Ocean's Calling (a poem)

It is so beautiful and amazing to be seen. This poem was written by a new friend. Thank you, David, for this gift.

Ocean's Calling

On a beach of the virtual sea
I sang of the longing in my heart,
for the friendship and love
of a companion to unravel and revel
in the mysteries of this life.
I sat in the shallows as the echoes
of my earnest supplication faded,
the waves lapping at my feet
in promissory consolation.

From the depths of the virtual sea
her liquid voice rose up to me
and I listened in stunned disbelief
to her captivating, lyrical song,
wavering dream-like, as if it came
from lost Atlantis herself.
And as the last notes faded,
her melody played on in my heart.

I gazed into the virtual sea
and saw the dichotomy of her being,
two goddesses in one glorious incarnation:
Athena, defending those in need
with strength and erudite wisdom,
and Aphrodite, born of the sea,
love and beauty personified.
I am set adrift, mesmerized,

as the turquoise tide carries me away.

I am borne into the virtual sea
to where Beauty shimmers.
Is she real, or a heavenly
reflection in this undulating mirror,
poised to flee from those
who dare disturb her visage?
Will my touch meet the one
Fate has destined for me,
or dispel the illusion
of this bitter-sweet dream?

Compelled to know,
I extend my hand ...

The Length and Breadth of Sorrow

The length and breadth of sorrow reflects the depth of love. The grieving would be less, if the love had been less, or perhaps if the attachment had been of a shallow sort. The trick in this life, the best trick, is to love deeply and to love big, without getting stuck. Good luck with that one. (If you know anything about astrology, I can shorthand this for you with one phrase: I'm a Cancer. So now you know the way I love.)

It is of some comfort to label the painful emotions by their names and attempt to let them pass like clouds on a windy day . . .oh, but when one's wind ceases and doldrums remain for weeks, or months, or longer, what then? When the clouds just sit there, taunting, raining and raining, teasing with spells of dry weather, then pouring rain on one's parade again and again, what then?

The answer, my friends, is not blowin' in the wind. (There isn't any wind, remember?) The answer is: I don't know. All I know is: it still hurts.

There was another poem read at the meditation retreat yesterday, and I laughed at it. I laughed at its TRUTH, shouting at me. Though it needn't have shouted, it was helpful to hear, and I didn't mind the volume. If it hadn't shouted, perhaps I wouldn't have listened. If only listening would ease the pain . . .

THE GUEST HOUSE

This being human is a guest-house.

Every morning a new arrival,

A joy, a depression, a meanness,

some momentary awareness comes

as an unexpected visitor.

Welcome and entertain them all!

Even if they're a crowd of sorrows,

who violently sweep your house

empty of its furniture,

still, treat each guest honorably.

He may be clearing you

out for some new delight.

The dark thought, the shame, the malice,

meet them at the door laughing,

and invite them in.

Be grateful for whoever comes,

because each has been sent

as a guide from beyond.

~Rumi

I Tasted a Cloud (a poem)

Today I received
a most amazing gift.
I tasted a cloud in my vegetable soup.
The cloud, which made the rain,
which fell on the rich brown fields,
which watered the seeds,
which became the meal,
I brought to my lips today.

Today I received
a most amazing gift.
I tasted the sun in my bread.
The sun, which shone brightly
onto the rich brown fields,
which warmed the seeds,
which became the manna,
I fed to my body today.

Today I received,
a most amazing gift.
I tasted the tears in my food.
The tears, which fell poignantly
onto the rich brown fields,
and joined rivers of sorrow over time,
and flowed into the ocean,
in which I washed myself today.

Today I received
a most amazing gift.
I tasted the joy in my repast.
Joy, which burst through the sadness,
drying the rich brown fields,
balancing the sorrow over time,
that living things could grow,
and nourish at this blessed table.

Beautiful gifts from other voices . . .(poems)

I don't usually post the work of others here, as this is primarily a place for my own heart to overflow and spill onto the screen. Today I attended a meditation retreat, and these two poems were read. They were such gifts, that I want to share them here . . .

Tripping Over Joy

What is the difference
Between your experience of Existence
And that of a saint?
The saint knows
That the spiritual path
Is a sublime chess game with God
And that the Beloved
Has just made such a Fantastic Move
That the saint is now continually
Tripping over Joy
And bursting out in Laughter
And saying, “I Surrender!”
Whereas, my dear,
I am afraid you still think
You have a thousand serious moves.

~Hafiz


Kindness

Before you know what kindness really is
you must lose things,
feel the future dissolve in a moment
like salt in a weakened broth.
What you held in your hand,
what you counted and carefully saved,
all this must go so you know
how desolate the landscape can be
between the regions of kindness.
How you ride and ride
thinking the bus will never stop,
the passengers eating maize and chicken
will stare out the window forever.

Before you learn the tender gravity of kindness,
you must travel where the Indian in a white poncho
lies dead by the side of the road.
You must see how this could be you,
how he too was someone
who journeyed through the night with plans
and the simple breath that kept him alive.

Before you know kindness as the deepest thing inside,
you must know sorrow as the other deepest thing.
You must wake up with sorrow.
You must speak to it till your voice
catches the thread of all sorrows
and you see the size of the cloth.

Then it is only kindness that makes sense anymore,
only kindness that ties your shoes
and sends you out into the day to mail letters and purchase bread,
only kindness that raises its head
from the crowd of the world to say
it is I you have been looking for,
and then goes with you every where
like a shadow or a friend.

~Naomi Shihab Nye

The Sprouting Heart (a poem)

At the end of the halcyon days,
came spring,
came spring.
The moon, though beautiful,
set at last,
and the sun warmed my earth.

The small and fragile seed
planted itself,
planted itself.
The weeds, though persistent,
and also beautiful,
yielded to a fresh and hopeful green.

And finally it was heard,
the Truth,
the Truth.
The heart, though watery,
whispered, hushed,
"I just want to Be, myself."

The Heart Knows (a poem)

When, my love,
does the heart know?
When it freezes drops of water
into ladybug-sized diamonds on diminutive branches?

When does the heart know?
When it laughs into the 'morrow,
when it laughs into darkness,
when it smiles on another burst of light?

The heart knows when to run,
and as the web of us was woven
you vanished in mid-spin,
weaving a life of alone.

When does the heart know?
When it cowers at the thought
of the chance to fly,
fearful it could never soar with grace?

Where is my poem?

The day you said you had to go,
we stood at my door and looked into eyes,
which had been windows to god,
in bed and out, for many months.

Our elixir, incapable of ingestion by many,
open-eyed prayer of intimacy created together,
shared with joy and peace.
I let you see, I opened.

From behind your strong walls,
I heard your words,
and through your smile and kind eyes,
"I can't wait to write a poem for you."

Words that didn't come
when we were lovers,
still haven't,
and I suppose they never will.

I Don't Know About That (a song)

All I know right now,
is crazy as it seems, somehow,
I found you in an ocean of words.
I like the way you say my name,
and the way you frame-
simple thoughts into paintings.

Maybe there's a sunrise here,
if I chase away the fear,
of opening to this light again.
And maybe there's nothing there,
but did you laugh, I could swear-
a flash of recognition.

I've heard what you've said,
and falling into bed with you,
would be so easy now-
but caution is a friend,
and as I begin again
I can't say where this goes.

Make the choice to run away
as night spins into day
shut the door before it opens wide
but I don't know about that
yes it would be better
avoid all stormy weather
take shelter while I can-
but I don't know,
I don't know about that.

Whispers on the sea
has love come to find me?
I tried to hide but only so long~
My life of only one,
had really just begun,
should I release my hold and let go?

Maybe there's a chance,
to start another dance,
with new music, I've never heard before~
Balancing is hard,
maybe I won't fall too far-
is that a net you're holding?

I hear what you're saying,
the games we won't be playing,
this could be so easy now-
but I don't know about that
caution is a friend,
as I begin again,
if she who hesitates is lost
I won't stop to count the cost
But I don't know,
I don't know about that.

My Brand New Day (a song)

In and out
forward and back
up and down,
as a matter of fact,
days like this
I just wanna shout

Get out
of my mind
stay away from my heart
can't you let me
make a brand new start?

