resolutions

We all have them, and this year mine have nothing to do with weight or smoking, but instead, they're about authenticity. Being who I am every moment of every day.

This year I will accept my imperfections, and roll them around in my head and see them through the eyes of truth. I will devise ways to improve on those which do not serve my best good, and I will be gentle with myself. I will look at those things which I've always thought were imperfections, and realize that some aren't imperfections at all, but simply my humanity and I will embrace those and bring them with me into the moments that follow.

Seems like we're wired to review our lives every new year. And mine has been so full of changes and manifestation. Hard to believe that only a year ago my life was very different indeed. Exactly when I decided it had to change eludes me...it took years, and it seems that so much time was spent deciding that I wonder how I managed to get through the tough stuff at all.

And now, the day looks much better, and tomorrow brighter somehow. Ronda says it's time for an adventure. And I think this year will be a great one. A new lover, new space, and new patterns of thought and of being. And the key to all of it is realizing that it's all okay. It's okay to want more, to have more. It's okay to be truthful, no matter what the consequence. It's okay to demand love and respect, to reach for excitement and adventure. To play and laugh and not be sad about the world around me.

And as odd as this might sound coming from someone who has so often looked at herself through the eyes of Piglet - a very small animal, I am fearless. The universe has thrown open the doors and the windows and the sites and sounds of the outside pull me from the safety of the known into the unknown, and I am packing my bags, getting rid of the stuff that might hold me in this place, and making ready for an incredible journey.

And my soul sings little tunes that I can't quite sing along with...but I'm learning the words, and I know it is my song to sing.

winter solstice

I've been gone for awhile. Not able to catch my breath. The universe warned of big changes, and they have indeed come to pass. Today is a day for manifesting, and I have done my best to release fear and unforgiveness, opening myself up to the amazing abundance of the universe. And I have been rewarded with what is. Funny to think it was out there all the time, but that I was unable to accept it.

And so it is again the holiday season, and I have done few of the regular preparations. Aside from my small sparkley tree, my space is relatively unadorned, as I have been lately. Thinking of last year, about this time, when I tried desperately to make Christmas special, knowing that perhaps it would be the last of many celebrations I would share with my "family." And it is so. The new year approaches quickly, and I realize that though I will always hold this particular family close at heart, it has been replaced in many ways by those who I once called friends. My new family is much more concerned for my welfare, more excited by my joy, and more supportive of my crazy ideas. These are my sisters, and were since before I was born. Over the years I met them, not knowing how important they had always been and would always be.

And I look only ahead. I don't regret past decisions, as there were lessons to be learned. And this student of the universe is just beginning a new journey - one that makes me look at myself instead of others for my own joy. Today I ask myself, "what have I done in the past that has not served me?" And these I will reject, and find new actions that serve my best purpose. I will learn new lessons, but most of all, I will follow bliss, unencumbered by "rules" and old paradigms. I will say yes to joy. It's as it should be.

sunday night

I've been trying to express myself eloquently with words typed on this keyboard or scribbled in my journal. But the truth is, no words can express my feelings. Trying to put these feelings on paper is impossible. Small spurts of letters in perfect order can never express the leaping of a heart or the moments that steal my breath. They can't express the tingling nerve endings or the warmth of the human touch.

And so I will be silent.

the real world

Ever since I was a little girl, I've been told, "you don't live in the real world." And your intentions were good, but you dismissed me and my world everyday and every week and every month until I just can't stand it anymore. I will no longer be dismissed as silly or unrealistic. And you don't have to understand - just let me have my own world and honor it.

My world has always been one of poetry and magic, angels and unicorns. And what you don't understand is that this world is very real, if you choose to believe. In my world, there are miracles waiting to happen. The angels whisper wisdom in my ears and butterflies share their medicine of transformation. In my world, a regular girl, from a regular family is a poet and a writer and an artist. In my world, my work is not something I do with regret, but with passion and attention. In my world, life isn't a drag, but a adventure. And even when things don't seem to be going my way, I know it is in my power to change it. The world isn't against me. The universe is my cheerleader. The world is filled with opportunities, not trials. Even the lessons that must be learned as so worth the effort and the healing.

And so I want to tell all of you. I don't want to live in your real world. I choose mine. Everyday. When I get up in the morning I choose to see the beauty of the stars still shining and not the darkness. I choose to feel the chill in the wind and wonder where it came from, picturing the snow caps of a distant mountain range. I choose to smile and wonder at the awesomeness of all that has been created. The green is greener and the sun is warmer and my heart leaps in wonder. I will listen to the chatter of the squirrels gathering nuts...did you know they have a voice?And I will watch the hawks dance as I sit petting my dog in the schoolyard after the buses have sped away.

I won't live in your rat race, or fight your battles, or cry your tears, or drink from your half-empty cup. I will not acknowledge your war, as only peace exists in my world. And I am better for this. I will not be dismissed as silly. For wisdom of the ages guides me to feel and be and live - to breathe in the details of a very real and vast Earth, running barefoot as my body connects with the energy of the goddess.

You can keep your real world, thank you very much. If you like it, stay there. If you want to feel the magic you're welcome in mine. There's plenty of room for all of us, and so much freedom to be had.

who am I?

As I wrote in my journal this morning, I began to ask myself who exactly I am. I know who I was, and have been conveniently stuffed into box after box, none of which define me. And keeping with the law of attraction, I made a point only to list those traits that I want to manifest, refraining from writing the traits that no longer serve me.

How truthful is this list, I have to ask myself? And in embracing my authentic self, is it okay to list fears, and weaknesses? And if I do, will this only affirm them, and hold me back from fearlessness and strength?

I'm left with this...where I've been and who I was were simply states of existence, they simply "were." And now I simply "am." There need be no judgement in any of it. And today I am. I will have moments of strength and moments of weakness, fearful and fearless. And both pieces are necessary to be whole and complete. It is the duality of our feelings that make us who we are - complex and evolving, learning and growing. As one fear fades into strength, another will pop up in its place to urge us to further growth - a new lesson to learn.

And we take baby steps, finding our bliss one wobbley foot in front of the other. And humanity is all the better for it. And I am all the better for it.

november

It is November, but the weather gods seem to be out to play. They've forgotten that it's time for the mercury to slide down and for the winds to kick up. The temperature is stuck between 80-90 degrees every day, and the wood for my first fire sits unused in a stack. Went shopping for winter clothes, but my head wasn't in the game, with the sun so warm. Instead I treated myself to Lavender Dead Sea Salt to exfoliate during my next bath. If I'm going to show my bare feet and shoulders all year long, they may as well be smooth.

Looking forward to a little vacation - desperately needed. But my travel destination is far north, where the weather gods are awake. They have sent low temperatures and snow. I think my body will be in shock as I walk out of the airport.

Can't really remember cold - not sure if I want to. I do remember snow, and I'm hoping for heaps of it. Big beautiful flakes and icy tree branches. I'm looking forward to the glittery nights and the magic that only happens when moonlight dances on ice and snow. I want to feel the chill of red cheeks that sting, pull my hands out of warm mittens and warm my own face. I want to wrap myself in layers of wool and wear a really great jacket that only comes out of my closet a few times a year. I will drink hot coffee while I sit in a still-warm bed.

And while there is so much cold around, I am hoping to warm my heart with morning kisses and a hand to hold on long walks, leaving footprints in the snow that don't fade with the coming of spring. If the weather gods never awaken, it won't matter at all. Time can stand still and my warm heart will remain in the magic moments.

saturday morning

Haven't been here for awhile. My heart is on overload, trying to heal old wounds, and integrating the newly discovered me. And so the tears come, and I try to stay with it. Let them come, and know that it is part of the process. The old me would have run from them. Would have said, find something productive to do. The new me allows for this flood of emotions, lets them pulse through me, shake me to the core, and still come out the other side, peaceful.

Silly me. I thought that perhaps I was over that part of it. And yet in the quiet of the night, alone with my back against a white wall, I pray to be healed, and feel the heat in my chest and my eyes overflow yet again. The child in me reaches for love and acceptance, for the affirmation that she is worthy of all that is good. That she is worthy of love. That she is beautiful and creative and a vital piece of the universe. And it is her chest that heaves with great sobs and I embrace her gentle spirit, soothe her soul, wipe away her tears and offer my love. I tell her that it's okay to be who she is, to say what she feels - and that's a big one. And that it's all okay now. And it will always be okay. And that it was always okay. She looks at me, her eyes still teary, and she nods and knows from deep inside, that I am right.

