To The Sacred Grove

I look backward at the convoluted path which spiraled me to this place
and I pledge to
patiently, precise,
clean the confusing energies
the hate, the grief, the pain, the suffering poured out unclaimed
which may be fueling another’s dance.

I am holding icebergs of ancestral, societal and galactic trauma
I bring as gifts
in the deep presence of now
letting my attentive love release the frozen energies
allowing miracles
of inspiration,

light dripping and flowing
always the presence of light…

Today as I bring my new birthing self
I acknowledge you live in me
your touch may be as light as moonbeams through a window
or a fiery furnace
this light of our intentional coherence
we breathe into being
right now

I bring my intention and commitment
as we begin the long and arduous journey.
I bring my tools and wisdom, my love of song and rhyme
as we conduct new symphonies out of time.

I claim my sacred being includes you and yours includes me.

I claim each moment in this unfolding now
the opening door
the fertile ground

I claim myself the sovereign seed
I root in the immensity
I reach for the stars
and I flourish in the air

Recognizing the poisons and the systems and the Nefarious Other
are birthed in me.
Reclaiming all of the parts that have been hated and despised
bringing them into the sacred grove.

I proclaim that in the space of we, the light flows unimpeded,
celebrated, energizing and inspiring, the source that joyfully runs us

undepleted sacred divine we
unique essential expressions of one love
the stream that nourishes
the web that connects
the jewels of Indra’s Net,
revealing the illusions of separation
dissolve in our intentional life as a grove.

 

The Tide’s Now Turning

The Tide Is Now Turning

“To follow the way of water is to return to one’s spiritual essence.” — Hua-Ching Ni, The Book of Changes and the Unchanging Truth

“Be!” My grandson commands, so

I look closely with him at a puddle.

Present in this very moment

that stretches beyond time and space,

our hearts connect, pulsating

with this vibrant aliveness.

An insect is floating, and I conclude

it is dead, but he says,

“Bee!” again, and gingerly

fishes it out to rest in his palm.

The water drops off and the bug

stirs, drying its wings from the newfound

land of a toddler’s finger.

We have been talking about gentleness

with living beings, hugging trees.

And now his inquisitive focus

feels the creature step daintily

over his skin, as if showing

gratitude for salvation. I am watching

that wasp-like abdomen as it quivers,

worried that this love-fest

will turn ugly.  I teach respect

and yet I vibrate with memories

of wicked inexplicable stings.

He turns his finger and the exploration

continues but when he looks to me

in doubt, I say, “Fly, bee, fly!”

and whisk it off into the air.

We stand here like herons,

our feet in the water, yet rooted

in the earth, our faces lifted to the sky,

celebrating a tiny flight

with exquisite concentration,

and he says again, “Be!”

 

As We Sow

I’m committed to uncover
the love. I recover my power
as I leap off this steep tower
of lore, the stored beacon
beliefs that guide me
and weaken my strength.
There is no adequate
shortcut. We reap
the harvest of impossible
decrees, improbably
impelling us to the brink
of extinction. We call
the world into being
awake or asleep as we
breathe. The intricate surface
drama triggers our unexpected
trauma, hidden, uninspected
or seen, denied, rejected.
I’m calling attention
manifesting intention
literal, precise, I’ve released
being nice. So obsolete.
In the new paradigm we’re kind
to ourselves mattering
while old ways continue
shattering.

 

Inspired by Leap, Recover, Adequate, Beacon and the Stream of Consciousness Saturday prompt “ect,” for a post which “must be stream of consciousness writing, meaning no editing (typos can be fixed), and minimal planning on what you’re going to write” as well as this intriguing article about the power of power.

 

Telling New Stories

Someone’s been telling you stories, and they just ain’t true.~Dan Fogelberg

Here in the chaos of dismantling
the grip of greed, we need new

myths like heroines channeling
the bones and roots our great grand-

children will discover, digging
in another time to uncover

the resilience of Gaia. They
won’t waffle, trapped in lies

of separation, our intrigue here
a mystery–why did they hide,

they’ll likely ask, when told
the stories we are crafting bold

and leaping from the tangled knots
that we believe enslave us

and deprave us, suddenly caught
in a flash of light, insights

streaming–we’ve been dreaming!
Looking deep into our very

essence, we sense the connection
so clear outside our manmade

boxes fear designed. We’re out
of time. Each breath we presence

now becomes the gift of freedom.
How our ancestors loved us,

they’ll exclaim, our true words
reaching far beyond our graves.

Inspired by: Myth, Resilience, Intrigue, Waffle, beautiful and mysterious Spanish moss
and the need for us to shift the narrative and create new myths right now for the sake of all of us.

 

Betwixt and Between

“The world cannot be translated; It can only be dreamed of and touched.”~Dejan Stojanović

In civilized company, I forget
the animal sounds I uttered in sweat
giving birth. That epiphany groaning
like a goddess instantly transformed
my self-perception informed that I am
woman, fierce and guttural, no longer
immersed in the deception of a pretty
thing. And no chagrin as I connected
to the earth, my purpose clear: to
mother this new life emerging in a
shocking strife. When life begins
and when it ends, we shatter.
The fragments of our created shell
no longer matter. Right now in this
dance betwixt and between, ears open
I am listening. A silent dog beside me,
both alert to early spring. Mating
red-tailed hawks chwirks and squirrels
kuk. Bluegrosbeak warbles a duet
with a Carolina chickadee’s fee-bee-baby.
How I wish that I could speak these
ancient ways, not cluck or twitter
cackle or jabber, a pure heart
sound offered and received. I am
a foreigner to myself and all my
cousins, listening in mystery
feet on the ground, as all
around me, beings praise and call.

