Archive | October, 2013


29 Oct

I am just letting the words fly with misspellings, lower case errors, run-on sentences, all sorts of mess.  I am not  a finished product, but one feeling her way along the path.  There is a tendency to only write in a I’ve figure this out sort of way for me at times, but what i find more interesting is what each moment may look like.  Here I am standing in a certain spot while taking steps, full of questions.  I am not pressed against the wall of decision making – I am staring back at my own naked face in the mirror of this rectangle wordpress box.

no face

change is in the air.  We go from hot to cooler, overhead to slanting sunlight and I project this shift to my own shifting seasons, as a mother, as a person.  i’ve known no other way to be than a mother who merged with my children – not in a controlling way but in a borderless existence of OURS, not mine.  My room has been open all this time;  My clothes, my shoes, my jewelry, my bed, my skin, my nutrients,  all fair game.  My girls psychically curl up inside me even still;  it seems to me as if they remember the start of their journeys here inside my  body.  They push on me the way they push against themselves.  They look into my face, my words, my silences to reflect their existence.  And yet I can sense the change of seasons; as the morning light recedes,  they too are moving into their self-contained vessels; they move into darkness all their own, an inner seeding, toward a winter before a dawning of light and sprouting come spring.

as this season moves closer still , and these beings transcend each stage, my space is being returned  to me in micro increments, almost indiscernibly so until I stop and see where I am now compared to a year ago and a year before that – a sky as large as montana is brimming if I squint.  Here it comes but i do not know how to repurpose for this planet at this age in this body with this lowgrade fever of ambivalence I seem to stew myself in.  the joys i experience alone are so simple, so strange, so lonely – while I crave no one.  I wonder if i can sustain myself as a lone, wondering weirdo.   Have you seen any job ads for Lone Wandering Wondering Weirdo?  My resume reads:  I will walk in nature, clearing my mind, for the rest of humanity for a modest income.  🙂

i fantacize about walks in dense and hidden woods, chilly beaches, rocky cliffs.  I march into brambles and sticker bush zones for the novelty and for the solitary nature spots such as these provide.    I enjoy my interaction with strangers more than I do acquaintances.  the smile at the car repair shop or with the bag boy seem more poignant than with people I am supposed to know.  I do not fit any molded role anymore.  I am my own path and it is solo.  it seems to me that taking this solo path is always the path of eccentricity.  I no longer can rein in the outlying of my personality.     I have no role model, no clear expectation of what happens next.

My 5 year plan is to listen to the rain when it starts falling, to stop what I am doing and try to hear  who is talking to me, to welcome the visitor who appears in the costume of cat, tree branch trimmer, package delivery door bell.  The life as a stage art is  A Happening, a flow of unpredictability.  I am not intending anything but flow – I allow a softening of myself like Pooh bear – I hang my hat up on the simple rack – I sign up for the back seat  and trust the scriptwriter for the rest. And yet I still ask,  is this wrong?  Should I map it out, chart my course,  steer my ship?  Where does the balance lie between flow and directioning?

Charleston rivers are full of abandoned boats, pulled off their moors and washed up on the marshy shores; some of them have sunken to the bottom of channels, leaving danger for boats passing by.  Some have washed up together and form a jumble of wreck and loss for all to see.  I once kayaked over to a graveyard of boats and listened to the eerie creaking the wind and water played through abandonment.

Is emptying myself out of steering my own vessel the same as choosing to wash ashore?  Am I not taking responsibility for my journey?  Do I need to plan and trust both?  Or do I trust and know that whatever I could plan doesn’t match a fraction of what is possible?  But if I do not plan, how do I avoid getting washed up on shore?  Or steered by some other ship master who may jump aboard my ship?

I have ridden the edge of this particular wave of paradox for years.  I think it is a mind trick.  I think I am clued in when I trust the moment to present to me what i need.  To anticipate or project into the future is not of the moment, but of the mind.  But from here I often am not sure.   It seems that always the answer to paradox is an adjustment of the dial of distance.  From up close, it appears either/or.  From a step or two back, the paradox disappears and the millions of options appear in every grey scale between black and white.

Perhaps… I’ll let you know what I find from the bottom of the channel, or from the graveyard, or from the open sea – after all is over, and I am gone.  Perhaps there is a knowing on down the way – but by then, who cares?  the next horizon is so alluring and this world is but a dream barely remembered in the new dawning.

mirror mirrormirrormirrormirage

the canvas

24 Oct


Mark Rothko

“Silence is so accurate.”