We crawl into bed and dream great dreams of laughter and discovery. She is my mirror, and I am hers. I see my own reflection in her eyes, and I am smiling.

gates

There's a gate at the opening to my heart. It wasn't always there. I vaguely remember being young and adventurous and the way love traversed from out to in, then out again. Sometimes it was painful, and sometimes it was filled with joy.

My heart called to some on the outside. Please come in, it said, wanting to play. Instead they stayed just outside the gate, warming themselves in the heat of the beating. And then they were gone, off to find another heart to play with. My heart didn't like it much.

Others came through the gate, tentative at first, exploring their feelings as I explored mine. And after awhile, our hearts decided that although it was great fun, there were other places to go. We waved to each other as I watched them close the gate behind them, wishing them well. And though it was right that they leave, my heart didn't' like it much.

Some busted through the gate, and used my heart for a trampoline. They soared and I longed to reach the clouds with them. As it turned out, my heart was just a jumping off place for them. Soon they found the exit, and I felt tromped on. My heart didn't like it much at all.

After all the "not liking it much," I kicked everyone out. And it occurred to me, that my heart would be much safer if it were alone behind the gate. I slammed it shut, and put a huge lock on it, so no one would ever tromp my heart again. Still, I didn't feel safe. I looked around, hoping to find something with which to build a great wall. I felt lucky to find some rocks and stones that I hadn't noticed before. Perhaps they had been left by those who had gone. They were called pain, fear and powerlessness. And they were perfect for building a wall. Finished and exhausted, I lay inside the gate, and felt nothing. And I didn't like it much.

So I touched those rocks every day, ran my fingers against their rough edges. The pain seared my fingertips, and fear slit my skin. Powerlessness left bruises everywhere. And yet I touched them, let the feelings tear at my heart. Great sobs escaped my lips, and tears ran from eyes that remembered how to cry.

I am here, screamed my heart, longing to play, and explore, and be tromped on. By touching the rocks of pain, fear and powerlessness, you have worn them away. Remove the lock and throw open the gate.

I did as my heart requested, with a new understanding that I don't need the wall to keep me safe. And wouldn't you know it, the gate has hinges and a latch. I need simply choose who may come in, who must go out, and who may pitch a tent and stay for another day. And I like it very much.

there's a bug in my coffee

I have a number of choices...I can leave it in there and pretend I don't see it. I can scoop it out, drink the coffee and pretend it was never there. Or I can take a good look at it, figure out why it's there, and decide if I should still drink the coffee.

Life is that way sometime...drops a bug in your coffee. For me, a sweet cup of coffee is a comfort zone, and there's nothing worse than the universe dropping a bug in it.

Yesterday it was a big bug. The kind that's a little scary and warrants more than just a casual notice. And it was very alive. It stared at me, with big bug eyes, and said..."Look at me. Figure out what I am, and why I'm in your coffee." At first, I tried to ignore it. No bug, no decision to make, right? But it wouldn't go away - and just when I wanted a big warm sip. So I scooped it out, held it in my hands. Watched it crawl around. It crawled up my arm and into my brain, where wandered around. It annoyed me for hours, tugged at every thought and feeling that exists up there until I thought I would go mad. Then it crawled right down into my heart, where I harbor all the self-doubt and worse-case-scenarios. It played with them, swished them right into my bloodstream where they could course through my entire body and make me tremble.

But I know all about bugs. So I coaxed him out, took another look, and realized that he wasn't really that scary after all. All the thoughts and feelings in my brain were right where they were supposed to be, and my heart had at least opened up to let him in. A little trembling is good. Feelings that make the breath catch are proof of life. And I so want to live.

So only one decision remained. I could either squish the bug, forget him and drink the coffee, or I could free him, let him fly away. I decided on the latter and waved goodbye as he flew over the jasmine and into the clouds. And I relished the coffee.

trust

TRUST. This word should always be written in all caps. It's a big one. Learning to trust others, learning to trust yourself. Learning to trust your guidance...that little voice inside or the messages sent from the universe. It's unsettling really. Knocks me off balance. My head gets in the way. And there's always this question...how much of my guidance is from part of me connected with the universe - the divine, and how much of my guidance is really just my head, disguised as the part of me connected with the universe?

And then I want to put on a mask. Halloween weekend is a perfect time to think about the masks and disguises I wear. I have lots of them. Some are frightening - mostly to me. And some are quite wholesome and jolly.

Let's begin with one of the most useful masks...Suzy Creamcheese. She smiles a lot. She is white bread, wearing a Catholic school girl uniform. She says the right thing at the right time, careful not to disturb the balance. She knows the response that will elicit a favorable reaction. She has served me well, but at this point in my life, I know she's really the devil in disguise. She leads me far away from my true feelings, and puts me out where I don't want to be with her constant "yes, ma'ams" and "yes, sirs."

Next there's the prime time favorite...Desperate Housewife. She lives a lie, and paints a pretty picture of the perfect suburban family, when she's really dying inside. I haven't worn this one for about seven or so months. In fact, I don't ever plan to wear this one again.

Next, the Great and Powerful OZ. Okay, so this one is a real power trip, and proves the point that a little knowledge can be a dangerous thing. When I wear this mask, I am all knowing, and the way I talk makes people think so. One little-known fact can be the basis for a diatribe on "what is." When used in conjunction with the voice of authority, loud, booming and coming from behind lots of smoke and mirrors, it comes in handy when I need to feel "right." Besides, it's a big ego stroke when Dorothy and others like her follow the yellow brick road to find the way home.

Then there's Defenseless and Helpless Woman. This mask is best worn when the car needs some work or the drain is plugged. I don't really like to wear this one much, but it can come in handy, and works best when it is accompanied by cleavage.

I also have Teacher and Graphic Designer masks. These are useful for paying the bills. These masks allow me to make tons of excuses for not showing my writer face. They let me ignore the pages where I so need to be spending time. And I do like them, and the arty costumes that go with them.

My Fortune Teller mask lets me take the credit for those on the other side who provide me with insights and guidance. It's kind of nice to wear this one. Makes people think I have some special gift when the truth is, we all do.

I'm sure there are more. Some more fun than others. Clown makes people smile. Vampire sucks energy from others. Femme Fatale lets me explore the Goddess in me.

Funny thing is, though my trunk is full of great and useful masks, they are really just me, broken into a thousand pieces. And if I put them all together, they make up me, naked and vulnerable, strong and wise. So this year, I will wear a new mask...it looks like me, talks like me, acts like me. it is a combination of all these broken pieces, brought back together with glue I'll call TRUST.

Now that I'm no longer broken, I'll TRUST that other people will react to the "real me," and that this is good, and that it doesn't really matter what "they" think. I will TRUST my intuition, and hope that the person facing me is not wearing a mask, and if he is, I will see through it.

Yep, it's a big word TRUST. Happy Halloween...whoever you are.

overexposed

I feel like a photograph that's been left in the developer too long - overexposed and not very clear. And I'm trying to start sentences with "I feel."

I feel...tired. Restless sleep. Chaotic deadlines. Responsibilities. They leave me wishing for quiet and a space in which to disappear for awhile.

I feel...impatient. Waiting for answers. Waiting for a sign. Waiting for a promise. Why does it feel so impossible to live "in the moment?"

I feel...uninspired. Museless. Blank sheets of paper glare at me, begging to be filled with words that don't materialize. I scurry like a squirrel, preparing for winter - long and cold.

I feel...alone. Never really lonely, but disconnected. There is no one to reach into my soul and see what's there.

I feel...overexposed. I've reached out, worn my heart on my sleeve, spoken my truth, taken the risk, yet the picture of myself remains fuzzy. Not sure what I see when I look in the mirror.

I feel...unfinished. Writing the next chapter of my life has never been so difficult. If I'm being called to move forward, I need to see the door, and it needs to be open. Wide. With sunshine on the other side, and perhaps a strong hand to pull me over the threshold.

