
listening.

Progress

couple of weeks ago i
went for a hike
down
by the singing creek
and saw a pollywog,
who reminded me that-

transformation
is an awkward thing

back again, today
by that sweet, cleansing
water
and there, again
my friend-
four-legged this time
he swam by
still at full-tail throttle-
but closer,
one step
closer,
to his
unknowable,
unknown
form

Lost and Found

I stop
and take stock
of this re-clamation scene

I am re-membering
my Life,
piece by piece

I am peeling back
layers
of years
of skins
of lifetimes of hiding
protections
long past needed,
silences, melting

invisibility
only binds you

and it is only in my re-vealing
that i can discover
how
Big
I Am

and so
I will greet my Life grinning-
humbly,
gratefully,
knowing

that whatever comes
is Teacher.

big guns and little dresses

churning
alone, here
at the country coffee shop
so far outta town, that everybody's local
except, maybe, for me
never local, never known, never home

i am waltzing
down corridors of memory-
kicking up dust-piles of days
forgotten,
peering into corners
questioning cracks and crevices,
cause some crazy-coyote-counselor lady
told me
to start digging

turning away
from shadows, from self
has kept my red-shoes tapping
has kept time to rhythms of pain and patterning
pushing away
all that is too pitiful
too poor and lonely
too vulnerable
to bare
to bear
in the glaring light of day

so, today
hand me a shovel,
a trowel,
high boots and pen,
and let the
digging dance
begin..

unedited.

a little bleary eyed this morning
but at least
a little less than the rest
waking from dreaming
that my ex-lover has died
bleary eyed
i move forward through the personal fog of morning
sifting through dreams and visions, memories that sometimes grow vivid
others that threaten to completely fade away
who am i, today?
emotions flood shallow laguna plains
marshy morning
i note the preferred posture of percieved safety
hunched in on myself and crunchy
just below the semi-permeable surface
the soft and fleshy layers of vulnerability
i'm between
the softest and the hardest parts of me
so let me be easy
today
gentle with myself and others
breathe
i sit on my porch and think that everything is okay-
or nothing is,
which thought would i like to live by today?
the light of possibility unfolding
or the dark depths of a cave where i've been hiding
on too many sunny days,
too many sunny days

At the end,

there is always a beginning.

as i sit, here
at the end of the world
in a place familiar and no longer mine,
i wonder
i ponder
the rhythms, the patterns that have brought me
thus far

i've been shedding skins
again
and this new me is also strange, and
somehow familiar

the moon's belly is full and hangs low in the sky
pregnant yet, with so much possibility
who am i?
alone, this night,
alone
as we all are, really

intentions with friends this morning, at sunrise
i spoke of roots intertwined
of deep connection,
of support and nourishment

sometimes
i can lose myself, so easily
in the day to day, ordinariness of things
or in the constant flux and flow and changing,
in the sorrow, the stuck places
or outside of myself, forgetting
that source is a wellspring
that overflows in my soul
and that my roots come with me, wherever i go
that my wings are not fragile things
and have known a heavier load,
than this

and this, is what?
is bliss
is hard
is changing
is soft
and unfolding
is unknown and scary,
is life giving death giving life.

Be Gentle...

i sit,
and watch the sunlight dance along
the strands of web
linking leaf and leaf
and plant to plant
a garden of shimmering threads
i hear the blackbirds
with their shrill voices
and let the whisper of breeze wash over me
let the sun's warmth in
through my skin
past every pore and all the broken places

what if,
in this unravel-moment,
you chose to do something different?
right-along-beside the old familiar pattern?
what if you chose,
to remember?

the strands of light that connect you,
the web of love that supports you,
the earth that holds you up?

Navajo song, via Joseph Cambell

"Oh, beauty before me, beauty behind me, beauty to the right of me, beauty to the left of me, beauty above me, beauty below me, I’m on the pollen path."