When I forget and

dozen-dip the brush,

pure color turns muddy brown.

From here forward is a

letter to myself:

Silence the world;

breath into simple.

Dip your brush into

cups of Gratitude

and Trust:

broad stroke the linen a sunny reflection.

Gratitude is the gentle one

shining on nettles and narcissus,

stink bug and swallowtail.

Trust is the fire pit,  you


fiercely face forward into change.

What is change, you wonder.

It looks like

yang yearns for yin, and

reaches for her on every curving edge –

cusping them both toward the

round and round motion of creation,

a pirouette circling

same and strange.

Watch the swirl off the bristles;

see the blending and oozing

into every inch of what is and what will be.

Doubt is fear for opening the gift given.

It delays you.

You know.

I raised you better than that.

Allow doubt for just a down beat, then shift up;

you are the artist

and deservedly so.

Two colors,

One canvas


– silence.


(Awake in 365 days cleared my palette today; thanks for your steady and true truths!)

to be or not to be solid

23 Oct


My first guest blogger:  Eden

It is 12:30 am.  Cookies for a class something or other are out of the oven.  We rise at 5:30 for school.  We have ridden through waves of sillies, grumpies, hostilities, now finishing off with peace.  Some days are just like this.

When she asked me to read her poem for her physical science class, I felt a deeper pull than I could have imagined.  What is life but the choice to be or not be solid?  🙂

To be a solid, or not to be–that is the question:

Whether ’tis nobler in the mind to suffer

The vibrating in place of closely packed particles

Or to take arms against the indefinite shape of liquids

And by opposing become them. For tightly packed particles, or bouncing off particles

No more–and by bouncing off I mean to say that gasses have enough energy to overcome attracted forces until hitting walls or other particles

The gasses, can be compressed or expanded

which solids and liquids cannot. ‘Tis a consummation

Devoutly to be wished. To be solid, to be gas–

To be liquid–perchance to be all at once: ay, there’s the lie,

For in that solid of particles what repeating patterns may come

we have called Crystalline solids and have shuffled off no definite structure to be called Amorphous solids

Must give us pause. There’s the respect

That makes calamity of so long life.

For who would bear the viscosity in liquid of time,

Th’ oppressor’s wrong, it describes how well liquid flow’s

The slightly sliding of the liquid particles

The definite volume

That patient merit of th’ indefinite shape

When he himself might his choice make

With a gas instead? Who would not choose this lifestyle,

To explain warm and cold air rising and falling and no definite volume under a weary life,

But that the dread of gas and its smell,

Thus gas does make smelly particles of us all,

The plasma matter, from whose bourn

traveller’s collide and strip atoms of their electrons

the gas-like positive and negative particles return, and puzzles the will,

And makes us rather bear those solids, gasses, and liquids we have

Than be at a high temperature and energy level

And thus the native hue of resolution

Is sicklied o’er with the pale cast of thought,

And enterprise of great pitch and moment

With this regard their particles turn awry

And lose the name of action. I choose solids.


19 Oct


Often, there is just a walking through, no thinking-flow going on in my moment to moment existence for which I am deeply grateful.  Sailing through life from this place is a joy.

Sometimes, though,  there is a heavy familiar sadness that wells up that is not tied to anything particularly but an overall way of being that shades my eyes.  That familiar feeling is so out of place in my flow anymore.  I see my own brand of sad, circling around, looking for a way in.  When it comes over me, I have a hard time feeling any hope, or purpose for continuing to walk about  in this world.  It is heavy.  So heavy, I am amazed how it ever can blow over and leave the sky clear for joy to flow again.

So I ask myself, what is this?  What is there to uncover and learn?   What silly stairs do i stumble down, sometimes?  What song  plays in the distance to help me remember to dance – dance back into the true lightness of being.  Heavy is a smothering blanket best dealt a laughing blow.

Awake and knowing, asleep and seeking, asleep and suffering, remembering, awake and dancing: round-and-round:  macabre and delight – all of it.  I am doing this life.  Watching this life.  Lingering in bed on a Saturday morning.

While waiting for dance rehearsal to finish at 10:30 last night, watching the dashboard clock creep ever closer to 11,  I was so tired, I could have entered deep sleep there under the streetlight blaze behind the steering wheel.  As i sat in the car waiting, I realized once again that there were no pressing thoughts.