I still have the negative...I can make a new print. One that is clear and vibrant, filled with emotion and passion. And then perhaps, I can leave the dark room behind.

embracing the unknown

Why is this so hard for me? I just wasn't born under that star. Always in my head, I analyze. I figure it out. I get all the facts together, synthesize them, and choose the course of action that will ensure success.

Yet all around me, the universe speaks of embracing the unknown. It says, "it's okay not to know." But it's not okay, and for me it has never been okay. It is a struggle with my very nature. And while my soul longs to dance at the edge of a cliff, my head is dizzy with the what ifs.

What if you're wrong? What if you get hurt? What if you fail? What if you fall into the mistake-making human race?

I have no answers here. Only questions. And I have no net, only the promise of making a splash in the river below. My body wants to sprint to the very brink, but my feet know better. They proceed cautiously, until my toes tingle, breaching the barrier between the known and the unknown - the soft, safe ground and the cool water below. And in the space in between, so much air, thin and translucent, undefined and indistinct.

On this edge I tremble, but remain unmoving, a statue made of flesh and bone and light and darkness. Blood courses through stone and I am still and alone.

And I think that a single human touch would make all the difference, nudging me over the edge alone, or holding my hand in firm grip, joining me on the journey.

commitment

I spent the last hour writing here about commitment. Public commitment, marriage, and what it all means. And then, magically, it was gone. This leads me to believe that it wasn't meant to be posted. And so it won't be.

Instead, I will only say I have been stuck on this thought for a few days, and obviously, it needs more time to percolate before I commit it to this blog - a permanent record of my thoughts and beliefs...at least for now.

dreams

I dreamed of you last night. You were here, so close I could touch you, hear you breathing. And you were looking for something. Then you asked if I had any crayons. I do. And in my dream I gave you a big coffee can full and you smiled and took my hand. We sat on the floor, surrounding by big blank sheets of paper, and made pictures with bright colors. I don't know what it is we were drawing, but we were laughing like six-year-olds. And life was good.

What are dreams anyhow? Are they the manifestations of unrealized hope? Do they allow our unconscious a space to roam? Do they allow us to visit a parallel universe? The future? The past? I like to think that when I meet you in my dreams, you are dreaming, too. And that somewhere in the vast space of the night, there is no distance between us. When I look up I can see into your eyes, and when I reach out I can feel your touch. I wonder if I tried hard enough, could I know what is in your head? In your heart?

And when I woke up. I smiled at the memory of you. And I thought perhaps that the universe was affirming what I know. You bring out the child in me, and spark my creativity. You remind me that I can paint my future with bright colors as you paint yours, and that it's important not to take life so seriously, and to indulge the little girl in me.

Last night, I think our souls went out to play, and you were so close I could hear you breathing?

out of control

Okay...so I'm a little bit of a control freak. I never really thought that I was, but I'm learning that I am. I really do want to change this. I think though, that some of us are born with the need to affect each situation we touch. I happen to be one of them. And so on this morning, I am making a commitment to release this piece of me that has been so ingrained into my very being.

Like everything, I think maybe it goes back to the religion thing. Let's say, I'm a little girl again. I'm sitting in the pew at church with my family listening intently to the priest who talks about saving one's soul. He says something like. It's up to you. It's about the choices you make. You can choose to be good, follow the rules, and go to heaven and be with GOD. Or you can choose to be bad, break the rules, and burn in the fires where the DEVIL dwells. So, being a very little girl, it all seems very black and white. Since being with GOD, floating into heaven, white dress, great pair of wings, angelic music seems much better than being with the DEVIL, no wings, scary, dark, very hot, melting skin and EVIL, I decide I better follow the rules, and along the way, I had just better make sure that everyone else that I love follows the rules, too.

So I begin to follow the rules...what I find is that following the rules really isn't too difficult, and the benefits are great. Mom and Dad smile more and never yell at me. My teachers give me good grades and say what a "joy" I am to have in their classes. This makes my mom and dad smile even more. What I learn is that by acting a certain way, and doing certain things, I can affect the way other people respond to me. Hey, works for me, even as a little girl in my blue and gray plaid school uniform.

Then I begin to grown up. And I start wondering about this GOD and the DEVIL thing. Somehow there are many contradictions in the story. So if this GOD is all about love, then how could he possibly send the people who've never heard THE STORY to be with the DEVIL? And I realize that it was an accident of birth that I was lucky enough to get this family who told me the THE STORY so I could go to heaven. Then more questions began to pop up. If all the people at church were good, and going to heaven, why were they mean when they were not in church, and why did they not live THE STORY?

So the religious stuff changed for me...I am recovering from the whole GOD and DEVIL virus, but what remains is the belief that I can somehow save the world and affect the way people see me and way others act. This is a much more difficult recovery. It has served me well throughout my life, and it takes tons of energy to get rid of it. There is no cure, I fear, only an easy acceptance. And despite my willingness, I have to fight it every day, and every moment of every day.

I've read the words of many wise people. These I could choose to follow, to repeat to myself everyday and every moment of every day. Instead I've chosen as a new mantra the words I read on a wall plaque...

"How can I control my life when I can't even control my hair?????"

saturday morning

Cool front blew in to the region, and into my soul. With the weather my emotions have tempered. I too cool off and take time to regroup and rethink with casual acceptance that the heat source that warmed me so is distant and unreachable. And this is part of the ebb and flow of time, like the sun that moves away from the earth as winter approaches. Not being a scientist and unable to prove that this theory is truth, I accept it without understanding. Not being an expert on the male psyche, I also accept the theory that this is the way the other half behaves - gently pulling away to process what's in their head and heart.
And so I will wait, knowing that even as the sun retreats, it will come full circle in spring. And I will again feel its heat and bask in its light. For this is the way of the sun, and of men.

fighting the tide

Waves rush in
reaching for my feet with watery fingers
beckoning me forward
into frothy depths

and as I did yesterday
and the day before that
I move away
afraid to step into the deep ocean that is you

You are mysterious sea
with whitecap laughter
and unseen bottom
and endless and engulfing

Your pull is too strong
And I am at surf's edge
my toes warmed by your caress
cooled by a breeze that whispers promise

I know the danger in your darkness
yet I move forward
until I am weightless
the safe shore distant in shadowy moonlight

You lap at my face
and tug at my flesh
and I cannot breathe
but let you hold me

Buoyant I float
in your arms
electric with life
until you pull away

As if directed by the very moon
that brought you to me
you retreat called away
and leave me beached

Lying in the dawn's soft light
I watch the sea birds
and wonder at the magic of the tide
and you

Standing
I shake the sand from my feet
Salty memories cling to my skin
and your scent is everywhere

You will come again tomorrow
and the day after that
And I will be waiting on the shore
unable to fight the tide

Melissa Bachara Rohwedder


Fighting the Tide by Melissa Bachara Rohwedder is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-NonCommercial-NoDerivs 3.0 Unported License.
Permissions beyond the scope of this license may be available at http://litebleu.blogspot.com/.

casting shadows

The weather is finally becoming a bit cooler in the morning, allowing me to enjoy my first cup of coffee on the patio. The hum of the neighbor's air conditioner is a bit annoying, but it fades into the silence as I watch the sky erupt from darkness to light. The cycle of the moon and sun continues, and my life with it.

Legs tucked under me, I sipped from my cup and noticed the shadows that fell around me and wondered at their source. Their shapes made no sense if they came from the east, or even the south, but these were the only two options. On looking more closely, I realized that they were a combination of the two, cast from three different sources, their forms intermingled into things unrecognizable.

Are we not like these sources and their shadows? While we think ourselves solitary, alone, we cast shadows, leave behind our own energy, that mingles with that of other beings. Something foreign and unrecognizable takes form, and we are its creators. It is your energy and mine, and the energy of others.

Do I make this new form more interesting? More beautiful? Will the shadows I leave behind make my world a better place, or a fearful one? Do I bring harmony, or chaos? And will I consider my responsibility for this form with each action I take as the cycle moon and sun continues?