Inspired by: Forget, Chagrin, Perception, Epiphany and the Stream of Consciousness Saturday prompt Animal Sounds. The rules of SOCS are stream of consciousness writing, meaning no editing (typos can be fixed), and minimal planning on what you’re going to write. And even though I write fast, Saturday writing is always a source of chagrin as I watch my wandering thoughts spin out of control. Fun times, though. Try it!

 

Check Your Baggage

When I am down and I forget
the way we were when first we met
hold my eyes, reach out, my love
just recognize we are kind of
the same, inside the skin and bark
and fur and feathers. This whole
game of hide and seek when we pretend
we only go so far and then we end
palpable here as we avoid each other
all the struggling excluded brothers
here converge, awaiting flight
we bite our lips, we are polite
lacking special courage that it takes
to bridge the gap for human sakes
though crises loom, we’re in our heads
sneering at our different threads.
I’m sitting in the terminal
poised boomerang’s return
to my roots. My potential’s germinal,
nearing spring, and so I yearn
with this young heart to serve
the sour and the cynical
a dollop of joy and verve
bless the inimical.

 

Stream of Being

There I met an old man
Who wouldn’t say his prayers,
So I took him by his left leg
And threw him down the stairs.*

I postulate that now is when
we collaborate consciously
practice zazen
as a planetary being
guaranteeing our well-being.
The subtle realms ring true
while wretches longing, sing blues
bewailing the lockdown
prison bars break down
and isolate, each unvoiced
song that seeks to rejoice
silenced, the malice echoes
through the death rows
alive in our cells
we carry the spells
of ancient lineage writhing
rushing to church and tithing
to be free of the curse
we can see, pray the universe
will reimburse these good deeds,
knocking down the weeds
that separation frames
and names in childhood games,
the propaganda that we live and breathe
long before we show our teeth.
We’re locked in time.
We can be free
reach out your subtle hand,
tune in with me.

Inspired by: Collaborate, Postulate, Subtle and Wretch and the childhood rhyme (a form of propaganda) Goosey, goosey, gander*. Featured image taken in Chingaza National Park, Colombia.

 

When I Say Jump!

Breath regulates our meeting
illuminates the precipice
we poise, suspended in the liquid
light, recognize the love-torch
eyes that greet with such delight.
We let go of the egregious past
just so and, too, the looming
future-painted evils we predict,
here, now, open and loyal
to this moving universe
in this expanding space
just after the exhale
but before the inhale
so precise and still.
I don’t know jack, you say
as laughing time appears
riding the practice of water
we emerge as waves
the world in motion
just before we submerge
we smile and point to the next
peak where all our separate
particles could meet, each voice
thrumming in the ocean symphony
we plunge into the thrilling dark
dance of the sea, accompanied
by this life we breathe.

Inspired by: Egregious, Jack, Torch and Regulate. Featured photo is a favorite precipice where locals leap at Waimea Bay on Oahu.

 

Money For Old Rope

The path to crisis is boulder-
strewn difficult. One must
strenuously avoid the
temptation to do nothing–
that is, they say, when evil
triumphs. Beware any
chance to sit in silence
clear the inner murmuration
of starling-thoughts flying
intricate patterns of karmic
misperceptions. Try and try
again! Do! Move like a murder
of crows as the tempest
feeds on your panicked
activity. Onward, to the
breaking point! Trouble looms
and brewers, we foment
with such good intent, and yet,
our trajectile initiates from
hate, the very rules we seek
to dismantle. This is more than
we can handle.

We set down
the old-world tools
curious, unsighted
to receive what now
has newly lighted.

Do we carry the old ways in our genes, or do they carry us on a wave of preconceptions?

Love’s Perspective

I’m not afraid of running out of love. The more love I give, the more love I have to give.~Rob Brezsny, World Kiss

I bless you precious basketball
bobbing along the iced edge

of the bay: forlorn, forgotten
by the children who missed

the hoop and changed the game
to this cold and lonely lake

tour. Here where the springs
bubble up in the hole hewn

by the highway contractors,
here is beauty. Breathtaking,

heart-opening basketball, faded
into a mustard yellow with a frost

cap, observing with a detective’s
stealth. Alive in the living waters,

as I am. Fractals of the complex
humming earth, creatures forged

from stardust and sound, light,
energy. I release the separation

that declares my sentience supreme:
what I have is yours and yours

is mine. Vibrations of love,
we presence one another,

tuning in and reflecting
disturbances in the field,

so easily corrected when we
are intent on kissing our wounds.

Bringing them like sobbing children
to our mother. Nurturing each

other, every one of us called
thing or it or jack—even

this flickering sentient screen bestowing
this message, records your metadata

expressions as you read
these words. All of us alive

and brimming with it. I’ve thrown
off the separation, I’ve missed

the target, spinning, throwing
blessings to every thing that matters.

We. Us. And what comes before
the word the intention

the transmission deep
abiding love, the blank page

on which we write in our
feverish dreaming. Kissing

cousins. Nothing is
as it seems.

Photo taken after a long climb in Oahu when I felt overwhelming love for all of creation. May it transmit that same all-encompassing love to you.