Monday, May 01, 2017

Watch this

You've done the deep breathing.  You've meditated twice a day for years.  You've yoga-ed and chi-ed and been aware beyond what should be expected.  Right?  Shouldn't that count for something?  Anything?

You go in deep, you watch silver and gold and stars and moons do things they're not supposed to do.  You accept it anyway.  You let vulnerability become the new cool and you are cool to the point of trendy.

You walk into a bar.  Seriously.  It's like a bad joke.  Someone is always walking into a bar.  Every single time.

He gives you his best look, and it is good one, You're sure it has worked on many others.
And then he whispers, "Take a ride with me."

You laugh.  I mean, seriously, what a line.  But you got on the bike anyway. No helmet.

Sunday, April 23, 2017

On the nature of lines

Solid concrete under your feet, you know you have stepped out of the train onto the platform. Hard tension is coiled in your gut and your throat is constricted by words never spoken. Muscles contract, heels and toes obey an unconscious demand to move forward. And so you do.

Your dread tells you who you will see and how you will feel about it. Eyes meet, yours and hers, blue and brown. In the split second before they do, you recognize the tug of it all – the betrayal, the hurt, the sadness, the anger, the disappointment, the bewilderment, and the wild storm of resentment you’ve been living in for years.

If you were a cartoonist, you would draw the two of you across that expanse of busy train station traffic, love and loss and greetings and goodbyes swirling around you both. There would be a long fishing line between you, a sharp and bloody fish hook nested in each, nowhere to go but to further wounding. Every attempt to pull away, to resist, to free yourself just yields more flesh to the hook. It would be a darkly satirical cartoon.

But in the moment that follows, when your eyes actually meet, you feel the hook in your hand. You’re holding it out in front of you. Love, miracle, magic and truth have somehow brought you here to this place where the hook is out and is literally in your hands. You feel that miraculous, magical, truthful love in you and around you as you simply let the hook go.

And just as quickly as the meeting of a glance, everything has changed. There are no hooks – one could not exist without the other. There is no storm, your skies are blue. The long list of painful feelings is like a grocery list you made months ago, you could guess what was on it but you don’t really remember. 

Body and soul seek balance and harmony and while you were not looking with your eyes, they got you where you needed to be. They brought you to a crossroads and eyes wide open, you made the brave choice. You chose to let go. And so you healed. It was your deepest soul voice calling out to be free. You listened. And so you healed.

Free and clear and overflowing with gratitude and love, you spend another second trying to map out how you got here. How this could have happened when those feelings were so strong, when the hurt was as much a part of you as any vital organ. You see the map in a flash, steps you were talking all along that brought you gently, lovingly back home. Every time you were kind to yourself, every time you sought support, every time you examined an outdated belief, every time you chose love instead of fear, every time you closed your eyes and gifted your mind with silence, every time you opened your heart to your intuition, and every time you nourished the seed of hope was a step leading you to this perfect moment. A timeless moment in which you know in a way you have never known before that healing is available to you. Always.

Saturday, April 15, 2017

Where you stand

Grace at your left.  Mercy at your right.  Guard rails for dangerous times.

You've been silent by choice, resting.  All of you curled and coiled, nested in the safest, darkest place.

Harsh blows smoothed only by time and distance repeat themselves without permission.  A call from home to remember.  The forged metal in you feels the strike of each one.  A call to arms.

You rise, feeling her weave up your spine as you do so.  Do you know what she is here to do, the serpent at your feet?  Is your world ready for what she brings now that she is awake?

You've seen this woman before, this woman who accepts the snake that cycles through her.  I'm sure you have. Although it's not certain you've noticed her.

She cares deeply and absolutely doesn't care. All at once. And it's not even a contradiction. She makes it look like the most nature thing in the world.  She carries both annihilation and possibility and makes them look weightless.

Be afraid when you see her.  But not fearful.

Wednesday, January 25, 2017

Ruby at your feet

Rugged and dark, timeless walls of stone carved by waters long gone whisper around the fire.  Words of power are spoken here, murmured in low tones that tighten the air with blackened threads.  The weaving has begun.


And there you are, how long have you been there standing in that river bed?  Waist high in the mud, what kind of a river has only mud and no water?

