dakini force

Fury is boiling in me
The wrathful dakinis are downloading
into my blood stream.

The truth is a dangerous thing, he said.
Oh hell, she said
Let’s be generous!

the fury of a dakini
is fire
and it burns through what is clouded
to clear seeing
and joy

and oh,
such a force in the being
when such energy is free
to be
and to move.

new moon musing in scorpio

I exercised the okayness last night
Joining a spiritedly masked community
in fields of rolling hills
And sinuous stone walls
flanked by long lavender mountains,
1000 faces,
All blessed by the sliver of new moon.

A bonfire
A play
The Trickster was jolly and redeeming
And Venus was soaking into our cells.

Coyote and Caroline called down the wonder
Into our melting pot
Melting fear, judgement, ignorance, martyrdom
Ladling out their opposites
Surprise, playfulness, windows and open doors
Making the connections needed to repair
Or simply make new
What seems beyond repair.

Connections with the wolves
And true leadership
Calling down the wonder
Saying yes to our part to change,
Capricorn’s old man released to the bon fire.

In the dark
Old wounds were seen wholed, healed.
In the dark
How near the holy is felt
In 1000 faces.

time out

ripe with joy
to feel the paradox
the doorway itself
writing about writing
writing about not writing
this is writing
ripping holes in the night of not yet,
of not enough,
of doubt.

my sun
my life
living experience
celebrating the path
writing now of then is no longer a caution sign,
entering through that moment
to reveal this one
to revel in this one
not separate
then or now.

write as it comes
just begin
it's time
it's time to express the gift of time out.



october 23, 2014
new moon in scorpio

inspired by life and some potent words in Rita Mae Brown's poem, Muse.

inside out

with "just" a few sentences
Neruda turned me inside out,

shining from deep within
the heart's fire blazes in the center

cooly reflected on the windows of my moon eyes,
the night's moisture rests on my dewy lips.

retreat

the women retreat so deep within themselves
that their gaze itself is the path you wish to follow,
back to your true self, as man.

through woman again you will arrive in the world anew.
woman's gaze from within her center
is a golden pathway to what is real and true -
beyond the news of the world's play and warfare and latest sale.

take this path, woman, let the papers bleach on the doorstep.
find your way home so they can find theirs.

oh, who could have guessed what your gaze promised,
who could have guessed?














thanks to Sally Croft for the inspiring prompt of 'newspapers bleaching on the doorstep.'

eagle's path

I could be wrong.
How would you prove it, arriving at the edge of my bed with your expectations?

But it feels different from my side.
It feels watchful, this silence.
It feels gentle and trusting........to wait.

I'd rather not worry that I'm wrong to be warm and quiet,
observing quietly my inner spaces,
spaces so deep that images from last night's dreaming remain out of focus, unnecessary, only slightly tasted as an eagle’s path.

If I could put all this into a new form that I could see and know, I would. 
My creative life is changing the form it takes.

quiet under the covers,
feeling reconnection slow and sure.
trusting I'm not wrong.

leaf or butterfly?

in awe
to be the steady pulse,
the ache,
and the wonder.

is that a leaf
or a butterfly?
a shard
or an angel fish?

intuition
or
imagination.
one leads me on
one lands me here.

memo 3

It’s evening, and I’m standing at the doorway to the temple again,
I can’t stay away.

I stepped into society tonight and reeled back into this space, needing it like water in the desert of social activity and banter, all good natured, but not landing not nourishing. afraid of the emptiness on the edges of my skirt, concerned I won’t be able to hide the unruly disappearing nature of my old self.

Everyone has a life that moves them here and there, they seem to be thriving or not, it doesn’t even matter, just that we are kind as we meet, friendly, finding some meeting point.

Am I becoming too sensitive? Have I been alone in the mystery too long?
I speak and don’t recognize my voice, as I tell a listening crone,
"I don’t know who I am….. I don’t know who I am any more."

I am not engaged the way I used to be in the art world, still a painter but no longer a believer.
I am a little afraid to continue this diving…...
and yet, I am called deeper and deeper.
Diving is what I love to do.
Writing, painting, mothering,
all done as introspectively as possible for an Aquarian with Leo rising.

My body says stay close to home, keep painting, keep writing, it’s enough.
What I have to say can only be said intimately, what really matters seems to be pillow heart talk.
Lay down next to me and I’ll fall silent and be happy for the nearness of another.

I’m being called into this silence.
I want to find out who I am.

memo 2

entering the temple.
writing from the erotic of the erotic.
raw
without judging
letting the pen move

i have few references, this is completely my journey.
i've felt the power that lies in my sensual nature when i dance, alone, freely expressing in this body, my joy of life, the weight of my sorrows, my longings - is this the idea to write it into life?

directly tapping into the movement of the invisible and fanning it with encouragement to take form in words.
words that celebrate woman and encourage her to come out to play, or to take charge.

the one i'd been looking for is me, and yet my distraction lives so strongly, following the others' movements, the movement of Her as an other.
then the frustration comes, the inner conflict, the leaving of me.
this is the passageway i have to travel to my erotic wholeness,
to leave these habits of attention outwardly directed, to dive in - into this woman.

and there i meet the judges of threshold 2.
they're there as i watch the diving of the other women in the world, telling their truth, knowing and saying what they know..
Because i haven't owned what i know, i'm distracted by the feel of the power i sense in others.