Or perhaps it is all inconsequential. As I empty my cup, the sun rises - the shadows disappear. For those who walk in the light, there is no darkness. All is cleansed and purified by the Source. And shadows are illusion.

new moon

With the rising of the new moon, I am reminded to reaffirm my heart's desires, to be clear on who I am and what it is that I really want. And so in the quiet of last night, I sat on the floor and reconsidered my place in the world. I spoke out loud to the goddess, the woman in the moon, and listed carefully, clearly, and with thoughtful concentration and humility, those gifts to myself that I will graciously accept in my life.

The last month has been one of rediscovery. I am reminded of the person I was before things seemed to fall apart. And I have decided that she has returned and is no longer buried beneath those choices that do no serve her.

It's been a long time since I really thought about what I want in life. Instead, I spent too much time thinking about what I didn't want. Those things that no longer serve me seem to be falling away as the days and months pass. But they have been replaced by the void, as I never filled those empty spaces with those things my heart really desires.

Gazing up at the stars as I walked with Bailey this morning, I felt renewed. Stars in the heavens marked each and every desire I hold in my heart as I move forward, playfully, in fearless anticipation of joy. And as I gaze at the sky each night, I will reaffirm..."so be it."

this moment

It sounds great in books..."be in the moment."

What happens when the last few moments seem better somehow than this particular moment? And if there is no time, just the eternal now, and if all moments are not a stream, but instead exist simultaneously, then why can't I seem to experience the good moments all the time?

Sound a little scattered? It's a reflection of this moment.

I long, linger, fear and rejoice, all at this very moment. Complex...I long for a simple answer. Yes, I spend too much time in my head. But how does one get out of this labyrinth of mind? I'm guessing it has to do with meditation, or long walks in the woods, but I feel like sleep might help. Then there are the dreams. I fight with my pillow and kick off the blanket. I am cold then hot. Resigned to sleeplessness, I light a candle and a cigarette and imagine that I am not alone, but somehow connected with another soul. In candleglow, darkness is kept at bay. I lie against my pillow and feel shared body heat, hot breath on my neck, feel the reverberation of heart in chest against my back.

What is real? What is not? It becomes nebulous and gauzy. I dream.

Until the moment I awaken.

the cards

A few years ago I was introduced to "the cards." They were beautiful, featuring angelic figures and winged fairies. And I was told, if you ask them (these angelic messengers from the other side) questions, with reverence and trust, then pull a card, they will provide guidance.

So it began as a sort of mystical fun game. I would get together with my friends Lynnette and Sally, and we would see what the angels had to say about one thing or another. Many times we pulled cards and laughed. They seemed to know the right answers, and if we were honest with ourselves, they only affirmed things we knew intuitively.

When I got my own set of cards, the game became more serious. With trust came a sort of compulsion to act on the guidance. This sometimes set wheels in motion that needed a push of the divine sort. I would pull a card that indicated a need to take better care of my body, so I joined a yoga class. This I found was a perfect exercise for me, since I wasn't one to go to the gym. Then later, a card would say "new opportunity," and a new contract job would present itself. And so it went for a couple of years.

Reverently pulling these cards became a part of my daily routine. Just after writing my morning journal pages, and just before enriching my soul with some inspirational reading, I would ask for guidance and pull from my deck of "the cards".

They became especially important in times of unease. Often the angels would let me know that they supported me, leaving me crying gentle tears and feeling their presence in my life.

Which brings me to Tuesday night. Filled with the excitement at the prospect of a new relationship, wondering about a old one, and feeling a little wanderlust, I consulted "the cards" for some insider information.

I was struck by the clarity of the message...they certainly affirmed what I think I knew all along. They reminded me that I had truly manifested good in my life, and they urged me to move forward fearlessly.

I was left with the overwhelming sense of peacefulness and joy, certain that I was on purpose. They allowed me to trust that my feelings were true, and gathered me up in their graceful wings while I smiled at their presence in my life.

As I write this they send positive energy and ask me to include the following: to everything there is a season and a time to every purpose under heaven.

I'm not sure why they wanted me to write the above. Perhaps I should pull one of "the cards" to find out.

surrealism

I feel like I'm in a time warp. Last Sunday, I sat on the sandy beach in Galveston. The sun was hot. Dolphins swam and frolicked in the shallow waters as I made new discoveries about myself. One week and one day later, I am here trying to remember every moment and wondering if it really happened at all.

Monday I rested on Sunday memories, smiling gently, and wondering about the possibilities.

News of the pending arrival of hurricane Rita changed everything.

By Monday afternoon, I had fueled my car, secured extra water for the me and the dog, visited the grocery store, and made preparations to sit tight while Rita approached the coast. The boy scout in me packed an overnight bag just in case. I spent hours on the phone, trying to decide if I should stay or go. The storm was expected to be dangerous - even catastrophic, and loved ones said, "get the hell out of there."

And so I flirted with staying and flirted with leaving for Austin and the safety of my sister's house. Unable to decide, I asked for spiritual guidance. "Show me a sign," I begged.

The sign came in the form of a ringing telephone, and a friend who needed a ride to Austin's airport on Wednesday night for a Thursday morning departure. Not one to argue with the Universe, I figured it was a pretty big sign and drove off into the night to pick up an eager passenger.

Just getting to the hotel to reach Steve was difficult, as freeway entrance ramps were closed to traffic to streamline the evacuation. Lines of idling cars clogged the freeways as residents fled north. After a quick trip to my apartment and some reassurance, I became an evacuee. Asking again for advice, I followed my gut, telling Steve to turn here or there as I checked the map. We inched our way to the back roads and off of the beaten path. This served us well, and though traveling was difficult and open bathrooms hard to find after midnight, we arrived in Austin, travel-weary, but in time for Steve to make his flight.

There was little time for goodbye. And he smiled and waved as he headed into the terminal and I drove into Austin.

The next few days were anxiety ridden as I became an addict - the news was my drug of choice. I watched and hoped that the weather would be tamed by some unknown force. I answered as best I could the questions of friends and relatives, and prayed for the safety of the people I love.

Saturday night...the shift occurred. Houston was no longer ground zero, but weary Louisiana was in the storm's sights. I rested better on my palette on the floor and petted the dog until we both slept.

By Sunday, I wanted my own home and my own bed, but was reminded by the national press that it wasn't my turn to go home.

This morning I buckled my dog into the back seat and started the engine of my orange Beetle. Not sure of traffic conditions or what I would see along the way, I headed home. I clipped along at 80 mph most of the way, and saw little evidence that the world had been forever changed in the passing of the previous week. The hot September sun was just as I remembered it to be. In Elgin, a sign warned of gas shortages ahead, but in Chappell Hill they were selling sausages as if nothing had happened. Just another Monday - I think not.

And this evening, I sit at my keyboard, my patio furniture back in place and the dishes draining in the sink. I hope the phone rings. The windchimes catch a light late-summer breeze. But somehow, the world is different. And nothing is as it was.

Creating a new vocabulary

Okay, I believe.

Those of like minds who shall remain nameless in this post have often said that the only key to manifesting what you want is to accept that it is truth. And though I believed it in theory, a piece of me had a hard time with it here in the third dimension. But somehow over the last few months of healing and taking back my power I began to see unmitigated evidence that it must be true.

The walls that held me from discovery and excitement, passion and emotional bliss have developed cracks big enough to walk through. And while they remain a little narrow, I've managed to squeeze through to the other side. And oh, how I'm enjoying the view and the fringe benefits.

For me the key will be to remain open and non-judgmental. I must refrain from falling into old patterns and place no boundaries or expectations on recent developments or relationships that unfold before me. While this is difficult, it occurs to me that it's simply more fun this way. And I find myself doing things I feared in the past, things that didn't fit my own perception of myself, things that were formerly "not okay."

What I've learned is that these things are not only okay - but can be amazing. And my old perception of myself was an illusion created to take the surprise out of life. As long as I stayed inside the allowable boundaries, I could pretty much be assured of secure and predictable results. "Secure" and "predictable" are words that I am at this very moment tossing from my repertoire. They will from this point on be replaced with the words "pleasant surprise" and "WOW."

And Steve, if you're reading this...Thanks for the pleasant surprises and the WOW. You're a great teacher.

Now isn't that much more fun?