On Letting Go...

she nursed Honey
from my fingertips
i felt her feet
vibrating and vibrant
as she moved across my hand
stately, with dignity
and grace~
that slow stroll reserved
for royalty

i am a Child
in wonder at Life, so small
at a Mother of so much,
my eyes are wide, my heart is creaking open-
as i feed my Queen,
who's made an unheard of
appearance
this evening

just this moment, this
is more than i could have asked for
in the car as i drove, grieving
relinquishing my hold on
my resistence to letting go
my chest is shaking as
i am breathing, 
a deep trembling,
a crumbling, 
receeding.

inhale, exhale
this is Life, this is Death
here, in your hands, moving
surrender to the Mystery,
and turn your Heart towards that
which is Living,
allow yourself
the honey,
the Beauty,
the flame,
the sting.

how could i

forget to remember?

as hummingbird jewels
dart and dive
around me
this morning,
hum-strum-whirr they invite
me to dance,
to live in the moment as though it were holy
to inhabit my body
to embody the spirit within me
to create and recreate over
and over again.

perhaps my redemption lies in
daily resurrection
allowing myself to die and be reborn again
each morning,
rising from ashes of sleep and dream
to start,
to start again.

Mamuse

Garden Song

On this bright and healthy morning
I wanna sing my song
Let it be sung
And as I let it fly out into the world
Let it be known
I hear the music in all things today
The dance is on

I lay down on the ground
In the garden,
let the earth
Crawl up into my clothes
Stared up at the sky and we fell together
We really are so close
He whispers hello, hello, hello
And the dance is on

All the world is conspiring for me
The dance, the dance
Everything everywhere nourishes my growth
The dance is on
Let it be known
I can hear the music in all things
Today it's on
This one's for me

The bees are buzzing for me
The dance, the dance
Even the distant train is calling my name
The breeze is orchestrating
a complicated ballet
Between the leaves
The dance is on
This one's for me

All the world is conspiring for me
The dance, the dance
Everything everywhere nourishes my growth
The dance is on
Let it be known
I can hear the music in all things
Today it's on
This one's for me

The spiders are making rainbows
Between collard greens and the sun
There's a hummingbird calling
Up in his tree
I can hear his wings from way over hear
They beat for me
This one's for me

curious

shifting clarity
sifting experiences through the filter of mind and body
redirecting energy
hold it in close,
now,
expand exponentially-
hands open and unclasping
of all those answers so long longed after
the ball drops, the beat hits-
and bounces
with gravity
with bouancy,
so give me levity today-
a certain intentional casual-ty
give me
the freedom of air in my lungs
filling, emptying

cords touch, after so long left hanging
and i am grateful for that
in love
which transcends
the smallness of possesion and protection
and instead, gives of itself freely
with no need, no need
for reciprocity,
only receptivity.

butter and honey days

the skin snaps, bursting
and the juice from fruit, warmed
by the sun
rushes
to flood my mouth
and run down my chin,
land
sticky on my chest,
drips,
like kisses
like sweet drops of sweat
on sun-browned skin,
in orchards that hum
with
ten-thousand tiny wings

hand in hand
briefly, just
for a moment
now and
again,
skin on skin
feels good, and so
i give
in
and let
the "soft animal of my body" just love
what it loves,
and let
this blessed
sensuous
beauty
in.

The Freeing

She lowers the pail into the well
pulls up black water
a full bucket of it
sets it in the grass to
moonbathe until dawn

She has heard tell
water painted by the moon
gives you the power to change
loosens old skins and masks
tightened by days of trying

She has heard tell
water soaked in the moon's gaze
becomes the sweet nectar
of free life
free thought
liberation

Under the fits and starts of stars she waits
and when the dawn finally comes
eagerly tips the metal lip to her mouth
lets the moon dusted river
rush her body
clear her of all things caged




~dawn thompson

reminiscent

dreams of bees
humming
I wake to clean
and find a lizard
snoozing
under the couch,
I pick him up
to take him
outside and
he's slow
to leave
the warmth of
my hand.

it's foggy
here
this morning,
but the birds are singing
and the horses
are
romping.

and
I land somewhere
between
poetry and prose,
pausing for a puff
and a sip.
new rituals beginning,
new rhythms-
hit the re-set this weekend
and i feel fresh-
holding onto my center,
learning how to
rest, there
and reminding
myself to
have

some

fun.


the days of the oh-so-solemn,
ceremonials are
over-
I welcome
breath,
I welcome
pause,
I welcome connection,
I welcome
the smile that plays
on the edges of my lips,
I am That-
and now, too,
This-
just
and all
and every bit-of,
this.

well.

tell me,
what good is a candle,
without a flame?
when all spells are broken-
only the truth remains.

gargh-blargam-bluey

heave pillows
and throw sighs
i want to curl up on the couch
with someone's hand on resting
on my head
my shoulder
my thigh
i am jealous of the cat tonight
who can creep up, turn her motor on
and illicit caresses and snuggles
in a moments time
tonight
me siento sola
once again
but i know its passing
its
passing
and sometimes the road is lonely, gaw-dammit
sometimes thats
just how it goes
sometimes it doesn't matter
how much
you "know"-
you just don't fucking know.