Spin around
fall down
skin my heart on the ground
but there's a way
and I'll fly free
put the sad behind me

A rainbow
appears in my sky
time to dry my eyes
haven't lost much anyway,
Here comes my brand new day!

Fall far, fall fast
gonna let go of my past
with you
without you, too

Stand up
reach high
stop asking
questions that my life
won't answer anyway
won't answer me anyway

Begin again
step back in
wade in the river of life
so swift
the current takes me
to my ocean of now.

Spin around
fall down
skin my heart on the ground
but there's a way
I'll fly free
put the sad behind me

A rainbow
appears in my sky
time to dry my eyes
haven't lost much anyway,
Here comes my brand new day!

Dreams on the Wind (a song)

A word from the wind at the window pane,
whispered to give you the news,
that in the heart, if one listens sharp
are found all your Beautiful Truths.

More love than could ever be wanted,
tender touch and companionship rare,
like dragonflies flying spring dances,
your dreams take to shimmering air.

And this life of alone that you're thinking,
is the only one held in your hand,
if your ear to the earth can't reveal,
then perhaps heart and patience, they can.

So the sky that comes next waits so sweetly
because it can know what we can't
and the wind that caresses your future
whispers take off your shoes now and dance.

More love than could ever be wanted,
more touch and companionship rare,
like dragonflies flying spring dances,
your dreams take to shimmering air.

Prayer Flags (a poem)

The sun dappled the earth
and I stood there, trembling.
letting go is so tricky,
the timing matters so much.

I stood there in the morning light,
light which once caressed
our morning bodies
as we made love on your bed.

Holding prayer flags in my mouth
so I could use my whole being to gain height,
I rose with effort to the uppermost limbs
and paused to look over the landscape of my heart.

Viewing the crater left by your loving,
I estimated it would take some time
to fill in, for new seeds to take root,
but eventually, flora would thrive again.

With effort, I rose higher into the tree,
the tree I knew it was time to climb --
and, tears falling from my face
but with the same tenacity
with which I love you, I freed myself.

I tied the flags, the wind took them,
fluttering colors of strong and enduring wanting,
colors of the taste of your mouth and the smell of your skin,
the sky matched your eyes.

I prayed my prayers,
please take him,
please take him.

The wind heard me
and in an instant, my heart unclenched
opened to the sky, prayers flew to God,
that I could breathe again.

Letting Go of the Beautiful and Rare

It's easy to let go of the sorrows and pain of the past. If one comes to any awareness in this life, if one spends any devoted time in meditation, the release of the ugly and difficult gets easier and easier. Let go of the pains of the past? Hell yes, sign me up. Motivation for that task is easy to come by.

But even on a serious and dedicated spiritual path, it's very easy to overlook the incredible importance of letting go of the rare and beautiful . . .where is the motivation for that? The rare and shimmering moments of our life are what make it worth remembering, yes? The sorrows and horrors of a life have some value in the remembering, but the sweet and beautiful memories suspend themselves in the sunlight of our consciousness like multi-facted gems . .. "oh, that one, I remember the depth of that color!" "Oh, look at that one, one of the most brightly shining of them all!" The memories melt again like the most luscious dark chocolate on our warm tongues . . .see? The mind and heart would like to add: tongues which used to touch with curious desire as the eyes opened to Light and closed to find Light within, the contact sending jolts of energy circulating between two human forms, from me to him to me to him to me . . .

It's much more difficult to let go what was rare and beautiful, to look one last time at those gems, and, with tears or without, cast them far into the wintery blue ocean of distant memory. It takes much love and faith to hold the fact that something beautiful will come again. Or to see that letting go is sometimes part of holding on. Or that through is the way home again. Without enough faith, one can't release.

It takes hard-won wisdom to know if we don't let go of what was, there simply can't be room for what is or what will be . . .the heart is huge, but in that way, in only that way, the heart is finite in its capacity to hold. Yes. There is only so much room at one time for present beauty. Rare and heart-opening moments come to us when the Universe detects there is room for another experience to fill the soul.

I am at the Letting Go Point and have been since last summer. I never said I was quick to let go, tenacity being one of my most powerful blessings and curses. And I need to work on the faith piece of the equation: Love + Faith + Releasing = Future Beauty. I have much love, beautiful sweet love---and I have successfully released what needed releasing.

I have enough faith to let go, but not enough to be unafraid I will never again touch or be touched the way I once was. Some religious traditions use the word faith as a verb. I like that. It feels more accurate, because it's something one does. I'm faithing, because I'm letting go while frightened to do so. And that's called courage and I know I have that.

Take Me to Your Darkness (a song)

Show me all your shadows as they stretch into noon,
the mystery of your longings on the far side of the moon,
brilliant flash of diamond, a spark of light in black,
let go of belief that you are never coming back.

Fall into the crevice and feel alive within,
the deep and unknown part of you, it's time to live again,
punish no one now, and leave all guilt behind,
take me to your darkness, a gift of life so kind.

Uncover wounds long ignored, time to heal now,
if blackness overtakes your sun, you'll rescue you somehow,
look the monster in the eye, and what you'll really find,
is the darkest part of love, don't leave it behind.

So lay your dark side at my feet-the whole of you, the taste so sweet,
obsidian sand on endless beach, a promised fall into the breach,
don't just want to see the sun, but the absence of it too,
take me to your darkness, I see the whole of you.

Take me to your darkness, I want to love the whole of you.

Another Stone To Trip Over (a song)

I know the time has come
to see the road and start to run,
To pull the rip cord and float free
to seek the land I know is me.

Another journey after all
the way I learn to love the fall,
that flippy stomach feeling now
and always there's a net somehow.

A walk in darkness, after light of day,
tripping over rocks in the way,
Can't we just lay in soft spring clover,
instead of finding one more stone to trip over?

Feel the way to dive within,
while we dance this dance again,
hands together or barely touch,
while we take the space we need so much.

I don't know, even though I'm smart,
what got broken in your heart,
that made you leave this pure white love,
I ask again and I look above.

Won't you open and let me in,
won't you let the healing begin?
I'll whisper in an ocean blue tone,
as I move another dangerous stone.

A walk in darkness, after light of day,
tripping over rocks in the way,
Can't we just lay in soft spring clover,
instead of finding one more stone to trip over?

Can't we rest in soft spring clover
instead of finding stones that we trip over?

Public Garden (a song)

Everything I thought as I first walked among these trees,
Everything I wondered as I watched the falling leaves,
And over there on that blue bridge my heart skipped at the view,
as you walked here to meet me and I saw that it was you.

Chorus:
A garden of my future
a garden of right now
that's the way I saw this place
but it looks different now
I walk alone as night falls all around me
but I'll never ever say that I was sorry
no, no, no.

Every step we took with your arm over my shoulder,
Everytime we kissed as this brand new love grew older,
And over there where we embraced after missing us so much,
when we breathed with two full hearts and I felt your sweet touch.

Chorus:
A garden of my future
a garden of right now
that's the way I saw this place
but it looks different now
I walk alone as dusk falls all around me
but I'll never ever say that I was sorry
no, no, no.

A Prayer Painted by God

I thirst for that which feeds my senses and my heart. When I imagine Odonata, I breathe a sigh at the homecoming. It's beautiful, with swooping roof lines and curving doorways, fascinating textures, a feast of colors, rich fragrances and smiling sounds. . .

I feel Odonata as a sanctuary, a spiritual community where one is blessed with the opportunity to practice giving and receiving love and care, every day. It will be a space created for the intentional nurturing and careful tending of the human spirit--where joys are doubled and sorrows are halved by the company we'll share.

Our surreoundings have a great effect upon us, upon our mental and emotional health, physical health, and spiritual health . . .this community will sweetly support and sustain every facet of the jewels we each are, and in doing so, will lift each of us upwards toward Light. It's important that we not underestimate the power of our physical surroundings upon us. Odonata will be the home of sacred spaces and blessed people, accompanying one another on our journeys in this precious life.

And Odonata will be a sweep of God's brush across the landscape, a prayer painted by God.

Blood-Borne Wondering

A woman's work in relationship is to wonder. A man's work is to walk on, and woman may accompany, or she may not. . .but stop for her he surely won't. She can wonder where they are going together, or wonder if she wants to go (though most women don't adequately consider her man's purpose and journey before signing on.)