Saturday morning

I vaguely remember sleeping in on Saturday. Those precious extra hours of weekend sleep have been moved to afternoon naps, as my spotted roommate seems to get up earlier and earlier with each passing year. If he lives to be twenty, I suppose I will be awakened at two or three a.m. And so I find myself here before sunrise, surprisingly alert after a walk in the morning starlight and a the first sips of Major Dickensen's Blend.

What began as an ordinary work week with deadlines pressing, has somehow become extraordinary, and I have once again found a place in me I thought was lost forever. It was a week of discovery, of putting the past behind, of first kisses, a quickened heartbeat and what does he think obsessions.

This week I felt young and able, childlike and joyful. This week I felt strength return. Muscles that had gone unused reminded me that they were there indeed after a day of making boxes for the displaced evacuees and a return to my yoga class after 10 days of inactivity. This week I learned that a single person can make a difference, whether he's a volunteer from the northwest, the "Pop-A-Lock" man who saves you from the heat after locking your keys in your car, the sister who offers French Toast bagels, or the yoga instructor who calls to say, "are you okay?"

Sometimes, living alone, a person wonders if they really do have a place in the world. This week the Universe has answered "yes...and you're filling it nicely - just as you planned before your soul jumped into this body."

When I wonder about purpose, I realize I am a student of the Universe, with many lessons to learn and many teachers. This week new tools came from Ohio in a padded envelope, sent by one who knows me well; one I reflect. With these tools I learned that buffalo and butterfly, turtle and otter have messages for me.

Find extraordinary moments in ordinary days - is the message I am left with. A new journey of discovery begins and the map unfolds.

random thoughts...

First thought...If we have the means to help the survivors of the New Orleans flood and Katrina by finding them subsidized housing, jobs, food, water, etc., then why couldn't or didn't we help the impoverished with housing, jobs, food, water, etc., BEFORE the hurricane blew in?

Second thought...I spent the weekend on the Frio River and thought it would be a peaceful weekend. I was wrong. What I learned it to be discerning about who I travel with, that alcohol abusers are NOT harmless, and that I'm still testing the waters when it comes to speaking my truth. What I learned is that I can be detached when necessary, and there is strength in that. And I learned that no matter where I am or how unpleasant the situation, I need only ask for protection from negative energy and help will fly in on angel's wings.

Third thought...Even when backed into a corner of the bottom bunk, there's nothing like your dog to make you feel warm and fuzzy.

Fourth thought...There are so many awesome places I've never been. The earth is a magical place and transformation is everywhere.

indigestion

So I've had a few days to digest the news of the crisis on the Gulf Coast, and it has left me with a hole in the pit of my stomach.

My friend Joyce says...one person at a time. Do one thing - don't look at the immensity. This has been difficult for me. I am overwhelmed. Tears well in my eyes, threatening to overflow every minute, and I hold them back and try to be positive, to know that there is purpose in this crisis. I do not ask the big question - what is the big purpose? But instead, what is the purpose in this for me?

As yet, this question has not been answered, and I wait to the hum of the television to find it.

What I notice most is the ever-growing gulf between the haves and the have nots. The detiorating social structure of our country and indeed the world. Those with means and money were saved from death and starvation. Those without were left behind. There is no malice in this, but the grim reality that we need to start taking care of one another. That there are those who need help everyday, those we choose not to see.

I am seeing you now...and in your struggle you have changed me. You are in my city, my town. You struggle to feed you babies. You struggle to find work, a vehicle to get you there, and you are angry, and are gaining strength like Katrina. When I think money is tight, I will think of you and know that I have more than I need and enough to share.

While a disaster like this brings the issue to the forefront - it is a symptom of an everygrowing disease. Perhaps the immensity of this is key to finding a cure.

faces

When I think of the hurricane that has devastated the Gulf Coast, I see only faces. Nameless, they could be a friend or me. Just a few days ago, water ran from the tap, there was food enough, and a soft bed. Today those things are gone. Blown or washed away. Helpless, I watch as they sit on rooftops, or search for loved ones. I cannot imagine it really. It seems unreal, and yet they are real.

I wonder what words would form on my lips if I stood looking in their eyes. And what might I see there.

There are no words in me today...but I hold healing thoughts for them in my head.

misunderstanding

There has been a misunderstanding.

When you said you were my
cellmate
I thought you said
soulmate.

I felt bound by a silken cord
woven with soft hands
and never imagined
the pain of steel cuffs.

Alone together in this
cold cinderblock room
there is no escape
And you do not speak.

I feel the tug of your weight
when I pull away.
I think myself
mad.

You are not there
I see only a shadow
of the man I remember.

Searching fingertips reach toward
your nebulous shape
and touch nothing.

There has been a misunderstanding.

When I pled guilty
I thought the charge was
felonious love,
my crime noble.

And you a willing co-conspirator.

Are you innocent of this
grave infraction?
Is that why
you sit in silence?

Are you wrongly charged?
Waiting for release?
Or are you a masked jailer
with a hidden key?

There has been a misunderstanding.

I wither in this place
with no air and black bars
until I too am a
shadow.

Amorphous now,
my wrist slips through steel cuff
and between black bars.
Will you speak now?

And will I understand?

just when you think you have it licked

...the creatures in the 100-acre wood decide to play Poohsticks and drop a rock on you. Or you might be BOUNCED by Tigger....

Where's Christopher Robin when you need him?

on turning 44 and OTHER THINGS

Yesterday was my birthday. I turned 44 with just a little hoopla. Though I had made plans, the universe had OTHER THINGS in mind. And it was okay somehow. I didn't fight it - I'm done with fighting each day as if it were a staunch competitor with a punishing 1-2 punch. I will follow time's river wherever it winds.

I've decided to spend my next year that way...letting myself wander and float through it. I don't want to make a plan or set a goal or find a path. And I know that with this in mind, being 44 will be okay.

I will be Pooh. When life gives me a honey jar, I will eat the honey and save the VERY USEFUL JAR I will no longer be trembling Piglet...a VERY SMALL ANIMAL. I will not be wise owl or gloomy Eeyore. When OTHER THINGS alter my course, I will accept them as gifts and lessons, and I will wink at the clever world.

It will be a year of animal medicine and getting in touch with the wild woman in me. The signs are clear. The earth calls me to the untamed. The lizards continue to show themselves, calling for detachment from old pain. They signify connecting with dreams and intuition, so I will trust myself more, and allow my truth its place in the world.

Then came the rabbits, who showed themselves first at dawn on my birthday, and again as I took Bailey on his last walk of the night. This morning, yet another appeared on the edge of a grove of trees. I asked the rabbit, "do you have a message for me?" He was still, unafraid of my leashed dog. So I will think of him today and learn rabbit lessons.

My birthday has passed, blessed by angels, and graced with animal messengers. I float and wander, and all is as it should be.

Good Medicine

Sweat dripped from my forehead as I walked along the trail to the top of the mountain. With eight and a half miles behind me, big sky and clouds replaced the green pine branches when I looked up. I was skittish as I walked. I watched my feet, electrically alert for small mountain creatures. Fresh pawprints from a big cat reminded me that despite the vastness of the space and the absence of other humans, I was not alone. Snakes, mountain lions and javelina made there homes here. And in the drought, some were hungry.

Standing in a small clearing, I raised my water bottle for a drink and caught my breath. The air was thin, and my muscles were taut. In the beauty and the silence, my eyes met those of a stranger. He stood motionless, looking over his shoulder to size me up. He was slight in stature with a golden gray coat. His black eyes were locked on me. I didn't move. I'm not sure how long we watched each other before he disappeared into the brush.

The encounter left me terrified. I wasn't sure if I'd seen a wolf, or a coyote, or if the creature was real at all. But I was sure I was ready to go back down the mountain. My fear had overcome my desire to see the view from the top, and I had been so close.

Today I wonder if it happened at all. Truth is, it doesn't matter if he was really there. He left a legacy. He had a message for me. Native American wisdom teaches that when a wolf shows up, he reminds us to trust our intuition, and to listen to our inner voice. He also asks us to find a new path and look at rituals and patterns that aren't working for us.