Ausencio

how do you sit with it?

a grown man,
unable to read, to write
in his own language
let alone yours, a foreign tongue
here, in an unfriendly land
unable to look you in the eye
or speak loud enough for you to
make out his words
the first time

how do you sit with the
injustice of it?
that by place of birth
circumstance
and chance
you were given so much more than him?

how do you sit
with the suffering of soul
the loss of confidence
the absence of dignity
pride abandoned, or thought undeserved
or maybe beaten out of him

how do you sit
with it?

maybe you don't
maybe you just drive home crying
and pant and wail to the sky
pushing palms of feet and hands
into the ground
asking, begging for it to be taken

how do you sit,
with this man named Absence
whose downcast eyes
have pierced you through, unexpectedly
on a thursday afternoon

maybe you don't or
maybe you do
maybe it's unexpected thursday afternoons
that call and call and call you to
be a balm for suffering
however you can
here,
in an unfriendly land.

Such...

sweetness.

Mm.

"And forget not that the earth delights to feel your bare feet and the winds long to play with your hair."

Waking Dream Warrior

I meet you in my dreams,
or,
I meet myself, really.
She, who could not for the pain of love see,
that which stood before her,
and, or
danced in the shadows behind her back.

I will meet you there fiercely, reclaiming.
I will stand before you, eyes full and blazing,
with hands open, gently, releasing.

I,
I do my own work now.
and She who meets with you in dreams,
is She that wakes with me each morning.
She who walks beside me,
and catches my hand, should I start to fall.

She is my warrior woman, standing tall and unafraid of
what she knows,
She is that virgin huntress queen, with bow and arrow drawn.
She is open-eyed and in waking, no longer waiting for
the proof of love unfelt, or of betrayal unseen.

She walks beside me, he-ya-na-hey-neh
and whispers words of strength to my feet.
She sings freedom to each step that I have walked away.
She calls to my spirit, to every last vast inch of it-
return,
return to me.

All that is mine, I re-claim.
All that is not,
She gathers in her arms and with a firm and humble nod,
places at your feet.

He-ya-na-hey-neh-oh-wey.

-re, or the promise tenses.

time
to
re-assemble
re-create
re-invent
re-evaluate
re-name
re-member
re-connect
render
re-locate.

hablare.
cantare.
disfrutare.
crecere.
imaginare.
sanare.
sonare.
vivere.

Sigh...

Conversation with a good friend, sit, relax, enjoy...
and then the ol' horoscope echos- what if it's the rainbow, and not the pot of gold?

I am sitting in the local hip coffee shop, feeling stand-outtish and foreign and full.
Maybe a little too full, in reaction to an empty growling stomach, in reaction to feeling alone.
I wonder, too, about that reaction on a bigger scale, I have been hungry, hungry, hungry for Life-
and now am feeling a little too full, an appetite that has grown voracious and a weakened ability to prioritize leaves me feeling overwhelmed.

So grateful for that conversation, for the reminder to take a breath, and ground.

So many good changes have left me feeling so much clearer than before- no drank, no smoke, no joke.  A moment of celebration, here or there, but rare.  And it feels good, feels better.  It is far too easy to cloud and hide and avoid Life, myself, my pain, my goals.

Needing to find more balance, find my boundaries and hold them well, with kindness.
Phew.  Sometimes I grow tired of that lesson, and yet it doggedly arises, again and again- as often as I need it to until I learn it, I suppose.

Should go, that list is'a calling.  Less overwhelmingly though...
Bless~

Don't Worry...

In Honor Of...

...one of the greatest men I have ever known.

A Teacher, a Friend, a Blessing to all who crossed his path.

A man who embraced his Death with as much love and grace as he embraced Life.