The wondering lies deep within our blood, some flotsam of times past when we couldn't fend for ourselves, or could, but needed a seed to be planted in order to survive, literally survive . . .perhaps the purpose of the wondering is lost, and it would better serve now to Still and Be, rather than to be tormented by the blood-borne Wondering. . .but it's still there, and better to face it than to not. There is some relief in the Facing.

Some days the Being feels so difficult, and the Wondering feels so painful. With skill, we can reverse blood, and live in something far more indelible than instinct. We can live in Now and rest in The connection. Sweet relief, sweeter than most any feeling in this life, and a sweetness surpassing even the most intimate, soul-scorching kiss, weelll, maybe.

If a woman's wondering is an illness, then Presence is the only innoculation. It's most certainly a dis-ease, this Wondering. And Ease is what comes to us when we rest long enough for it to find us.

Beyond the Struggle

With swift clarity I've realized the journey is over. All seeking leads to the same X on this ancient treasure map . . .so that the seeking is now merely auditioning different paths to the One--which is who I am and who I've always been. In an instant, I can feel God so intimately that the love overwhelms me and I'm taken into the arms of the only true Security---Security known as Love----which runs forever in the violet evening sky.

The only thing to seek is Presence. To still and allow swirling thoughts to settle like little flecks of dust aroused before a shaft of sunlight through a window . . .particles of dust---invisible thoughts . . .invisible only until the Light of one's Presence reaches them.

So perhaps this Seeking is nothing more than finding different ways, and the best way for each of us, to open the curtain on this light-filled day, so we can see the dust long enough to know the real trick is to still and settle, and feel the Sun.

Did I actually title this piece, "Beyond the Struggle?" That's funny because I'm not beyond the struggle. Perhaps more appropriate words would have been "I'm Beyond Trying to Feel Spirit's Presence Within Me and Now I Can Feel the Sun Anytime I Want!" I've finally accessed enough Peace often enough to have built a solid, abiding faith. In my own way, I know. I Know. So in that sense, the seeking, the struggle, has ceased, and I am always, always home wherever I travel.

When Does the Heart Know? (a song)

When does the heart know,
the truth of white and clear?
When does the heart know
in the span of one short year?

When does the heart love,
when can it fly free?
When does the heart love,
or feel blind and can't see?

When does the heart cry,
when the levy fails to hold?
When does it meet winter sky
when does it feel so cold?

When does the heart ask,
as though a small child?
when does the heart ask
with peace which only smiled?

How does the heart heal
as day spins into day?
How does the heart heal
makes its courageous way?

I thought the heart knew,
but time would tell true,
some things we can't know,
and some hearts must go.

In the End (a song)

In the end
I won't be missing,
and in the end
I don't hear tears,
in the end
the lips, which kissing,
will speak the prayer
of another day.

In the end
of all my sorrow,
and in the end
of this world's fears,
in the end
of all tomorrows,
she will fly home
to rest again.

Another day
another day
the earth spins on,
sun lights the way,
white stars, they dance
the best romance,
and heart shall whisper--
eternal Yes and yes.

So in the end
I'll be a breeze,
which warms the skin
and longs to free,
the sweetest touch
of one heart's love
will turn and turn,
begin again.

In the end
I won't be missing,
and in the end
I won't taste tears,
in the end
the lips, which kissing,
whisper a prayer
of another day.

I am Sorry

In my ignorance,
I loved you.
In my ignorance,
I respected every boundary
of the land you are,
and could not see my own borders.

I thought the light was present
but it was dimmed,
the darkness of my mistake
overshadowing the Sun.

I felt to love
was to love Big
but to love Bigger than mySelf
was no love at all.

Compassion and an open heart
were my innocent goals
but in the haste to love,
and in effort to keep the heart open to you,
to remain tirelessly compassionate,
I lost compassion for mySelf.

I damaged the blossom of our Flowering,
because I did not sweetly tend mySelf enough,
choosing in darkness to tend to you,
and for that, I am sorry.

Make a Place for Me (a poem)

Travel to golden fields of straw,
gather up enough for my bed.
Pluck the downey snow-colored feathers of geese
which fly to sun before the winter's grey.

Scatter straw on the ground
in the corner of your heart,
the corner which is warmest,
before the fire which burns constantly with passion.

Seek the softest silks, cut out the pattern
for my place near the fire,
fill abundantly, cozy and plump with goose down
and lay it atop the straw.

Find the sweetest blankets,
to keep the warmth when you can not
leave them there for me,
and I will find them.

When you've readied the corner of your heart
nearest the fire,
when you've made a place for me,
I will be welcome
and I will come.

He Was Love Once (a song)

He was an infant once,
full of love and innocence.
was he cared for well?
only time would tell.

He was a small boy once,
full of motion and laughter,
or was the light already
far gone by then?

Did his mother ever hold him close,
and tell him he mattered most,
that we are all God's children
and we should love each other well?

Was his father there,
how broken was the heir
by the time he turned a man,
by the time he took her hand?

What made him cry,
did he ever ask why,
what doubts kept him awake,
were there ghosts he couldn't shake?

All I know is the world's gone wild,
when we can kill this child,
because he was love once,
he was once innocence.

Is it strange that I cry tears for
this man who should be feared,
who hated all so well?
time will never tell.

But really, it's a matter of love,
something he never had enough of,
and now I hope he can see from where he is
he was love once.

He was love once.

I Will Be With You (a song)

When you get here
I will smile and say
where have you been
and it's ok

And when you get here
I'll feel my heart
like wings flying south
to the warmest part

The longest journey
you had to take
was one alone
so you could wake

to all there is
to all you are
to shake the dust
from all your stars.

the long way to love
the long road to love
often finds us looking for signs
the shorter path might be faster
but we lose the scenic road we could find

I am with you
on your journey
and you're with me on mine
we carry with us
stained forever,
the marks of passion
which are no crime

I watch you wander,
from far away
and wish the light
to shine your way
I can not help you
except to Be
a stone-set part of your memory

So if you're walking
on that road
and you can't bear
the heavy load
reach inside, where I remain
and feel the strength--love that stains

I will be with you
I will be with you
and you will be with me
I will be with you
I will be with you
as we sail with precious cargo
out to sea.

When you get here
I will smile and say
where have you been
and it's ok

And when you get here
I'll feel my heart
like wings flying south
to the warmest part

Washing Dishes

I gather them. The ones waaaay over there, deposited at the far side of the kitchen landscape by a slightly lazy diner, the ones which have wanderered away to another country entirely . . .and the ones right here next to, or in, the sink.

I reach for the faucet handle and pull upwards, angling it just so, to the place I know will yield the perfect temperature. Not so hot my hands will burn, but hotter perhaps, than for hand-washing. I know for the sake of the planet, I should not run the water the entire time, but I love the way it feels on my skin, the way it makes the suds sudsier, and the way the steam wafts up to my face. Meh, I don't have a dishwasher, so maybe it's a, ahem, wash as far as water-wasting. I never water my lawn, so I jauntily assert: Let the Water Run!

I so completely do not understand people who wear gloves to wash dishes. Why do it if not to feel the suds and water caress your skin? Ok, ok, I suppose you need to get the dishes washed. I'll give you that. But why deprive yourself of a treat for the senses, if your senses will open enough to receive the gift?

Washing dishes, for those of us who don't have a dishwasher, is a daily or many-times-a-day task. For a short time, I wanted a dishwasher, then finally decided that having one not only wouldn't add to my life, it would subtract from it. I'd lose a satisfying pleasure, and God knows most of us need more pleasures, especially sensory ones. On with the ceremony . . .

Sponges: I like fresh sponges, the kind with the scrubby part on one side, and the sponge part on the other. That way, if you have been a little neglectful of your dish duties, and some food has become a little stuck, you can flip your sponge over and scrape away the stubborn goo efficiently and satisfyingly. Once your sponge gets old, please do replace it. An icky sponge does not a sublime dishwashing experience make.

Dishsoap: Get thee to a health food store or a even Target shop and buy some lovely-scented soap. Or if you're lucky enough to live near a place which sells really fantastically aromatherapy-scented-with-real-essential-oils-dishsoap, well, buy it, I say! Life is too short to use dishsoap whose (whose?) smell you don't love, and don't even sleep with a man whose smell you don't love, either! Life is too short! But I digress . . .