I trusted the wolf medicine, and began listening to the tiny voice inside myself. It has changed the direction of my path. Aligned with the song of my soul, I am stronger. One day I will stand at the top of that mountain with no fear. I will sit under clouds with the sun on my face, my fears behind me, looking for my next teacher.

escape

She was a victim of love. She was held under its power, cuffed to another who would not release her. Helpless and afraid, she struggled with the cords that seared her wrists and bound her heart. She begged for a savior, but none appeared.

"Life is pain," she thought. And this was her truth. She died a little each day, becoming numb. As the years passed, her heart no longer ached. She grew fearless. Her only thought was escape. She must save herself.

"I can do without that hand," she thought. "It, like my heart, is numb." With the skill of a butcher, she severed it and walked away. A piece of herself was forever gone. The hand that held her hostage had provided her excuse for a slow and torturous death. It affirmed her belief that life was suffering.

She crawled through a dark and lonely tunnel toward freedom and light. Her progress was slow, inches each day. Exhausted, she grieved the loss of her hand. She slept, and dreamed of finding the sunshine. She awoke, her body aching. She was no longer numb. As her emotions surfaced, her tears flooded the tunnel, rushing in violent swells, they swept her to freedom.

She gulped the air, breathed in life. "I am not dead, or numb, or victim. In choosing to cut off that which held me captive, I am whole."

"Life is bliss," she thought, raising both her hands to the sky. And this was her truth.

pet peeves

This is Bailey. I'm sitting here with him sleeping at my feet and wondering if the relationships people create with their pets mimic their relationships with humans they love?

As a "fixer" I have had the habit of doing everything for others and neglecting my own needs. This has consequences. Some of them not so good. The first is that I've taken on the responsibility for the happiness of other people. Which allows me to feel VERY IMPORTANT - but wears me out. It is impossible to carry the burden, and the results are disastrous. The OTHERS begin to rely on me for little thing, unable to make simple decisions or carry out simple tasks without consultation. Truth is, they are more than capable when pushed into a corner, but are so accustomed to me fixing, that they have come to expect it. It's quite a surprise when I don't come through and leaves them floundering until they get their sea legs.

In much the same way I have enabled my dog. He, like the OTHERS, knows that I will fix every little thing in his life. When he whines enough, he gets his way. Food, treats, a walk. He even tells me when I need to get up in the morning. When we go for our evening walk, he determines the route. When I try to turn back, he stands like a stone, legs locked, allowing no deviation from his chosen path. And I laugh a little, and allow him to have his way. I like that he has a mind of his own. And unlike with the OTHERS, I don't really mind it. He has been a loving constant for the last twelve years. He gives back what the OTHERS don't. And I think in his own canine way, he really appreciates it. I think I will keep him, despite the fact that I no longer choose relationships with needy humans.

My daughter has a way of bringing dangerous relationships into her life. She likes to live on the edge. It's no surprise that she has chosen a dangerous dog to love. He can be sweet, but he's always unpredictable, and is easily provoked. He has bitten her foot more than once - she admits he's dangerous, but is unwilling to put an end to their relationship. He is much like her string of boyfriends. They too are dangerous - and they bite and cause her pain. They are easily provoked, yet she goes back for more. She says her next dog will be a gentle one, a loving companion. My wish for her is that she makes the same choice when it comes to humans.

right this moment

It's 11:04 p.m. and right this moment I love life. Right this moment I am happy. I am peaceful. I am grateful - for friends, for Paris, for linguini, for soft pajamas and flamingo slippers, for little apartments and silky red blankets, for sisters, for opera, for orange glass rings and turquoise, for bamboo and summer jasmine.

What I thought would never return has come back.

restlessness

Today I am restless. The walls seem closer to me than yesterday and the windows not near large enough to let the outside in. I feel the need to wander into something wild and windy.

I could find a forest - seeking tangled woods, viney green and dark, a hard-to-find footpath, where another once walked, and another before him. I take off my shoes and feel the coolness of the moist ground and become grounded again - connected to blood, bone, flesh and energy - death and rebirth.

I could follow the sunset. The red rocks of the west, warm to the touch, beg me to run my hand along their rough surface. Swirling warm ochre and orange hold me captive as I walk a narrow pebbled passage between yesterday and tomorrow. A jutting rock ledge offers rest, tells ancient stories in its silence. Perched precariously over miles of nothing and space and silence, I feel the warm sun and the wind on my face.

I close my eyes and hear nothing but the sounds of Earth dancing. Limbs sway in infinite time. The rhythm of life beats in my chest. She takes my hand and we are partners in this intimate pas de deux.

In her company, the restlessness retreats into peace.

the wall

Headbanging is for the music crowd. I'm not sure just what segment, which shows just how out of touch I've become. Nonetheless, it's not for me. Yet over the last few weeks, it has been my modus operandi.

There I am at the page, in the middle of Scout's bedroom, trying to decide just how the next scene will unfold, and smash, I'm there, banging my head against the wall. This entails staring at either the printed pages, marked with pink ink - okay, really destroyed with pink ink - or at the computer screen marked Chapter 6 and its blinking cursor. This lasts for what seems like hours but turns out to be only a couple of minutes before I decide I should fill my coffee cup. I push back the chair and wander to the kitchen, pour the coffee, put away the dishes, straighten out the cabinets, throw a load of laundry in the washer and rearrange the refrigerator magnets. (Why doesn't someone call me?) The kitchen meticulously organized, I wander back to the chair, look at the screen, and pick up Gumby. Gumby must be committed to his yoga. He is amazingly flexible. I light some incense and get out my yoga mat. Sitting in strained lotus, I try to breathe. (Shouldn't have had that last cigarette.) I try to get centered, but my mind is scattered with words unwritten. "Become one with the breath," I tell myself. This seems to help. I clear my head and stand in mountain pose. I begin the sun salutation. After five repetitions, some of the stress is gone, but the page is still calling.

Back to the computer. I read through the scribbles on Chapter 6, cross through all of it and pick up the pink pen. I open the spiral notebook, it's pages clean, begging for brilliance. I close my eyes and begin again. This time the words make sense. Scout makes sense. She does exactly what Scout would do. I write like crazy - scratching through only a few poorly chosen words. Six pages later (back and front) I am ready to touch the black keys. I highlight the entire Chapter 6 and hit delete. I type in the entire new chapter and when I glance up above the screen, the wall is gone. I am observing as Scout gets to know her friend Alex. The sky is blue. The wind blows through my hair. The sun is bright. The chapter is finished.

Then I see it...those words that inspire fear in the even the most brave writer...Chapter 7...I think I should have another cup of coffee.

building castles

They stood there on the beach, laughing, the late summer sun peaking above them. The family resemblance was obvious, but it was their connectedness that clearly defined them as sisters. With ease they touched each other and whispered secrets, built castles in the sand and shared dreams.

Each plays a role, earned by years of doing. The youngest, she makes them laugh and smile. Stylish and modern, her adventurous spirit inspires. She supports and allows the others to love her. She will always be the "baby sister" though she's all grown up.

Beautiful and fragile, another is the image of her mother. Her heart easily broken, she seeks love in the most unlikely of places, and finds it when she's not looking, in the face of her own precious child.

The next is the rebel, bold and unafraid on the outside, but clinging to what is safe on the inside. She is the mysterious one, few know her heart. She guards it within strong walls built with pain. Pretty, she takes long strides through life, but comes back to center for strength and assurance.

The oldest carries their hearts in her heart. Protective, she tries to share wisdom, though she questions most every move she makes. She searches for answers around every corner and steps gingerly, choosing her path carefully. She longs to be stylish and make people laugh, to find love in the faces of her children, and to be bold and unafraid.

As they build their castles in the sand, the outside world washes away with the tide. No walls hold them in. No expectations bind them. They simply are.

The castle will be gone in the morning, washed out to sea. But in each grain of sand, the memories are held forever, and the bond built of love stands for eternity.

Disclosure

Recently, a friend sent me a number of chapters of a book she's writing. I am humbled that she asks my opinion of this work that she holds so close to her heart. I chose a time when I might be able to sit uninterrupted with the pages and savor each word and paragraph, knowing that the manuscript would reveal seldom-shared secrets - pieces of herself.

I was engrossed as I sat cross-legged in my favorite reading spot drinking coffee. She explored her past from her current vantage point. The imagery was not always pretty, but the truth of it was beautiful. And the wisdom priceless.