What you seek is there, you can feel it at your feet.  You stand, you struggle, your arms will not leave your side.  They are useless to you here, bound by shackles made of iron forged by the relentless hammer of longing and the blistering fire of pain.

Betray yourself or betray what is yours alone to do?


And with that your toes dig into the mud, dark loving earth giving you the welcome you did not know you wanted.

Arms still bound, any obvious power you might have has long left.  So what is left?  Feet in the mud, you dig, you feel, you find.  The stone meets you half-way, you will always believe that.  It nestles into you just as you curl around it.  Who knows if you're strong but you've always been flexible and so your foot rises above the mud and your hand finds what your heart has always been looking for.

The ruby is yours forever now, shaped for its seeker.  Transformation of liquids and stone by pressure and heat.  It will not break.  It is not in its nature.

Monday, October 24, 2016


Small and young, hiding beneath the branches of the willow tree.  Wistful leaves sheltering, holding my fear at bay.  Branches that showed me what surrender looked like.  That was you.

Sought out by wolves, scented out.  I have felt their fur on my bare legs.  Predators always nearby but somehow always just brushing past. That was you.

Blood, the most reliable witness, telling the stories I could not.  I searched for wounds and found honey where I was certain blood would be.  Scars, upon inspection, revealed to be delicate fingerprints left on my softest parts.  That was you.
Dark and dank, the cave.  Weapons in my hands, men down.  Softness grazed my ear, whispers called me to a home I did not yet know.  Metal rang out, a bell, as both dagger and sword dropped to the ground.  That was you.

Blood drops on sand, an endless field of poppies, flowers of the dead, my dead.  They stood behind me, soldiers of the past who fought so hard to bring me here.  They waved as I looked ahead and we sang a song of mourning for their sacrifices together.  Honor bound, the blood ink of those generations tattooed on my insides, I stepped humbly and gratefully where they could not.  That was you.

Bluest of skies, matching an ocean limitless before me.  Grounded on a cliff made only by water and time.  Grace upon me, in me, for me, of me.  More infinite than all I could see.  That was you.

The glittery sky, sun flashing through glass, one moment frozen but only so it could be framed, I was whole, never broken.  That was you.

Those moments, rare, justesse holding my hand.  Justness is as close as we can get.  The murmured song of a sigh at the center of it all. That was you.

Called down to the basement with the shadows that cannot be named.  Every fear, every horror woven into a tapestry that hangs in the darkness, protected from light so it will never fade.  Waiting in silence for my other senses to take over so I could find my way upstairs.  And they did.  That was you.

An ancient and intricate pattern to make the finest lace, a pattern I have no reason to know.  I did not know I was making a veil until it was finished.  I became a seamstress while I was not looking.  That was you.

Forged to endure, sharp and brilliant, these blades in my life.  Every sword I have wielded, and it has been many, cut through more with its reflection than its edge.  That was you.

Offerings to the forest, a cross I no longer needed to bear, a skin I no longer needed to wear and a sword I  no longer needed to wield.  The hush of reverence, a sweet fingertip to my lips to bless giving up without knowing what you will get.  That was you.

I did not know.  I never knew.

Beneath the river, under the stones polished by waters that never stop, under that not knowing, that was you.

Saturday, August 08, 2015

on making it this far

A circular saw is your tool, rip cuts your specialty.   Along the grain but deeper than is reparable. 

Time and time again, ravaging beyond recognition.  Steel and permanence.  A reflex, not an instinct.

Fingerprint of the hand that made you, five senses deep, sixth sense wide.

On a good day though, from the side, I see a water wheel, not a blade.  Power quietly generated.

Rippling between your fingers, remembering the webs you no longer have.  Resistance, however slight, is pleasurable.  It highlights what has been surrendered. 

Friday, May 01, 2015

pace yourself

Quiet lines, whispering ivy, silent tendrils black and silky.

I thought I knew you.

I've paced my life upon you.  An impartial metronome, pulsing, beating, defining, reminding.

Beliefs carved into ancient marble, patterns immortalized into timeless sound, stories told with forever paint on the walls of caves unexposed to the elements.

In my darkest moments, you are everything.  And in my purest, you are nothing.

Black earth, rich with minerals and gems worn to sparkling dust by time.

Friday, February 13, 2015

on the nature of art

For years you've searched for it.  Overturned stones, peeled back fading wallpaper.  You found it once, or so you thought, scratches on vinyl when vinyl was still the only thing.  A song that skipped your favorite part.