"Peace! Fullness of Life!"

~John Jerry Anthony Parente

Rest in Peace, John.

Now you are Everywhere...

Take It In

dark-chocolate-caramel-sea-salt tongue
and finger tips
musica brazilera
bailando por estero
y yo
sitting, staring, speechless
at these surroundings

me,
at the table, looking out on the rain
me,
here, alone, unable to escape myself
that elusive
woman in the mirror
who is
dancing again
and now
a little samba shake
all the way across the living room
she pulls herself
passionately close
and spins, dips, twirls
bouncing back-
i watch her shimmer and smile
hair, wild and curly
from the rain

i am
re-membering
again,
now
this rhythm
this pulse
this life that is so full of possibility and
probability not detracting, I
am beginning
once again
to believe

that something of more substance can be created.
that life is full and so am I.

que todo esta vivo en mi.

Stillpoint.

Be, don't seek.Sit warmly open,
lightness in your brow,
not questions.

Be ready for the quiet
when it comes,
and the creaking
of the house's bones
and the wind's music
playing the notes of the trees.

Be, don't brood.
Don't wait for Life
to announce itself
in capitals
or high garb.

Be available to its whispers,
know how to listen
when it tells its true self
and not the lies
you've dreamt up.

Be able to breathe
and let go of your breath,
let go of life as you wish it to be
and take in the simplicity
the facts-

This sky is.
This day is.
This sparrow is.

Be, don't try.
Your weariness must have
shown you something by now.
Stay seated in your soul,
remember the sun is there,
truth and time are there.

Be, don't seek.
You've already found.
You already have.
You already know.
You already are.


~Elizabeth Page Roberts

chrysalis

door ajar, letting the rain in, cleansing. 
the air is cold, but i welcome the freshness, the movement, it's chill on the little skin that's exposed.
i'm wrapped today, "moving like a pupa." :)
morning conversations of skitz-o-frenia, shamanism and spirits, emotional reactions and defenses. 
i'm surrounded by mooning women and skittish cats, still adjusting to the pit-bull size beastie that's moved in.
late morning brunching. :) 
protein and more of it!
my body is aching with this change of weather, of seasons it seems. 
but
movement is medicine
and i am doing lots of it.
feline, fluid stretching, qi gong,and shakin' it out, yo.

have some work to do that i'm avoiding.
again.
ha. 
i think that some inner dis-order needs arranging
before i can move towards that bid'ness lady who's gotta write a semi-professional letter.
phew.

gotta remember to breathe. 
it's amazing how easily and often i forget.  

no music in my life at the momentito...
my technological means are packed up in a box being stored under a bed in another town.
and so
i listen to the rain, the sound of it
on the roof, the wooden slats of the porch, the cement, the cars crashing puddles below.
i hum a little tune now and then,
and traditional chinese music trinkles in from the room across the hall.
yes. that's right. trinkling. :)
i've got the grouch's, Lakeside tune playing in my head,
mostly on repeat of,

"release-release-release-release,  release,  release,  release-"

my doodle-bug
half-crawls, half-slides off the bed, yawning.
he steps onto the carpet in front of me, bowing.
what a dawg.
i get up to give him some good puppy lovin' and i am so grateful for his presence in my life. 
no matter what worries and trials it been along the way with this guy-
they are forgotten with abandon when he snuggles in or makes me laugh so hard i cry.
damn.

ha.
i said that really loud on bart yesterday, accidentally out loud.
it kind of rang out into the conversation that was happening across from me.  i didn't look up, they definitely paused.  whoops.
it was a genuine response, after reading that in the latest issue of Street Sheet 
that there are 185 VACANT units in San Francisco's Housing Authority's buildings. 
(Who is reporting much fewer less..) 
and as the article said,
"Meanwhile, we have families in San Francisco sleeping on the floors of churches, at drop-in centers, and in their cars. Some families are forced to stay in unsafe situations as they have no place to live."

need i remind anyone of the season of weather that has just come upon us? 
rain, no matter how much it's needed or how beautiful it is,
is never welcome when you live outside.

and yes, there's bureaucracy, institutions, paperwork-
but where is the heart? the humanity?
i wonder,
with so many empty houses and so many mothers, fathers, daughters, sons, brothers and sisters outside?

the man who sold me the paper,
who gave me two issues, even though i only had 1
shared a smile with me
and generosity
i thanked him and wished him,
'Be warm, stay dry-'

just thoughts, today.  on this rainy finally-wintry day.
just feeling grateful for every little thing.