What I know is that through the writing, she heals. Observing her past from outside looking in, she learns about herself. Through the disclosure, reality is affirmed. She says..."this is me - this is my voice - hear me, see me." I am awed by the bravery in that.

As much as writers all hope that one day their work will be noticed, sold, published, we write for ourselves. Because we must. We have something to say that must be said. The stories may have been told before, but it is our own experiences and our own voices that make it real, not only for us, but for those who choose to read our work.

The piece I take away from the time spent with the manuscript is this...write your truth, know you are worthy, know that healing is possible.

Dear Claire...I love your book and honor your bravery. Trust the voice, it is the divine in you speaking. Though I cry for the child, your smile reminds me that all is as it should be.

sunday morning

Sitting alone - just me and the air - and thinking of the thousands of people that are readying themselves for church. I used to be one of them. Somewhere along the way I lost the desire and the comfort that it once held for me.

Maybe my reluctance began with the crying.

I would enter a church, find an empty spot, kneel for a moment, alone with the crucified Jesus, and the tears would begin. Mostly they dripped silently, one after the other, sometimes they would become salty rivulets and occasionally they would be accompanied by deep sobs, disturbing the quiet reverence of the space.

I cried for myself mostly, grieving the death of happily ever after. I cried for the unworthy child. I cried in helplessness and hopelessness. I cried to soothe the unseen wounds.

Under God's watchful eyes, I begged for peace. But somehow I knew it was not to be found within brick walls where judgment was everywhere and I was nothing.

So I sought out the holy places - grassy hillsides, lush canopies of green, pasture fenceposts, and rocks big enough to climb. I close my eyes and feel the wind on my face, the sun's warmth, soft grass beneath my feet.

In this space, my heart leaps with God's resounding "yes". I connect with all that is, humbled by the vastness of his universe. One with God, I am great and small, wondrous and simple, perfect and worthy. His gifts affirm love and wholeness and connectedness. And sometimes I cry, not in grief, but in the possibility of happily ever after, for childlike joy. Wounds knit themselves together and I am strong, powerful and peaceful, able to see through the illusions of pain and fear and helplessness and guilt.

I think of the crucified Jesus and take him from the cross in my head. He becomes again the God/man who walked the earth. I find his message in his life and all of life, and not in his death. We play and celebrate in this beautiful kingdom - with butterflies and ancient trees, shimmering dragonflies and dog kisses. I find him unexpectedly, as I wander through my day. He speaks to me in the breeze, the words of a song, the rain, the voice of a stranger, the eyes of a laughing child. And I pause to listen to life as it happens, and give thanks.

I can't imagine that he expects me to wait to share in his kingdom at the end of times, when he's dropped me in the middle of the garden, and there are so many lilacs to smell.

Love calls

Poetry from another time...

Love calls to me
a moon
glimmering on indigo nights
distant and full
orb of light and promise
even star sparkle fades in your glory

I dream of you
fear you
keep you in dark sky
where you are only
wish and memory

You cannot touch me
but shadows you cast
on irridescent skin
remind me of the dance once danced
in your gossamer gaze

With lover and friend
safe and sure
my unrehearsed steps passionate and playful
Wrapped in your glow
I was one with another and you and full

Night was as day
indigo fading like denim
forever washed in crystal tears
Soft and warm against flesh
leaving me light blue

Love calls to me
a moon
My arms stretch through miles of sparkling darkness
I answer
I touch your face

in between

Today I am fascinated by what is in between...the unfilled spaces. The gauzy moments between sleep and wakefulness, the words between the beginning and the end of a poem, the dawn between night and day, the deep blue sky between the stars, the seconds between the eyes meeting and the kiss - these spaces that connect what "matters."

Quite unnoticed, they often slip through our consciousness, leaving no footprints or memories. And yet if we pause, observe and remember, it is these spaces that might change the course of things. We are great at celebrating beginnings and memorializing ending, birth and death, but pay no notice to those things in the middle.

How we planned and prepared for the wedding, the beginning of our life together...being sure to attend to every detail...white or ivory?... roses or irises? ....music, attendants, guests, menus, readings and vows. We created a perfect beginning. And then married life began, year passed, and the details became insignificant, blurring together in a flurry of daily activities, jobs, homework, finances and bath time. The goal became getting through the day with as few obstacles as possible. We skipped the details - the moments of gratitude, the whispers of love, the touches of support. And in the end, which will be filled with details of who did what and who didn't do what and who gets this and that, it turns out that it was the in between that mattered most.

I have made a new beginning, and find myself at the space in between. Alone with myself, I will enjoy this misty space and will attend to the details of each day. I will buy myself orange gerber daisies , and will smile at my own face in the mirror. I will be grateful for rainy days and for sunshine, for kind and unexpected words from strangers, for a body that does what I tell it to do. I will remember to send cards for no reason, and to write for the sake of seeing the words on the paper. I will savor the scent of the cut grass, despite the noise of the mowers.

And when the end comes, I will know that it was the beautiful in between that made all the difference.

Gift giving

When he offered his company over coffee, he was unaware of the weight of the task before him - the fragility of a healing woman's heart. Hope and confidence were at stake. Unknowing, or perhaps with the kind of knowing that comes deeply and below the consciousness, he accepted the challenge.

With a simple smile his face said, "I'm glad to be here." With inquisitive questions, his gentle voice said, "You're interesting." His honesty said, "I respect you," and by staying longer than he intended, he said, "You're worthy." The casual encounter was an affirmation of hope. Just coffee? I think not.

It came simply and unexpectedly. Not too carefully wrapped or tied neatly in silk ribbons - this priceless gift.

Whatever form or shape emerges from the collision of two lives in time, this gift has been honorably given and graciously received. Life unfolds, tension eases, wounds heal, hope springs.

With gratitude.

Rebirth

I walked with you this morning. In the quiet of the rebirth of day, your face reflected dawn, rosy and light. Softly your feet moved across the grass...one, then the other, leaving little evidence on dewy grass. Busy mockingbirds went about their business as soundless raindrops fell into the stream. You noticed the turtles, slipping down the bank, and stopped to observe. The breeze fingered your hair and carelessly, you brushed it from your skin.

Did you know I was there? That I watched, your face familiar to me? Your gentleness is a memory that has been reborn in me. The ease with which you walk comforts me. I would like to know you again, in every moment. I would like to find you in times of anger, of sadness, of pain. For your peace comforts me.

I embrace you. Filled with warmth I accept your joy, your inquisitive nature, your gentle spirit. I pull you into my very center and we become one again, as we were. For you are me, in a simpler time and space. I step in unison with you. The journey back to myself has begun and a simple wish has made it so.

the rules of disengagement

I spent Sunday disengaged. I spent Saturday night disappointed, which led to my disengagement. I woke up with battle scars on my heart and thought about ways to facilitate healing. Nothing immediately came to mind. My head was full of fog. But somewhere inside, I knew the rules for disengagement and self care. I recommend them. Feel free to use them when you need to disengage. They work for me.

1. Call your mother...she will always make you feel better.
2. Call your best friend...she knows what will help (In my case it was a pint of Ben and Jerry's and Harry Potter.)
3. Turn off the phone.
4. Stay in your most comfortable pajamas all day long (white cotton works for me).
5. If you have bunny slippers...
6. Drink coffee with sweet cream.
7. Eat Campbell's soup.
8. Cuddle up on the floor or the sofa with your dog. Enjoy his warmth, softness, quietness and wet nose.
9. Nap.
10. Watch old movies.
11. Nap.
12. Don't think about the cause of your disengagement.
13. Don't think about the effect of your disengagement.
14. If you feel inclined, take a twilight walk. If not, don't.

What might have been a miserable day was magically transformed into a retreat of the spirit. Good for the soul...and the ice cream...perfect.

Lunacy

Lately I've been engaged by the moon and the indigo of the night sky. Moon shadows hold my gaze in their gentleness - the antithesis of sunburnt afternoons. The coolness of the air fills lungs longing for relief from daytime's glaring heat and crickets sing songs of praise. Meditation comes easy in these moments. My thoughts stop stumbling over themselves and stand still. The need to do fades into the night space replaced by the need to be. I see my own shadow cast from lunar light, and in it's hazy outline, I find myself.