How I sink into this wonderful thoughtless space!  There is the seeing that when I carry on with my life from this place, I carry on with ease.

The sadness seems to start when I find a snaggy string  playing  at the corners of the door to this space.  Thoughts, like busy hands, seek out the messy strings distracting the entrance to bliss and they accidentally unravel a whole mess of thread which mounts up in piles.  Buried down under the piles of thoughts, I look up but cannot see what once looked like endless blue sky; the blue is obscured by the opaque nature of the mess I’ve pulled down upon myself.  Rising again seems impossible.

Where is that spacious place that felt like home now?

Why should I stay at the bottom of a well, when a strong rope is in my hand? — Rumi
Thoughts are string, but truth is a rope, a rope out.

Each time through the confusion, I see more clearly.  Each time I remember more quickly of the opaque nature of unclear thinking.  Each time I get still a bit sooner; I ride the storm out with a little more assuredness.

But dear, sweet, efforting girl, do not miss the large  recycling bin at the entrance to spaceousness  just waiting for those knotted mounds.  Drop them off.   Do not sort them or roll them up on spools to be brought out again another day.  Leave them and move on.

From this spacious place, it is clear:  home is inside and beyond the moving vessel of me – home enjoys the ride through storm and  soft breeze, music and imagined loss, luxury and stark beauty.  The true home is  free of noise, confusion, dust, clutter.

Home is not the vessel; the vessel is a springy, high platform from which I can swan dive into the sea of everything.  I don’t know even a tiny sliver of what is,   but I am given just what I need to push those boundaries out and out and out as I can handle more without quaking in fear.

While I lived on a boat for several years  (which actually didn’t move all that much as it was tied up to a dock), I resisted the idea of a moving home.

But now I can see that my real home is much more clearly all ways with me and always in motion, even in the bed on a saturday morning.

Home is where i want to be
Pick me up and turn me round
I feel numb – burn with a weak heart
(so i) guess i must be having fun
The less we say about it the better
Make it up as we go along
Feet on the ground
Head in the sky
It’s ok i know nothing’s wrong . . nothing

Hi yo i got plenty of time
Hi yoyou got light in your eyes
And you’re standing here beside me
I love the passing of time
Never for money
Always for love
Cover up + say goodnight . . . say goodnight

Home – is where i want to be
But i guess i’m already there
I come home – -she lifted up her wings
Guess that this must be the place
I can’t tell one from another
Did i find you, or you find me?
There was a time before we were born
If someone asks, this where i’ll be . . . where i’ll be

Hi yo we drift in and out
Hi yo sing into my mouth
Out of all tose kinds of people
You got a face with a view
I’m just an animal looking for a home
Share the same space for a minute or two
And you love me till my heart stops
Love me till i’m dead
Eyes that light up, eyes look through you
Cover up the blank spots
Hit me on the head ah ooh

right here, right now

12 Oct

while we only have this moment, I hope that you don’t mind me taking this one moment and indulging myself with my life story – I just found my baby pictures, from my last beginning.

first this,

then this..


the sound of silence of the lambs

9 Oct

silence of the lambs

The time for bleeting out is gone and

off you go, sweet veal,

to make someone a nice, fine meal.

Seeping through the cracks in homes and

pulsing over waves of air,

the signal has reached crescendo.

Who have you been told you are?

Borg Army Brat?

What is it that we think we are?

Don’t reach out for the handle bars; they’ve melted

clean away.

And the peddles are now spinning free and bruising up your shins;

your feet can’t reach the ground, be warned:

a fall off of the bike is no longer a trip to pavement

but an in tangle with the shadow

of our collective dive.

Now watch some tits and asses,

filled up with air balloons,

beneath corrected face and teeth,

while piercing tongues ensue.

What seemed to be so good and true is gone and now you can


for a hot ticket to a church

built all on sand –

for the soul purpose of extracting

good intentions.

Levi proclaims today-

while we are discussing plagiarism – since every model in our world

is now only corrupt, why shouldn’t we lie and cheat our way to a good grade,

whus up?

The class together rolls their eyes –

on cue they shout, off topic – to the boy so out of line

his mind off in the tropics.

Stoned boy in leather and in chains,

Question me and ask me why, why does nothing make sense?

And so we sit at 8 o’clock and call the spade a spade.