So once you've collected the proper tools . . .your sponge and your deliciously scented soap, you may begin. Forget about the workday, forget about the bills which need to be paid, forget about the children arguing about whatever-it-was with each other, and most of all, forget about your brain. Oh, just try it for 10 minutes. Humor me, will you? And trust me. When I ask someone to trust me, they usually aren't sorry. So trust me.

Breathe. Yep, stand there in front of your sink, and breathe in and out a few times, and close your eyes. (the neighbors won't know what you're doing, it's ok) Open your eyes and watch the dishsoap drip, drip, drip onto the sponge . . .what color is the liquid? How fast or slow is it dripping onto the sponge? Can you smell it yet?

Procedure: Lather up the liquid until it's a diaphenous blubbly cloud on your sponge, and slowly take a dish in hand . . .pass the dish under the water, and lovingly and with care, (yes, I said lovingly) clean the dish as you might wash a loved one, a child or a lover, whichever sort of feeling you'd like to evoke. Really look at the dish, really see the water as it clears away the soap and the dish is left shiny and new again. New. And when you're satisfied with your work, lay it gently in the drainer or on a towel next to the sink.

Take up the next lucky dish, and proceed with your washing ceremony . . .careful not to clank dishes around, careful to move slowly and deliberately, careful to breathe, to feel, see, smell and hear everything going on at your warm, wet fingertips. Be there. Be only there.

What a perfect thing to accomplish! If you've done it well, not only will your dishes be clean and happy, but you will, I promise (trust me, remember?), feel a lot better than you did when you started, having taken a few moments of your day to be exquisitely Present, which is always the best gift one can give oneself. Happy Day of Life, and Happy Dishwashing!

Only Two

There are only two emotions:

fear

or

love.

Which do you choose?


Thoughts create reality:

which thoughts do you choose?

"I Don't Dance"

Sometimes life hits you over the head with a gorgeous gold-plated frying pan: Wham!

Today my soon-to-be-ex-husband and I took our son to the Science Center, to do something fun as a "family." So far, we've been remarkably able to do such things for the sake of our son, and I hope we can continue as time passes.

Anyway, I've been in a bad place lately. Down about some things, and unable to find my light in the way I usually can. But when I'm in a mood like that, I at least usually try to make my way to the light. So we all piled into the car to drive home and I said "I need an attitide adjustment, I know, MUSIC and DANCING!" and I proceeded to pop some Brazilian drumming-pop-dance-tech-fun music into the CD player . . .cranked it up loud, and began to Groove Mightily in the seat as I drove. *ahem*

Hey, it was fun!

After a minute or so, my STBEH looks at me, and says, in this lifeless, dull, serious tone "can we turn that down please?"

I looked back and chirped "ok, but you should dance too, it's FUN! That's what life's all about, dancing!" (and continued car-dancing while he started muttering something under his breath.) "Dancing is notwhat life's all about."

I replied "ok, it's not everything, but it's very, very important. We aren't here in rocks, we're here in BODIES, and bodies like to move and celebrate!"

"I don't dance." he deadpanned. And I do mean "dead."

WHAM! Right over my head, there went the gold-plated frying pan. I received more clarity about why I was divorcing in that moment than in perhaps the whole prior 12 years.

No, he doesn't dance. He never has. He never will, or at least it seems unlikely.

I dance.

He does not dance.

There you have it.

It drained me so much to be with someone who didn't celebrate life himself and who wouldn't celebrate it with me, either. Or couldn't. Or didn't see much to celebrate perhaps?

Of course it is much more complex than that. Of course it is. But then again, it's not. I want to live life as an exclaimation, not an explanation!! (yes, I plagiarized that, but can't recall from whence it came.)

It felt good to finally understand with precision, at least one reason I am no longer going to live my life with this man as my companion.

And it feels far better to dance alone for now, than to be trying to dance with someone who just won't. The sweet friend I will find in the future will love to dance, this I know (I will ask, to be sure, and I will see if he can and will dance with me.) Whether it's dancing in bed, or dancing to loud Brazilian music on a dance floor, or dancing while cooking dinner in the kitchen . . .he will dance with me. Yes. And it's going to be so beautiful.

The Beautiful Whispers of Death

Did you hear the whispers of death today? Did you still yourself to listen intently to the warnings which might steer you gently to the light?

And did you receive the gifts which were sweetly placed before you by the hand of God? Or did you turn them away? Did you even see them?

Sometimes life robs us of the courage we need to receive . . .and so we experience losses out of fear. There are only two emotions, fear and love .. .which do you choose? Death can be our reminder, our warning -- and the small losses which are not quite death can whisper to us "really? do you really wish to lose this? take a small sip and taste . . .see the loss stiffen your heart and your body . . .watch as your kisses dry up and your lovemaking turns to memory . . .is this what you wish?"

Then run in the direction of the light and love. If you can just get there, more courage will be given to you by the very light and love you found. Run as fast as you can, and laugh and smile all the way home!

The Gift of Recognition

The Sacred is everywhere. I see it, have always seen it in the smallest things, since I too, was small.

I've always been able to detect the fragrances of life in full bloom: the love, the joy, the poignant bittersweet moments, and the losses and pains, even when some might not catch even the slightest whiff of them.

Are some of us delivered to earth with the gift of Recognition of the Sacred? Why do some people possess the gift of being moved to tears in an airport as they witness a small child run up to visiting Grandma, a scene which others wouldn't even notice? Or the gift of opening a broken heart wider, wider, wider . . .refusing to close when things seem cold and dark and the instinct presses from all sides? Or the gift of opening arms to everyone, but especially to those who have hurt us?

Responsibility, Compassion & Love

There are some who believe that our feelings . . .any pain or any hurt or any joy, comes entirely from within. That the only person ever responsible for our emotions is us. While in an abstract way this might have a lot of truth to it, like many abstractions it doesn't entirely apply to Real Life.

A woman withholds lovemaking, withholds her softness and surrender, from her partner. Does that not hurt him? Is it entirely his problem? His hurt is a result of her actions, or inactions, and yes, he has some control, lesser or greater, over his emotions, but only in an ideal world can he really have complete control over how the dynamic with his partner creates feelings and thoughts within his heart.

An adult child never calls or visits her parents. They are hurt. Is it entirely their fault? Are they entirely responsible for their own emotions and pain? Yes, and no. The situation is painful to them, and while they might have a lot of compassion and love for her in the face of her inaction, there is a dynamicat work, with both parties responsible for their reactions.

In some Spiritual circles, there are those who place large emphasis on each of us taking responsibility for our emotions, as though to say we should be able, if only we were enlightened enough, to lightly touch upon then release every pain and hurt ever known to us. Human Beings Do Not Work That Way. This thinking too often and too easily becomes a license for some to put forth their "Truth" without consideration of compromise, compassion and love for those around them. "Your reaction to my Truth is your problem."

To take that view is to discount this Truth: We are all here to love one another and hold each other's hearts with compassion and tenderness. But we are all human, some less enlightened and centered than others. We are called to take great care particularly of the hearts of those who experience the joy and beauty of standing closest to our Sun, those we love most dearly.

It's also important that we look in the mirror as much as possible and ask: Am I living with love in the abstract, or in the particular? The abstract is easier, it's cleaner. It is Absolute Love. Love from Source never leaves, never doubts, never lies and never changes. But it isn't human love. It's Divine. Spiritual seekers without a lot of courage often opt for a life of celibacy, thereby avoiding some of the greatest juice of spiritual life, the particular love within a relationship with one other human we take into our deepest selves, figuratively and literally.

Particular love requires courage and a wide-open heart. A lot of courage, all the courage you can gather. This is Human Love, which comes from Source, but isn't Source. It's Source via a Human Being, therefore one experiences the Human with the Divine. It is so sweet and so beautful, but it comes attached to the Human heart and ego. It's where the rubber meets the road in Spiritual Life. And it's a path only the Courageous and Strong need bother to walk.

This path takes more compassion than you ever thought you had and more love than you think you can hold. Which is why you must be devoted and disciplined in your spiritual life--to breathe in enough Divine Love to sustain you when your human loved ones can't, and when they can.