Luncacy is defined as intermittent insanity once believed to be related to phases of the moon. Perhaps it is instead a moment of perfect clarity. In these moments, the lunatic finds his truth.

Bathed in indigo silence and moonlight - I am sane.

Glorious moonlight

bathed in your glow I glimmer

Irridescent me

Living in Limbo

Limbo - an orchestrated dance in which one sinks lower and lower just slipping under the bar without falling over. Music blares in the background, drowning out every conscious logical thought. And finally, we fall, unable to sink any lower. One has to wonder why we frantically seek to achieve such a low level - our peers cheering us on as we melt to lower ourselves.

I'm tired of the old dance. Time to choose new peers, to set the bar higher and higher and see how far I can fly above it. I shake the sand from between my toes, buy some new dancing shoes that bounce and reach for clouds and sky. I hear the silence of uninterrupted air and race the wind. The wing of a hawk clips my shoulder and I can see where I wallowed. The vantage point is much better from here. From this view the possibilities are endless and the universe filled with promise and light.

This new dance has no name. I will call it immense and stretch to its rhythms. I will touch the sun.

Coffee Pot Zen

So my Aunt Jean sent me a little 5-cup coffee pot when I moved into my new apartment. I was touched. She knows the importance of my morning coffee. Turns out she bought five of them when they were on special at HSN. So like her. She's precious. I was a perfect recipient - living alone in a small space. Turns out it is the perfect size. If I use a large mug...I can fill it twice with some left over. When I feel the need, I make a second pot.

There is just one small challenge. Not a morning person, I am often impatient when I pour the coffee. Pour too fast, and coffee drips down the front and onto the countertop. Puddles of the precious commodity get wiped away leaving stains on the dish rag.

Because I think there is a reason for everything, I begin to ask myself, "What is the message in this?" I contemplate and realize that there are many things I do without thinking, including pouring the coffee. I light a cigarette and find it burning in the ashtray - thoughtless. I walk the dog without enjoying the morning sky and the birdsong. I pull back the sheets and get into the bed without appreciating the scent of freshly washed cotton or the softness of the pillow on which I lay my head. That little pot has taught me to observe - to savor the moments of my life.

This morning I pulled out my favorite "happy bunny" mug - I looked at it and smiled. Then I poured my coffee - slowly and thoughtfully. I didn't let my mind wander. Attentive, I poured my coffee into the mug. No drips, no mess, no stained dishrag.

Thanks for the lesson Aunt Jean.

Snow memories

Last night I dreamed of an old lover, felt myself lingering in the glow of the memory until the coffee pot was empty.

It's been years since I've seen your face and decades since I felt your touch. I wonder if you still love the snow, and if you think of me when you listen to Rod Stewart. Do you still stay up half the night and compose bad poetry, or have you taken to sleeping like most of the world? I would like to see you, find you in the park, hidden in the old truck tire, or sitting on the grass without shoes. I would ask you if you're happy. If life has treated you well. Has it gone as you expected? Does your heart still break? I would ask if you've climbed those mountains you dreamed of, and did you take a picture? Are your shoulders still broad and do they hold those you love with your strength? I wonder if my hand would feel the same in yours, and if you ever grew a full beard. Would I fit in your arms as perfectly as before?

It's been years since I've seen your face. Would your recognize me in a crowd? Only pieces of the girl that I was remain. Reality has left its wounds on me...I don't know how it happened. One day I was listening to your laugh, the next I was drinking a cup of coffee, my legs curled up under me on a sofa I used to love, wondering how I happened to get here. And if you still love the snow.

Clocks

I've been thinking a lot about time, and the pointlessness of measuring it the way we do. Clocks seem to rule the lives of most people I know, which is why I think they're always tired.

I'm trying to live without clocks for the most part. My sister laughs at me for this, and is always looking for a clock when she's visiting.

I don't need an alarm clock. My dog wakes me up with his cold, wet nose every morning by 7. Though I resist, he's very persistent. I stumble to the dog food and start the coffee in the place between sleep and wakefulness. Very few days do I have an early appointment. I know myself well enough that I keep my mornings free. I like quiet in the morning. Nature noises are okay. Lawnmowers and phones are not. I don't like to speak out loud before 9. I don't think anyone should. Between 7 and 9, I run through a morning routine that has become comfortable. It begins with writing "morning pages" - thank you Natalie - followed by some reading and meditation. When this time is disrupted, the entire day may be doomed.

I think there should be gentler ways to measure time. It seems to me that when the sun comes up it signals the beginning of the day. Slowly it rises over the horizon, allowing all creatures to come to terms with waking in their own way. And as it lowers itself at twilight, the air cools and the darkness comforts us and tells us it's time to rest.

Our bodies are also great replacements for clocks. My stomach tells me when to eat instead of the clock. Just because the clock says noon, doesn't mean I need to eat.

Animals get it I think. They would laugh at us if they were smart enough to figure out just how we let clocks rule our day. They just know when to wake up and when to sleep and eat. Our great minds, which set us apart from them, have distorted what comes natural.

I suppose some would say that not being ruled by the clock is a luxury. If so...I must be rich!

My internal clock is ticking...gotta go...

Fear

The world has been plunged again into fear by "extremist" bombers in London - randomly taking human life. We live in a world where life's sanctity spirals into scarcity. Those with power get to decide who lives and who dies, based on a set of what they believe to be universal moral values. Ironically, these values seem to change based on who's doing the deciding, and what serves those with power. We allow people to starve as we create weapons to destroy life. We talk about pro-active wars. "Get them before they get us." Yet they will continue to get us, despite all our preparations, we are no safer from death than we were four years ago. Our airport security screenings and color-coded terror alerts only foster the fear that leads to more death - separating us from them.

I wish I knew who they were. But intuitively I know that they are us. We impose our beliefs on those we seek to save, thinking that he who carries the biggest stick or shouts the loudest will win the battle of wills. The voice of the bomb is a loud one. It carries the power of fear. Listen to it and it will win. Like the cry of a baby, it seeks comfort, acceptance, satiation. Would we put a knife through its heart to silence it? Or would we feed, clothe and nurture it?

I've been called a liberal. I don't even know what that means anymore. I'd rather be called a lover of life, a seeker of truth, a harbinger of joy, a cry for peace. I want to be one who sees that every action I take indeed affects every other being on the globe. The wings of the hummingbird, you know.

What I know is that global unrest is mine and yours. Undermine it in your silent visualization of peace. Change it with a giving hand. Soothe it with a loving heart. Let it grow into global rest.

I send blessings and comfort to those who have lost loved ones in London this morning. The earth weeps tears of blood yet again.

It's hot

I think I've been transported to the desert. What was green is now brown. My perky gerber daisy has heat stroke and the grass has become fodder for horses. I used to dream of walking barefoot on the grass, but today it may cut my feet. While red is a good color, it would clash with my new pedicure. The fashionistas would not approve. Just ask Carol who is investigating purple. She dropped her drill on foot. Purple is a good color, not for toes. The swelling is going down we think, but can't tell because her body's natural response to heat is swelling. Perhaps around November we will be able to tell if the toes have improved.

I've been working on revising the draft of my children's story. I've hit a wall. Not sure if it's permanent. Hoping it's not cemented to my psyche. Seems like I want to be Scout instead of writing about her. Playing in the sun and becoming a princess sounds good to me. I'm second guessing my career choice. Perhaps I really hate being a writer and I just haven't realized it yet. I want to be the Ozarka man, delivering bottled water. When the truck's empty he goes home. And the uniform is hot. Okay, not really, but it can be on the right body. Are my words like the water and is my head like the truck? When it's empty can I go home? Or will it keep replenishing itself like a mountain stream, creating a well written aqua nightmare with no preservatives or calories?

Scout calls; I answer.

see it...

Sunrise

The sun is rising on my darkest night. But I hate mornings. Especially mornings without cream for my coffee. I struggle with the memories of the night, wishing it were a dream and not my reality. I remember other nights, not nearly so inky. Full moons and cloudless skies. Stars and light. Day came and there was cream. I was peaceful, raising my head from the pillow. Eager to begin a new day. The eagerness remains.