Wednesday, August 28, 2013
News flash from the non dualist in me,
(Oh these words really are beginning to amuse me, do I really know what they mean....)
I am a bad person.
I mean, if I thought he was that bad, oh, my ………..
I am not a bad person.
Been there and done that
so many times.
Are there really two of me?
The one thinks she is so good,
the other one knows she is bad,
but rarely ever releases this information.
This is so good.
Can I really, compassionately, embrace this situation I am in ?
This information was released on the porch tonight.
The spirits applauded my performance,
They are such an admiring audience!
The award was handed to me by the master of ceremonies!
They see right through the act,
And my endless attempt
Monday, August 19, 2013
A whole afternoon field inside me from one stem of reed.
The messenger comes running toward me, irritated:
Why be so hard to find?
Last night I asked the moon about the Moon, my one question for the visible world, Where is God?
The moon says, I am dust stirred up
when he passed by. The sun, My face is pale yellow from just now seeing him. Water: I slide on my head and face like a snake, from a spell he said. Fire: His lightening, I want to be that restless. Wind, why so light? I would burn if I had the choice. Earth, quiet and thoughtful? Inside me I have a garden and an underground spring.
The world hurts my head with its answers,
wine filling my hand, not my glass.
If I could wake completely, I would say without speaking
why I'm ashamed of using words.
Sunday, August 18, 2013
I am the one who chooses the corpse pose over sitting upright,
I am the one no one can pinpoint
And the one everything points to.
I am the one who calls from deep inside your body
Asking for a touch as yet unknown to you
Tied to an anchor
I am the depth that calls that anchor
Your depth is already magnetized.
I am the one who calls you home.
Your body is our home, Sister.
And it is good.
I'm back, for you.
The Dark One
Thursday, August 15, 2013
A quiet lives in the ordinary.
A woman's work very often lives out of the ordinary.
I have been nervous about this woman's silence that is calling me back home.
My mom made this quilt for me. I suggested the dark border for the colors of the triangles and she liked this idea. She was in fact, thrilled to use the dark border.
Yeah, so symbolic.
The flying geese are the forward flying solid triangle.
Turned upside down they become the ancient womb symbol of Woman.
Many of my mom's quilts are carefully stored in boxes. This one was my favorite and was used and washed many times. Some of the triangles were made of fabric that was very old, and in the washing and wearing have worn through.
I am in the process of appliqueing new triangles onto the quilt.
And this brings me into the silence of women's hand work.
I often call my mom on the phone while I patch one of the triangles.
As her voice strengthens so does mine,
As I sit in a deeper silence with her, I can hear and receive the love I nearly missed.
I have the chance to call in some ancestors, too.
I am so grateful for the gifts of this well loved quilt.
Flying Geese quilted by Jane Heile
Tuesday, August 13, 2013
Having let go is an unmistakeable feeling.
It is predicated on a choice.
I sense I will have many more opportunities
to practice this freeing choice
all the way to the last moment
and then, as now,
the choice is to surrender.
Letting go sounds like surrender from this place I sit today,
it is an intelligent choice.
the frog prince(cess)
pen and watercolor
Monday, August 5, 2013
She is desire itself
the force of life
Her end point cannot be found
Her path is endless movement and becoming.
No sooner does she bud
the season ends
and another face appears.
To know her is to live as life and death
The coming and going
The giving and receiving
The winnowing and the shedding
and the fruit.
This is what it looks like
when there is nothing more to do
than to do what I do,
and nothing more to be than this, living.
No one has asked me to do anything differently,
So I watch eat pray love, have a wonderful meal and enjoy being here now.
Memory of being in Italy, voraciously
Memory of being in love
Memory of the challenge of his frustrations and moods.
What a quiet night,
Frogs alone now.
The Cicadas have hummed their own lives into silence.