This path take courage and gentleness, because on this path, we do take anoother's heart in our hands, and whether we like this fact or not, we become responsible in some ways, for what we have tamed. Or who we have tamed.

This path takes responsiblity and compassion, and an acknowledgement when our actions hurt others, or hurt ourselves, that we do need to make it right, and love well.

We humans have an infinite capacity to love and spread joy, and an infinite capacity to harm and hurt. We must recognize this, and walk the beautiful path of Human Love with openness, kindness and our mirrors turned toward ourselves, that we might see when we are causing pain and why. It is only then that we learn to love each other well, which is really the whole point of life on this earth and in this body.

Amen.

Sail Away (a song)

Sail Away
Sail Away
It's time for me to sail away

Sail away
sail away
it's time for me to sail away

Once I lacked a boat of strength
could not sustain at sea
then time let go and now I know
there's enough strength in me

Like so much flotsam in the sea
the love I gave floats back to me
and the waves roll out
and the waves roll in

Sail away
Sail away
It's time for me to sail away

Sail away
Sail away
It's time for me to sail away

love couldn't hold me tight
the water frightens still
but the sea keeps flowing in my night
and my love always will

sail away
sail away
It's time for me to sail away

the precious gifts I gave
ivory shells on summer sand
I walk alone on shoreline now
gather them in my hands

I lean into the morning sun
and cast my heart's net wide
inviting all the love I gave
back to me, inside

sail away
sail away
It's time for me to sail away

Querida (a poem)

The wanted one.
who wants her?
what does she offer?
who desires her gifts?

Querido claimed her
once upon a time,
and then left her
with outstretched open hands again.

This querida, though
she’s a fighter,
a gentle warrior,
but a warrior nonetheless.

When there was no one to say her name,
she took herself to her mirror,
and smiling through tears,
named herself preciously exotic.

Querida believes,
oh how she believes!
even when the words from another
never come.

One day, on the screen
the word spun ‘round again.
she froze.
she smiled.

joy, yes, joy it did bring,
and the valuable and rare gift of knowing
that the most important wanting
was the wanting of herself.

querida.

Masterpiece

Unfold the canvas
gather your paints
of emotion,
of life lived
journeys taken

paints of
splendid brilliance
colors warm
sensuous
liquid hues of wanting

uncap the paints
let your colors
fall upon me
light as air
intense as the sun in India

these colors stain
I do not care
stain me with them
indelible reminders
of this time

all the love within you
the crimson
the indigo
the meadow green
the sunlight

the depth
of ocean aqua
paint me with it all
create with me
your masterpiece

Digital Edification

such graceful motions
words come to life
through your wise hands
which learned to love me so well

a single feather-light touch
was known to me
was known to my ivory shell
and known to my heart, my soul

the sweetest morse code of desire
tapped on my shoulder
by those hands of affection
"look, mermaid, look"

once at a breakfast table we shared
at a savvy little bistro
in a wintery bed & breakfasty town
in coastal Maine

you took my hands in yours
turned them over
and peered into them
trying to see the magic, but it was invisible

I bring the magic back to you now
still invisible but Present
and a Present
for your digital edification.

Surprise Wounds

"2006 law school graduate Becky Noran was surrounded by the love and pride of her family as they gathered to celebrate her achievements at Commencement."

My law's school's "Dean's Report" came in the mail today. Leafing through, planning to rather quickly toss it into the recycling bin, my eyes stopped on a joy-filled photograph with the above-quoted caption. It was indeed a law school graduate on graduation day, grinning from ear to ear, her mother on her left, father on her right, perfectly capturing Becky's triumph over law school and her parents' pride.

In the infamous split-second, tears filled my eyes.

I found myself at my own law school graduation, no, actually, I found myself in the car on the way home, wishing someone, anyone, from my own family had been there to surround me with "love and pride."

By the time law school commencement rolled around, my father had been absent from my life for many years, and my mother, well . . .I love my mother dearly and now that I am one, I am intimately familiar with the Failings of Mothers. Let's just say she couldn't be there, or wouldn't be there. She wasn't there.

It was more of the same, really. The little girl who used to fill out her own permission slips for field trips, then present them for signature, offering a pen and pointing to the signature line, she's still here, taking care of herself. And failing sometimes.

Lest the reader leave with the impression of the author as some constantly sad person, let me say: some days, most days, life is all Bob Marley's One Love and perfect. I'm a generally happy, upbeat, adventurous, laughing person.

But every once in a while, a surprise wound surfaces. The forgotten, or misplaced, or buried.

Ouch.

Then the voices start: "Oh get a grip, you should be lucky you went to law school, that you live in relative comfort in this country, and that you are reasonably intelligent . . .if mommy or daddy not coming to graduation are your worst problems, then you are blessed indeed."

I felt that way on graduation day, and I still feel that way nearly 8 years later.

But wounds are wounds, and sometimes they jump out at us from the unlikliest places, like the Dean's Report. I thought it had healed.

I still wish my parents had been at graduation. But that's ok. Up against the wounds I could have, I'll take this one, thanks. I'll laugh at how we all have our wounds, plan another adventure, and put Marley's One Love on repeat.

It's Ok to Want You (a song)

I finally know
as some things go
that it's ok to want you

I finally see
the Light in me
and it's about time

Before the fall
I knew it all
but was in the dark

And hearts still bleed
but what I need
I've had all along

Chorus:
But it's ok to want you
it's ok to feel that rush
it's allright to want to stay the night
and love you this much
yeah, it's ok to want you

Can't make you stay
don't want to anyway
and I'm doing fine

But if you go
then you should know
we could share this light

and I know you've got your own

but there's a place we could call home
a sanctuary, our silver cocoon
and baby, we could share the moon

Chorus
But it's ok to want you
it's ok to feel this rush
it's allright to want to stay the night
and love you this much
yeah, it's ok to want you

Of Stackers & Scrabble

Picture it. A nerdy, effervescent, 9 year old Australian boy, bubbling, "well, you see, me mum, she started me Stacking as a wee one, sittin' in me high chair, I was. But she always used yella cups, and so now I can only stack with yella cups, ya see, it's a mental thing."

Folks, some things in this life, you gotta see to believe. But occasionally, you can imagine it from a friend's description, even halfway across the globe . . .and you not only get to believe it, but you become part of it by adding your imagination.

So I was Instant Messaging with a friend who's working in New Zealand right now, and she's got the telly on in her hotel room while we're IMing. She begins to type something like, "you won't believe what's on the tv right now. I think this passes for a sport here. It's called Stacking."

Now, I'm sitting in my chair in the good ole US of A, imagining that Stacking is some sort of game like oh, say, cricket . . .so I say "oh? Stacking? What are they stacking?" And this appears before me on my screen, "Plastic cups. Into pyramids."

"Seriously?" I type, while simultaneously laughing so hard I almost fall off my chair.

"yes, and they are seriously interviewing these kids like sportscasters would interview World Series winners," she answers.

So she tells me about the kid with the mental yellow cup handicap, and then I start quoting the announcers, even though I can't see this Stacking Match, and have never seen one. Yes, oh yes, this is one of those times when imagination takes flight. Where one can practice Australian, putting words in the mouths of Stackers . . .

Kid: well, yanno, it's all in the concentration. It's such a mental game.

Announcer: What is your training regime like?

Kid: Well, I stack for 'round an hour in the early morning, before I walk to school. Then mum helps me practice again after school for an hour. Weekends, I've got a 2 hour practice with the rest of the team, over to the park, when the weather's nice."

Announcer: This obviously takes a good deal of dedication, then?

Kid: Only if ya wanna be the best Stacker, and blimey, I do!

Then there's Announcer Banter as the announcers comment on the match, in hushed, golf-game announcer voices . . .

Announcer 1: Oh no, that's a bad spot of luck, little Petunia lost her grip on that last cup there.

Announcer 2: Oh, you're right, Donovan. She's got to be upset about that one. That puts Team Blue into second place in the rankings now. Oh, now it's young Christopher on the next round . . .and he's doing very well, lots of skill and concentration from this up and coming Stacker . . .and Yes! A new individual record!

So.

After Stacking was over, there was competitive Scrabble. Uh-huh.