Why are you taking classes?

Why the roll call life?

For a degree – for what?

For this:

a moment here where nothing remains and nothing has come in stead –

we’re really at a new beginning – and

its a damn good place to be.

Let’s  float here in this watery world

and learn that why we’re here

has nothing to do with the world gone way,

and everything to do with the next.

We are tasked with the big Create Again

only that which does make sense,

and this time

from our hearts,  amen.

No mistake,

I am nothing

to hold on to and

I do not want to talk of trouble.

Only this:

What’s next?

So what if you’ve had problems waking to an alarm?

So what if you have lost out on a deal gone horribly wrong?

Broken open

hand in hand,

no past, no story and no fame –

without a golden key, no king, no master can

we claim.

i am no different than you.

no different.

no diff.

no da.

da da.

Drink up from your own cup.

And do not wipe the mustache  from your face.

trusting the organic process of human blossoming

3 Oct


There is a truth or a myth, I don’t know which, that the blooming of a Peony is symbiotically related to ants.  I am unwilling to determine the truth of it, that ants eat the sugary coating off of the tightly bound blossom petals of the Peony bud and allow it to blossom in its amazing glory, because I enjoy the truth of it beyond the factual validation.  I cleave to the metaphor.

Humans are an exotic and wonderful bud in the universe who have forgotten how to blossom.  Our blossoming is actually as natural as all the flowers that we observe on this planet, yet most human beings are stuck in the tight bud phase – We have forgotten to blossom.

This blossoming is organic.  This unfolding  is not a doing but just the way the petals of our innate beauty unfurl  when we allow life to assist us.  We allow the ants to march up our stem; we don’t resist the nibbling of their little mouths.  We begin to feel a loosening of the petals; we allow the sugar coating that inhibits our development to disintegrate as what was sweet before becomes untenable –  naturally.

What needs to fall away, naturally will, if we allow it to do so.

From a real human life, I have found  that while I  may feel the need to list, to plan, to orchestrate my life journey, the growth spurts occured from within and without without the assistance of mind.  TV fell away on its own without a struggle, discordant friends or jobs or food or activities or locations all seemed to dissolve and disappear into the air at just the time and order in which they were best for me.  And though it may have felt desolate and lonely as these things fell away,  what came in next to fill the void was as amazing as this blossom right here – so soft and vulnerable and neck to a sharp knife brave.  This blossoming.  Beyond what my mind could ever conceive.


What is it I’m trying to say that first struck a true cord in me?  My own private epiphany?  We are here together like a field of sunflowers, (another flower comparison this morning, really?) and some of the enormous audacious heads are starting to face up toward the sun.  We are allowing the blossoming to occur.  It is so funny in a field of flowers to know that what is occurring here is nothing special;  it is just what flowers do, bloom.

Our field is odd in the universe in that the blossoming is co-opted, hidden;  we humans have been lulled into a dream and we do not even know that we are flowers, we do not know that we can blossom.  And that is okay too!  Every human can choose for herself whether to remember to flower or not; not every field chooses the full on glory of  every flower face   turned up toward the sun – but wouldn’t that be magnificent!

I recently listened to the latest installment of these most organic new teachings of Neil Kramer – and felt this response to his demarcation points that we all hit with the image of our flowering, the remembrance of my own way on the path as it has automatically allowed me to let go, let go, and let go again of all that does not serve me.  I only had to carry on – and what was no longer appropriate for where I found myself – fell away, as I allowed it to do so.

The ants on my tight bud self were uncomfortable; I often wanted to beat them back, but now I see more clearly; each discomfort is helping me to blossom.

through whose eyes do i see?

1 Oct


the cats do not care

one tiny bit that it is tuesday,

nor does the  moon –

shining itself in part and in shadow,

over meows of greeting and hunger.

The rolling out of the garbage

is now a job done in the dark.

3 cats   –    the moon   –   and me:

each with eyes for seeing and skin for feeling

the cooling morning air.

Essays in queue waiting  to be graded – shall I number them all?


What needs to be done will be done and instead I ask

whose eyes do I choose to look through in this moment:

skin,   fur,   or   rocky shell?

Should I add that there are also

eyes behind the veil  that

I cannot see, but I feel them

watching too?

Flying out –

I rub my growing, grey-tone belly,

taking in

what is below,

readying for

one last ripening

before the harvest.

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