Caminante

You
witness yourself.
scarf and jacket wrapped tight
against the cold.

You.
walking down the street
you were raised on

you see
where you learned to
ride your bike
where you fell down,
and got back up
again

you see silhouettes of trees
shadow lined sidewalks
and it's nothing but
You
and the cloudy city-night sky
and the cool, wet
breeze

And your dog.
whose click-clacking
step
calls you back
to the present,
happening.

you see
the tree that once stood
there,
cut down long ago
the houses full
of ghosts
of kids you used to
play with
where are they now,
you wonder,
where did they go?

You
walk this street that
you know like
the back of your hand,
in a skin
you can finally
claim
as your own.

and for once,
You don't feel homeless,
coming home.

make beauty everywhere you go

there's a mockingbird
somewhere nearby,
singing
i'm perched and listening
on the rooftop porch,
which transformed
into a garden,
in a morning's time

hands in dirt
as the city woke up
sleepily, slowly
saturday morning style

i hear that sharp trill
unmistakable
as she ducks and weaves
through borrowed songs
now she mocks
the car alarms
mimics the men on the street
as they call
from yard to yard
from car to car

i finish up
sigh, and take a seat
to survey with pleasure
the unexpected beauty
that blossomed
with a little roof-porch tetris
and some elbow grease

smiling,
i recognize the pitch of the hummingbirds' wing
zip-zzoooooooooooooooooooooooooom~
there he is,
he pauses and dives low to
check out
this new
little patch of green.

PAY ATTENTION.

laws are being passed to prevent us from being able to grow our own food and make our own medicine.
our dependency on technology has made us pasty and weak and has left us with little common sense and no idea how to provide for ourselves.
and the deportations are on the rise....

they will sell it to you wrapped in convenience, they will tell you that it will make you SAFER.
they are not out to protect you- they are out to protect their profits and their pockets and there is no human life or suffering that will deter them.

PAY ATTENTION.

Letter from Eve Ensler

Dear Emotional Creature,

I believe in you. 

I believe in your authenticity, your uniqueness, your intensity, your wildness. 

I love the way you dye your hair purple, or hike up your short skirt, or blare your music while you lip synch every single memorized lyric.

I love your restlessness and your hunger. You possess the energy that, if unleashed, could transform, inspire and heal the world.  

Everyone seems to have a certain way they want you to be - your mother, father, teachers, religious leaders, politicians, boyfriends, fashion gurus, celebrities, girlfriends.   In reporting for my new book, I learned a very disturbing statistic; 74 percent of young women say they are under pressure to please everyone.

 

I have done a lot of thinking about what it means to please: to be the wish or will of someone other than yourself.  

To please the fashion setters, we starve ourselves.  

To please men, we push ourselves when we aren't ready. 

To please our parents we become insane overachievers.  

If you are trying to please, how to do you take responsibility for your own needs?  How do you even know what your own needs are?  The act of pleasing makes everything murky.  

WE lose track of ourselves.  

We stop uttering declaratory sentences.  

We stop directing our lives. 

We forget what we know.  

We make everything OK rather than real.

 

I have has the good fortune to travel around the world.  Everywhere I meet teenage girls and women giggling, laughing as they walk country roads or hang out on city streets.  Electric girls.   I see how their lives get hijacked, how their opinions and desires get denied and undone. 

So many of the women I have met are still struggling late into their lives to know their desires, to find their way.

  

Instead of trying to please, this is a challenge to provoke, to dare, to satisfy your own imagination and appetite.  To take responsibility for who you are, to engage.  Listen to that voice inside you that might want something different.  It's a call to your original self, to move at your own speed, to walk with your step, to wear your color.

 

When I was your age, I didn't know how to live as an emotional creature.  I felt like an alien.  I still do a lot of the time.   I am older now. I finally know the difference between pleasing and loving, obeying and respecting.  

It has taken me so many years to be OK with being different, with being this alive, this intense.  I just don't want you to have to wait that long.

 

Love, 

Eve