Where the sun usually shines the brightest and longest, this was not where you expected it to be.  Swirls of soot-filled tar smeared artfully, tendrils extending to the very ends of you.  Post modern enough to deserve its own show.  You asked for a name, why wouldn't you?  Once someone is already in, you may as well be civilized.

The whispered reply, "I am your oldest friend."

Anything but that.  And yet.  It's all coming back, remember whens and moments as pictures.  Someone else was there.

It is a time for rituals, words that carry more than their sounds could possibly create and reverence that only silence can convey. Once complete, nothing remains.  Nothing that you can see unless you can see a promise in a seed.

Sunday, November 30, 2014

the space between

The familiar of yesterday.  A constellation you've spent thousands of nights gazing at.  Familiar patterns, lights that guide reliably and silently.  Leather-bound and treasured, that is what you have always been here.  Reined. 

The unknown of tomorrow.  Treasures unwrapped. You watch it unravel, unfurl, untwist.  Unwrapped and open, a gift.

A love knot.  Made from the ribbons of the past, who you were, and strands of the future, who you will be.  You do not let go of one to become another.  You look at them, clearly for once, and bind them together.  You let the strength of the past stabilize the now and beyond, but mindfully so. 

Nothing binds you here, there are only sparkling bracelets at your wrists.  Adornments that remind you that everything that once held now only decorates. 

Saturday, November 15, 2014

time of death

Another day, another sword.  Battle ready and poised to strike.  Rubies and sapphires in the hilt, their color drawn from blood sought and shed, truth sought and found.  The shine of this sword is no accident, nothing is.  A mirror image, so nothing can be hidden.  Remember that. 

Do you know what it means to carry blood and truth in your hands?

You have no power here.  Pretty is as pretty does so I'll whisper it.  A whisper is the pearl necklace of truth.  And whispered, it is still true. 

You have no power here. 

Saturday, November 08, 2014


Rainbows of a different sort.  All the right colors, ribbons grounded below your feet, circling up, wrapped around you just tight enough to be confusing. 

Security or constraint?

Bound yes, but with softness and beauty.  Colored silk, smooth and watery, no knots to be found. 

You assumed it was to keep you prisoner.  You learn it was to keep you safe from harm.  You understand the only risk of harm comes from within.

I am the sum of all daughters before me.  I carry our history with me, silent tattoos etched from within - a map of those things you cannot trust to memory. 

Thursday, October 23, 2014

for you

People come of course.  They bring flashlights, light matches, turn on cell phones, nothing helps.

Not really.  Which is not to say they aren't helpful or kind, truly they are.  But not in the way they think. 

This is a secret darkness no one else understands, their light does not work here.  They worry though.  As they should.

Polarities at play, this is miles away from the ocean you once saw in your teardrop.  Illusions, achingly real ones, left you gasping for air there. 

Not here.  This is the opposite of making something out of nothing.

You've been here before.  It's familiar, like camp.

There's even a campfire here, just for you.  Only for you.  You get close, it's good to feel warm.  You sing the camp songs, tell the stories, relive the memories.  It's a little bit different every time you come.  Different and familiar all at once.

In the end you stomp out the fire.  Kick dirt on the embers. 

All that remains is darkness and one ember that will not cool. 

Do you know what you don't know?  Do you know that fire can purify, forge, refine?

A bonfire lives within that ember, just for you.  A smoldering place, always, forever, as much a part of you as the color of your eyes. 

Saturday, October 11, 2014

on the nature of being a hybrid

Or we could call this something about plateaux.  See, it should be plateaus with an "s" in English but that just sounds wrong because it is a French word and its plural is with an "x".

And that's my whole point.

You have been here before, done this before.  This should not be so hard.  You should not feel like you're walking among strangers. Or you should, but you should be able to maintain the proper distance to this particular tableau and see illusion from fact.  You should know that feeling foreign is just part of the painting you have to back up to see.  You should know that any separation you feel is a lie.

But most of all, you should be able to see how damaging shoulds are.

You do not know if this is the place, the one whose cobblestones will welcome you.  Either way, you still need to walk on them. 

Saturday, October 04, 2014

Silent Witness

The one who sees the secrets hidden in sound.