Competitive

Scrabble.

Ah well. Perhaps the world would be a better place if there were more Stacking and Competitive Scrabble and less . . .oh, say, football? Besides, Stacking and Scrabble are humorous, and we do need more laughter in this world. yes.

I can dream, can't I?

The One (a song)

Let the wind blow,
let the fire blaze,
let love come down
and clear the haze.
Let us be still,
let our hearts clear,
so in the silence
we can hear,
the One.

Bath

I love
laying in our miniature ocean,
your back
on my chest,
dipping the cloth
in liquid heat,
blanketing your heart
again and again,
so it doesn't catch cold.

I Would (a song)

I'd piece together all your broken dreams
Show you every day what real love really means
Hold you up to every new sunrise
lay with you at night and strip away disguise
I would

I'd give you space to roam and also hold you close
listen to you well about what matters most
Surrender to the gentle power of the man you are
lay with you under a million pure white stars
I would

Sit with you for hours, looking at the light
You'd see every day how love can turn out right
Hold your hand and hold your heart and yes I really could
if only you could open to receive it
I would.

The Only Word That Matters is Yes (a song)

Say yes to love
when your heart is breaking,
Say yes to fear
when your hands are shaking,
say yes and jump
when you're hesitating-
oh yes, you can

Chorus:
Open your heart
take it all in,
your life will start
when you dare to begin,
Don't settle for anything less.
The only word that matters,
the only word that matters
is
yes.

Say yes to doubt
when you can't decide,
Say yes to hope
when your small faith hides,
Say yes and open up,
oh yes, you can

Chorus:
Open your heart
take it all in,
your life will start
when you dare to begin.
Don't settle for anything less.
The only word that matters,
the only word that matters,
the only word that matters,
is
yes

My Heart's Lullaby (a song)

Go to sleep
Go to sleep
dry your eyes and please don't weep
It's ok
It's ok
in your dreams the hurt won't stay

If your heart breaks,
at least you know it's beating,
in case you don't know
it bears repeating:
I love you
yes, I do
and there's nothing you can do,
to lose my love--
or lose your way, it's ok,
just look inside and you'll feel me say
I love you

Go to sleep
Go to sleep
sometimes we have to retreat
Go inside
run and hide
it's ok to give up
and try again another day.

If your heart aches,
well at least you know it's beating
in case you forgot
it always bears repeating
I love you
I love you
and there's nothing you could ever do
to lose my love
or lose your way
when you wake, you'll see a brighter day
I love you.

Empress Moon

New night,
lush ivory sphere.
Another chance
to be who I am,

as she reveals herself,
Empress Moon.

Red Wing (a song)

Red wing, black endless winter night
a place of fantasy, where reality took flight
Red wing, hearts meet
and the song was so sweet

Chorus:
Beauty came and found us
on a sparkling winter's night
a momentary flash of love
stars of blinding light
maybe I should have left that place
on wings of red and black
flying far and fast and never ever looking back

Golden curtains sheltered us from questions and from fears
the only tears were gratitude-that you were there, so near
and when we had to part your heart stayed close to me still
echos of the warming as I drove in winter's chill

Chorus

Now dear time has come and gone and somehow we are here
we listen to the other's tales of voyage far and near
as my life spins down I hope I'll always call you friend
Companions as days come 'round and hearts so sweetly mend

Chorus

Devoted Awareness

The Brilliant Light reveals itself to us when we surrender with devoted awareness. . .

. . .to meditation, to asana practice, to lovemaking, to a sweet-hot bath at the close of a bitter-cold day . . .to any moment in which we choose to still and surrender.

Ghosts Go Away (a song)

Walking down the street today
I saw a ghost pass my way
I've seen her here a dozen times or more

She isn't very nice to me
throwing things from every tall tree
she whispers as I walk by
"girl, you'll never reach heights this high"

Chorus:
But I know one day she'll back down
when my love shines all over this town
and she can haunt somebody else
because---I'm done being scared.
My ghosts won't bother me
because they can't see when my light shines this brightly
they're blinded and they can't find me.
Ghosts go away.
Ghosts go away.

I was talking to a friend today
she asked me if I was ok
I guess the water in my eyes was a clue.

I said I'd just seen a ghost
the one that matters to me most
who tells me no one will ever stay
and I'll never ever see a better day

Chorus:
Maybe today's the day, she'll back down
'cause my love's shining all over this town
she can learn to haunt someone else
because---I'm done being scared.
My ghosts won't bother me
because they can't see when my light shines this brightly
they're blinded and they can't find me.
Ghosts go away.
Ghosts go away.
Ghosts go away.

A Circle Begins Where It Ends

So I seem to have this, um, talent?, for hearing a phrase which sinks into my heart, then pilfering it and using it as the cornerstone for a song or poem or writing . . .

And so it happens again:

A Circle Begins Where It Ends

A circle begins where it ends
A lifetime of love so begins
Journey's short, Journey's long
You really can't get this wrong
A circle begins where it ends.

I'm not sure what this is, perhaps a round (like Row Row Row Your Boat, but NOT to that tune!)?

Anyway, I like it.

The Ripening Season

Gently plucked,
yielding to lips.

Pinnacle reached,
softness realized.

Surrendering in this
ripening season.

Taj Mahal

It did not begin as my dream,
it was yours.

The land of the dragonflies,
desire, not for me,
but for a life
of open-hearted village.

I nearly passed by,
piles of brick visible,
a trowel soon found its way
into my hands.

And so I began to build,
for you.

Love so deep and wide,
absolute and infinite,
because of your weaknesses
and not in spite of them.

Your dream became mine.

I will not stop until
your heart's wish is filled.

I will not stop until
you have
your Taj Mahal.

Ancient Happiness

The well is not far,
you are not lost.

Still.

Feel your thirst,
inhabit it,
and do not look away.

Time has passed,
distance inspires
parched hearts
to seek liquid diamonds.

As fire tames fire,
water tames water,
with one sip
of ancient happiness.

God in Every One

I again find something inspiring in the words of my India-journeying friend.

He said in a recent writing, that the resort town on the Arabian Sea in which he's currently staying seems rather bereft of places to meet people in their hearts. That is isn't a spiritual center, there isn't an ashram, et cetera.

Hmmm.

A little story: I've been traveling back and forth between a smallish midwestern city and Boston, for almost a year now, at least once a month, sometimes more often. I used to endure my time in the aiports, either O'Hare or St. Louis, for the same reason my friend seemed a little put off by his Indian beach playground town. The airports seemed to collect the most unsmiling, unlaughing, grumpy, superficial group of people . . .what a lack of Spirit there . . .or so I thought.

One day, sitting at O'Hare, sipping my iced latte, somewhat impatiently waiting a few hours for my plane to Boston, I suddenly realized each person here, in this airport, was a child of God. This wasn't new information to me, intellectually, but in my heart, I'm a little sad to say, it was.

I sat for a few minutes, really focusing on emptying the clogged channel through which Love pours, and then I began walking though the airport, feeling God within me and reaching out with Source energy to people as I passed, especially to the grouchiest-looking ones . . . I smiled, and shined love to them, and they smiled a little Love back, or at least softened.

It was an amazing experience.

If nothing else, that day someone smiled at each of these Beings with love, straight from the tap through me, to them, and I realized I'd been judging these people somehow, and limiting my experience of them and of myself.

Even those of us who supposedly live in awareness much of the time, often fall down on the job. No matter, just time to get up and begin again, which is the name of the game, really.

And I've Been With You

My friend, who is in India, sent an email today, which said that he has had us all (this group of friends) with him on his journey there. This was my reply to him, which went unsent, but not unfelt:

"And I have been with you, in many different ways, and in many places. On Arunanchala, and in Matrimandir, especially. In the Tibetan Settlements, in the sari shop in Mysore, of course, and at the beach just now--your beach in India and mine here . ..our oceans merging, water poured into water.

I just came back from an hour or so at delicious Plum Island--at my Ocean, my birthplace and my love. . .it is a moonless and densely foggy late-autumn night, the vastness of the ocean obscured but its power abundantly clear, a cacophany of waves crashing again and again on the sand . . .blissfully alone in the chilly dampness and drizzle, I sat down on a huge black rock, perplexingly placed a great distance from any neighboring boulders, the perfect meditation seat.

