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.