so this is sacred work, to dive in to meet my life force.
to hear the voice of my soul, a woman's soul.
a haphazard entry will leave me empty handed - or worse - returning with rechurned and stale self expressions.
I've been diving a long time haphazardly, without a full awareness of the source i'm tapping into.
what i could connect with, would be beyond my imagination, if i grew into my calling, if i grew towards what calls to me.

as i feel this sacred moment,  knowing is deeply residing in the body.
this landscape is soft, fluid, the breath moves from the vulva to the breast, to the neck through the arm to the pen in hand.
 it dances through me in waves.
yes, like the ocean waves, breath moves through my flesh and bones, between all the cells.
the breath is the pathway itself, attention follows it.

i love what just happened.
i wrote myself into the temple.
from thought into a landscape of the body.

easy, just feeling the waves rising and falling within.
it's hard to tell what isn't ocean, when my eyes close.
when my eyes open, i see my world and know i love it.

i'm not a bystander.
i am life itself,
engaged
in creation.

a memo

rapidly drawing lines
stepping away
stepping in with two feet
stepping aside with one heart.

take that path again
through the open heart
down into the pelvic bowl

what awaits me there?
my hand touched my cheek just now
and stroked my cool nose
and my mind went completely still
no ideas

does this simple touch activate the tap root
like the breath, yes, this pulse flows in and out and around inside
and a restfulness, an ease, blossoms
rising to the surface.

our business

the needs of others,
the invitations to help,
arrive at my doorstep (the one with the bleached newspapers!)

but You,
You send me silent invitations to join You
to dance to paint to write to create
Your invitation expands me,
the way is clear
the dance floor opens
and my body feels the simple yes.

Their invitations to help,
their needs, I understand
and I also feel the duty arise,
the "I should help",
the work of working for others.
I imagine the job that I would be so well suited for
if i was interested
in making someone else's business my own.

My business is becoming Your business
You've made it clear that I am Yours
Your fire burned me into this living peace,
into this enough
You didn't leave me once in the flames, alone.

I'm not saving my energy for later
but spending it now
celebrating, dressed in drying seed heads
the color of autumn in my silver hair

breathing the cycles
the wheel moves forward
butterflies release themselves into a clear sky.

teaching touch

broadening, widening, melting
my body like honey

under the warmth
in response

to my care
my caring hand
my caring heart

easing into this responsiveness
yielding receiving opening
curling up
in the nest I've made for my rest.

a new feeling is recognized
satisfaction.

a day well lived,
in response to everything and every one
who touched me,
oh~
who's touching who?

the rain has begun tonight
i sense the ground,
the earth
how she opens to the touch of the falling rain.

my teacher.

here

yes, it is like that
when stillness arrives
soaking
merging into my trunk
it is like it has found me
it's a joyful reunion
always a surprise!

it can happen stepping into the woods
it can happen sitting on the root above the stream
it can happen in the parking lot or the grocery store
here is where it always happens

here
we all are this "here"
we are this hereing

this hearing being listening rejoicing
it's a ripple response a ripple effect
tickling the heart awake to each tree each branch
each other.

it is how we know we're here.
where ever we are
where ever here is
freed in the stillness, to fly,
one heart to another.



inspired by a poem by David Whyte

a call to temple

yes, i carry it with me
this temple I Am
like a pup tent I carry in my pocket
the call to temple
can be received at any time!

the earth - the wooded forest - the mountain alm
always ready for the temple bell,
for the tent to be set.

it is the nature of women to understand this,
and men,
like John Muir.




inspired by the pup tent temple in a poem by amy ozarow oscar

i'm giving in

what i love is pulling my hair
in the most delightful ways.

i'm giving in
to my love.

a joyful service

i've never been in a writing circle. It is wonderful.
I thank Julie Daley for the inspiration
and for her leadership in creating this space of Writing Raw.


relationship in a writing circle
 is listening and being listened to,
a seeding place,
nurtured by listening and being listened to.

I acknowledge my widening,
listening to and feeling others,
but not losing myself.

like breathing this is,
this writing together is like breathing.
we've created a space to breathe and be breathed in.
I feel us as our words form on the exhale, our listening a deep inhale, deeper and deeper, expanding exhaling into the world again.

yes, it's loving what we're doing, loving ourselves this way, and expressing that which speaks as love from the temple center.
the woman's temple doors are open to us, to write, to breathe freely, to create.

dare i say, for Her sake? for her joy?
i sense the opening occurring as service.......a joyful service,
 to write, to create,
to be woman
in a circle.

a becoming

my life was a mine field.
i was blind and numb.
i gave what i needed,
to get through.

it took one more step
toward what i desired,
to be blown to smithereens.

the shattering
woke me up
to see the light.

in the dark,
I found a self
esteemed to be me.


Mandorla
oil on panel 24x24
Barbara Heile

falling

everything changes,
for us.

i holds on
why wouldn't i hold on ?
to summer
cool in the shade
making little trips to the garden
for sun drenched cherry tomatoes
The sound of boys playing
Always hungry for more..........

i who fears change,
must grasp and grasp
until
the message gets through,
It’s ok, it’s meant to be this way.

each cell
tenderized
shimmering
receiving
the wondrous play
Of the open hand.

a pale yellow iris unfurls one more surprise blossom
an odd color in the company of falling leaves and ripening seed pods.

fallen chestnuts are bursting their seams.
the mauve field grasses are weighed down by last night's rain.
and the native persimmon is sweet.

the seasonal pull is felt
I’m falling,
down to earth.

october musing

i'm learning how closely
letting go and forgiving
dance,
how they breathe together.

the heart widens
in and as what is.

compassionately
we are moved on.