The ocean's usually hushed shhh shhh shhh was this night a deafening score to my Ceremony. I dipped my fingers in the Holy Water and pressed fingers to lips, to my bindi-place, to my breast. I inhaled her sweet/briney scent. She roared again as the wind painted my face with the seaspray and rain.

I sat in silence . . .I chanted several rounds . . .Devi, Devi, Maha Devi, Ananda Devi, Namo, Namah . . .I laughed at the power of the waves and the dance of the foam on the sand . . .my Being, my body awash in Spirit--so clearly felt in the body. And in the heart. I threw my head back and raised my hands to the sky, smiling and laughing at the love swelling in my heart like the swell of the waves before me. I whispered, knowing I could still be heard above the din "thank you."

I sat in silence a while longer, eyes closed, and listened. And I heard quite clearly, no, I felt quite clearly "you're welcome," or maybe it was more like "YES!" or maybe it was the Sound of Light playing in my heart. But I heard it, I heard the Sun.

My Sacrement complete, the passageway felt cleaned, clear, blessed and ready to receive again.

My hair is all mermaid corkscrew curls and damp now --- I just caught myself in the mirror here at home as I sat down to write, eyes clear with ocean water reflecting in them . . .and a certain smile on my face only Sun, Ocean and a few other presences in my life have brought.

Welcome home, Mermaid."

Some Kiss We Want

Sometimes we are lucky enough to discover a poem at a time it speaks for us. This is one of those times. . .I found a poem written by Rumi -- it inspired me and partially spoke my feelings, but not precisely. I borrowed some of his words, added some, and deleted some. This is the result.

Some Kiss We Want

There is some kiss we want
with our whole lives

The touch of spirit on the body

The pearl begs seawater
to break its shell

And the orchid, how passionately
it needs light and air

At night I open the window

And ask the moon to press
her face against mine

Breathe into me

I breathe in spirit
breathe out love

in an endless shimmering, magical circle

Close the language door

And open the love window

The moon won't use the door

Spirit won't either

Only the window.



yes.

My Work

This morning in the rotunda of a turn-of-the-century, rural courthouse, I held my client in my arms. She is the mother of a teenage boy/man who is currently missing, a runaway from a youth facility, where he was placed for explosive anger and violence. While she wept and shook with sorrow, I held her tightly, and closed my eyes, water pooling in them. She wept for the loss of her son, in fear because he is out there, with winter approaching. He is reported to be accompanied by others who are unlikely to create a favorable outcome.

She wept that she could not save him. She certainly didn't save him when he was a small child, from brutal beating at the hands of his father, a beating so severe that it made the papers. Did I mention this boy still carries the newspaper article with him? It's folded up very, very small, tucked into his wallet, like a miniature trophy awarded for survival. He shows it to people from time to time. He showed it to his Department of Human Services worker once.

I am not a lawyer. I am a Boddhisatva. I don't go around saying this, because I work in the semi-rural Midwest, and would be known as the Cray-zee Lawyer if I did. But that's what I am (a Boddhisatva, not a Cray-zee Lawyer), and I've known it for a long time.

The work of a Boddhisatva is difficult. The main qualifications for such work seem to be an open heart and the ability to heal people. Lately, this is a challenge for me. The terrain of my spiritual path has been treacherous in recent times, and I've watched with sorrow as my heart closed.

My client gave me a gift this morning, although she will never know it. Her pain called my heart to open, and it did.

I will do my best to give her the gift of her son. So now I have to find him. I won't stop until I do.

Monsoon

Delicate drizzling mist
then liquid sheets,
flooding Divine earth
to ankle deep.

Penetrating every glistening, trembling leaf,
soaking every still piece of baked chocolate ground.

Watery blessing on sacred terra,
anointed with holiest water,
sprinkled from God's hands
onto bodies of gods and goddesses manifest.

For one god and one goddess,
sacred waters came down,
and came through,
and came in,
forever washing us together
in the monsoon of our creation.

Lost In India

A beloved friend recently took off for India for a month (lucky man.) Before he left I asked if he might carry a piece of me with him, and leave it there. "I need to leave this behind so I can heal" I told him, as I placed the piece of my past, the piece of my heart, in the palm of his hand. I don't have the words to describe the truth, symbolism and weight of that gesture, me placing this piece of my past along with my heart in his palm. You see, this man holds a piece of my heart in his hands, and always will.

But, *ahem* . . .clearing my throat and wiping the tears . . .

The point of this entry is this: I am beginning to sense that more people, more Westerners at least, make the journey to India to lose something rather than to gain something. We have so much . . .too much. What could we gain? Likely little. It's in the lightening, (Yes, it's in the lightening and the lightning!) that we become who we really are . . .when we lose enough, we can be filled.

This Thing I placed in his hand was a steel i.d. bracelet. You know, the kind you ordered in elementary school, with your name, address, phone number, and any medical conditions engraved on it. I bought it when I was about 8 years old, and wore it for a long, long time. Jesus is on the front, accompanied by a few words of the Lord's Prayer . . .

As I rummaged though my old jewelry, looking for something which could be left in India, a loud "No!" echoed within as I picked up the bracelet. "I've had that forever." "It's one of the only things I have from when my parents were still together."

I stood there clutching it. Tears running down my face, stilling myself to listen intently.

Holding that bracelet brought me right back to 8 years old, when my father was still in our house, before the divorce and his flight from the house and us. It reminds me of him in many ways, and reminds me that for much of my life, I've felt a knowing that I'm really not worth much. My dad left and didn't return . . .so perhaps I'm not worth any man staying.

I went quiet inside again and listened, eyes closed.

"yes, this is The Thing which needs to be left in India."

"ok, ok OK--yeesh" I admit I still wasn't sure when I packed it that I would really give it to my friend. . .I was still mentally reserving my right to back out of the deal, message from Source, or no message from Source.

I realized after I packed the bracelet, that some actions taken, some things acquired, have been a reaction to the feelings of worthlessness and unlove. The Things I gathered as insulation against the worthlessness have been varied and beautiful and I can actually now find gratitude for them: education I sought (proving something by being the only one in my extended family to get a college degree, let alone a law degree) . . .world travel and life abroad, languages learned to become someone else, clothes and other beautiful or things, many delicious meals in great restaurants around the world, the position as a "professional" I now use to earn a living, and the piece de resistance, the collection of lovers I thought could make me feel valuable and cherished How awful to discover this and how BEAUTIFUL to discover this!

So starting a couple of years ago, as I realized how much healing still needed to happen, I began in earnest on this path of lightening . . .and lightning.

I have sought loss, seeking to lose what doesn't serve the light in me, to lose the woundedness, or at least be healing from the hurts of the past. Hurt is heavy on the soul. Mine has been weighting me and waiting for me.

So a letter was finished last night, to my father. In it, I told him I love him and forgive him, if he feels he needs that, and that I would like to have some sort of relationship with him if he wishes. I said "all children need their parents, no matter the age of the parent or the child." What I didn't say, and know as well, is that all parents need their children.

Today, with letter finished but not yet mailed (but it will be), I spied an opal ring on my armoire, which was given to me by my father on a rare visit after the divorce. It used to be his ring. I've never been able to wear it, although it's beautiful and seems to suit me, because it reminded me of the deep crack in my heart left by the loud smack of the slamming of the door as he walked away. There is even a crack in the green/aqua luminescent stone, that you can see if you hold the ring just so.

I picked up the ring and put it on. I smiled. It feels like forgiveness and strength now, not brokenness. It also feels like love. For all my father's brokenness, I know he loves his children. What parent would not? Perhaps there are some, but my father is not one of them. This, I know.

Back in India . . .my dear friend will leave my bracelet someplace, and will return to tell me the story of the where and the why of the Leaving Place.

My deepest prayer for my beloved friend is that he will find India a Leaving Place, too. That he will leave his pains and fears behind. . .that wounds from a distant father, and wounds from a partner who couldn't see him as safety and sanctuary, will heal. Our wounds, his and mine, have conspired to keep us from one another at times, if we can leave our pains in India, perhaps we can find our most beautiful, Truest Selves, and each other. Amen.

India is a Leaving Place, and someday, I will go, following my bracelet and my heart, and seeking to lose ever more on the Path of Lightening.