Phonemes, syntax, embedded and unspoken structure that rule everything without a single sign of force.  Things that can be counted on.  And you surely did.  You remembered the words, the sounds, the sighs and gestures.  Categorized and filed away, diamonds that engraved the coolest marble.

Hidden away, a weeping willow to protect you, you build a palace out of all that marble.  Cold perhaps, but very sturdy.  Swirls decorate the columns, grooves line the walls, breathtaking carvings everywhere.  From the outside.  From within, brush your fingertips over any surface and you feel what each word held.  Nothing is forgotten here.

A universe of reference at your fingertips.  Use it wisely.

Friday, September 19, 2014

La salle des sceaux

Four walls, no windows - light is not allowed here.  Only a door.  Made of iron black with age and wood that no longer knows it was ever alive.  The brightest tapestries do not fade here, an incomprehensible blend of vibrant colors against a backdrop of fabric that ages silently with no real reason to do so and certainly no witnesses.

This is a room where a line means something.  Where the boundaries are etched in marble with diamonds and the lines are drawn with the blood ink of generations and honored forever.

This is a room where forever means something.  Where the walls whisper, "You are infinite."

Saturday, August 16, 2014

truth be told

Mired, hindered, beaten down, bitten down to the bone.  Literally.

Reminded in the most humbling of moments that you are just part of the food chain.  You had forgotten this. Love, light and infinity aside, a mighty trail of breakfasts, lunches and dinners blazed down your back, spread across your thighs and posted flags on your calves and ankles.  Your feet really had no choice at that point but to surrender.

You are nothing but a meal.  You know that now.

You give up, you acquiesce to every predator you've ever met, particularly the ones who anesthetize first.

Bow and stay silent, become the ash you already are.

Sunday, July 13, 2014

Dust of the moon

It is possible you see more clearly in the dark. You know that's what it's for - that darkness - to give your eyes a rest.  To let you feel your way.

You use it, that darkness.  Your hand is guided as you smudge the lines of shadows cast here.  The perimeter whispers to you.  You know where you are now.

A vessel, a sacred bowl.

In your hand, a black silk ribbon you always hold.  You let go and it unfurls, falling without fear.

Always the bearer of the perfect gift, it returns with just what you need.  

You breathe in a new tide, a weave of silver ore you must have longed for.

Friday, July 11, 2014


Elusive but unintentionally so.  Nearly invisible - that part was on purpose.  You've managed the storms and made discernment your profession.  As if your life depended on it.  A life lived only in the moonlight, a swirling whirlpool of anticipating and persuading.  Silent and quiet survival.

You realized you were a mermaid when you woke up holding the knife in your hand, ready to split your tail into two legs you could stand on.  A double edged sword, no sheath.  Your hands bleed as they free your right leg from your left.  You will be more of yourself now.  

Thursday, July 10, 2014

And so you slay your dragons

You wake up with a blister - not on your foot - you can still advance comfortably.

It's on your hand.  No memory of holding a sword or wielding a dagger, you've somehow managed to carry the trace of a battle you don't remember fighting.  


The laborious, involved, lengthy process is actually a snap of the fingers if you let it be.  Like taking off a winter coat you've worn too long.  Seasons confused, you thought it was still necessary.  Vital to your survival even.  You're amazed to realize it actually belongs in the closet, only to be removed when the seasons change again.

It's just a blister, right?  You are aware of it, but barely more.  Somehow it has managed to nearly heal while it remained invisible.  Or maybe it was never really that bad.

In any case, something has been conquered without you even being aware of it.

Do you remember how to celebrate?  Do you remember how to give thanks?  Honor the dead and burned with silent reverence and gratitude.  In the light of the fire, dragons are butterflies.

Sunday, July 06, 2014


You take them out of the shrine and carry them away. Purpose in your steps, you leave them at the alter when you finally make it there. It was a long walk. A pilgrimage, you realize later.  Rosebushes along the way to let you know you're still on track.  As alone as you feel, you must believe that too is an illusion.  Someone must have planted those roses.

You watched that alter, you held your breath. Unseen hands burned what was no longer needed and breathed life into what was left.  Incense.  Ritual older than this life.

You could smell the flowers before you could see them. Before you turned, seconds before you walked away.  Lavender - oceans of it.  Healing in waves, fields that bloom once a year and no more.