What do I see?

When I look inside, what do I see?

The light that won't dim. Energy that people tell me is warming and welcoming. But the light isn't me. It's not my selfishness, or my fears, or my frustrations, or my disapproval of myself.

What is the undimmable light?

Every time I hold my son close to me, and see the eyes I've looked into for 7 years now, the light is there.

Every embrace of my clients (how many lawyers hug their clients? Too few, to be sure) tells me the light is there, in my work and in my heart. A lover once said I had "smart + heart".

Every meditation causes the light to well up and grow brighter and warmer in the stillness. The focus increases the luminesence.

The light is reflected in the eyes of my lover. Love given transforms via magical alchemy into love received. The circle whirls, the light shines.

And laying down in the night, smiling before falling into that beautiful blackness, I count blessings and give thanks for all the light and all the darkness.

Even in the darkness, I see.

I am here and I have a path, however late I've come to the trail-head and however heart-broken.

My heart breaks each day in a stunning display of independence from my mind. It's impossible for me to walk in this world oblivious to its pains.

How much more comfortable it would be to turn off my empathy for just a little while. But no. And gratitude exists for the knowledge that one of my jobs here on earth is to see and feel others' pain and to acknowledge it. Then to help end it if possible, to heal people with love and light. Thankfully, the chance arrives every now and then.

When eyes close, the heart opens. (Tantric lovemaking skills notwithstanding.)

When I close my eyes, I see god.

And as importantly, god sees me.

When I pray, god hears me.

But when I still and open, in the silence, I hear god.

I'll Create My Own Tribe

As mentioned in a prior entry here, I grew up in disconnected Orange County, California suburbia. Almost no one knew their neighbors, but no one seemed to mind. A few of the kids met other kids on our cul-de-sac, but other than that, one mostly recognized neighbors fleetingly as their cars stealthily moved in and out of garages, all with automatic garage door openers. (God forbid someone get out of the car to open or close the garage. After all, you might be spied and spoken to.)

My parents didn't belong to clubs or churches. So we two (my brother and I) didn't either. Oh, there were brief forays into Camp Fire Girls and Cub Scouts, but all of that came to a halt when my parents divorced and we were spun into the world of a smaller family, one with financial hardships and a mother trying her best but unable to be home as much as she (or we) would have liked. There was no time to run us to activities or groups or clubs. No time for belonging.

I gravitated toward some groups in high school . . .I loved acting and singing, (a surprise to no one who knows me), performed in a few plays, and was in the choir. I felt a small sense of tribe in the theater. We were teenaged, artsy, nerdy types, bound together by our somewhat precocious love of theater and song. I liked hanging out in the theater building, which, after a few years, felt like a dark, mysterious secret clubhouse of sorts. And lucky me, I belonged.

That was the only time I felt I truly belonged to anything, until quite recently. I've begun to work with an amazing group of people to create and build Odonata, an ecovillage in Massachusetts. In this group, I've found spiritual companions, interested and interesting folks who want to live more lightly on the earth, and with each other. Without so much as a secret handshake, I have been welcomed into this tribe, and I feel a belonging, even though we are still wading in the shallow end of this pool of community.

So . . .I didn't have much of a tribe growing up, and didn't have one as an adult, until now. I was always in awe of Native Americans, having been told I was part Sioux. As a grade-school girl I read book after book about the Sioux, and how they lived in harmony with each other and the earth. I often wished I was a Native American girl on the plains, in my soft buttery leathers in summer and my warm, furry buffalo robes in winter. I would belong to the tribe, and they to me, performing our ceremonies, weaving our stories together and turning our hearts to the Great Spirit.

So now, I get my chance. I will have ceremonies, weave my stories with others, and turn my heart to the Great Spirit. I can create my own tribe, and I think I will.

Where is home?

What makes a place feel like home? Is it somehow just that we decide it is? Or is there something more to the equation of heart + place = home?

For most of my life, home has been near or at the ocean. Born in, and I'm not making this up, Oceanside, California, my parents claim they took me to the sea a few days after birth and dipped my tiny toes in the Pacific, who would watch over me, or would I watch over her, for years afterward.

Much later, I moved to Stockholm, Sweden, another ocean home, only this time, it was the Baltic. Briney, deep and green, the Baltic cradled my bare 19 year old body on more than one moonlight swim with my lover. As Swedish became a familiar and fairly fluent second language, I grew closer to the people whose language I was speaking, and felt quite at home at the Swedish shore. I wanted to live in Stockholm forever. But Things have a way of happening . . .

After the Baltic was through with me, I returned to Southern California, and lived for many years on an island. Nestled in Newport Harbor, Balboa Island became home in a way no place had ever been. I took walks around the island nearly every night, with my dog-like cat, Magic, walking along beside me, no leash! I knew many folks in my neighborhood, and found a small taste of community there for the first time. No trip to the small corner grocery was complete without greeting at least a few people by name, and that felt incredibly good to a kid who grew up in disconnected Orange County suburbia. I wanted to live on Balboa Island forever.

But, life being Life, I found myself leaving the island. I'll give you the short version and say I moved to the midwest for love, about as in-the-middle of this country as one can get, literally. Des Moines, Iowa. To be sure, there are great beauties in Iowa, but there is no ocean, and ocean is my home. Try as I did for 12 years to call it home and mean it, and even though my son was born there, I finally had to admit I couldn't stay forever.

So THEN, through a series of fairly amusing and interesting events, and for love, again . . .I landed in Newburyport, Massachusetts, which has, the last time I looked around, an OCEAN nearby. Ahhhh. YES. Finally, I am home again, though having taken the looooong way home, circumnavigating the country to arrive where I started, at the Source.

This time, the Source has lead me to an amazing community of like-minded and like-hearted people with whom I've begun to share something of myself. For a woman who has taken some comfort in making herself invulnerable in many ways, it's a giant step toward a new way of being. Clear to me is that I've lived in isolation for far too long and the time has come to correct course. Most telling is the happiness I feel when I'm around this beautiful group of souls, who have decided to come together to create an intentional community. I love these people.

One thing's for certain as I look back at my trajectory around this globe and around my heart: I'm not afraid to let love move me.

I left home for love, and love brought me home.

That sounds about right.

Flotsam and Jetsam

I'm leaving many things behind me lately, some flotsam and some jetsam.

I didn't know the difference between the two, so of course, I had to look it up. So here it is:

"Traditionally, flotsam and jetsam are words that describe goods of potential value that have been thrown into the ocean. There is a technical difference between the two: jetsam has been voluntarily cast into the sea (jettisoned) by the crew of a ship, usually in order to lighten it in an emergency; while flotsam describes goods that are floating on the water without having been thrown in deliberately, often after a shipwreck.

In modern usage, flotsam also includes driftwood, logs and other natural debris in oceans and waterways." from Wikipedia

I've jettisoned some jetsam, and that feels great. Afterall, it was my decision to throw it overboard, right?

The flotsam, weeellll, that's another story . . .shipwrecks are rough, baby. Real rough. If you're lucky enough to survive, you're left gasping and choking, with saltwater stinging your eyes. If you're a mermaid, like me, at least you won't drown for lack of swimmability, but still, shipwrecks are hard on the heart and body.

I've had a few recent shipwrecks, and they've been doozies. The flotsam which is now lost in the sea . . .well, it needed to go, and I know that. Surrendering to it is another thing, though, and there's the work.

So I'm getting quite skilled at surrendering lately. Wanna see my white flag?

A Letter Is a Heart Unfolded (a song)

A letter is a heart unfolded,
and so my love for you,
but I'll fold it up tight,
put it in an envelope white,
until I can send it to you.

We had some stops and starts,
and we had wounded hearts,
what was I supposed to do?
I'll put it in an envelope white,
and I'll kiss the outside,
just like I used to do.

Can you tell me when
this place will open again?
Can you open that mailbox?
I think it's got too many locks.

A letter is a heart unfolded,
and have you written one for me?
No reason to before,
when I stood right at your door,
now maybe distance holds the key?

A letter is a heart unfolded,
now mine sits in its envelope,
crowned with red seals of kings,
and other beautiful things,
stamped with one small gentle hope.

Sealed with one small gentle hope.